, weeks in which we,
first regaining our senses, began to miss him who had left us forever.
Everywhere his kind, fresh nature, his ever-mild disposition, were
wanting. It seemed every moment as if he must open the door and ask in
his soft voice: 'How are you, aunt? Where is Anna Maria?'

"Anna Maria! The whole weight of the extensive household management
rested on her shoulders, the whole wilderness of the inevitable domestic
business which her brother's death had caused. She found no time to
indulge in her grief. She had to drive into the city at fixed times, she
had to look through Klaus's books, letters, and papers, with her
trembling heart. And if then, in her swelling pain, she but threw her
hands over her face, she always regained the mastery over herself, and
could work on.

"Susanna mourned in a different way. She fled to her little boudoir, and
always had some one about her. She was afraid in bright daylight, and in
twilight her heart would palpitate, and she was short of breath, and Isa
had to read aloud to her constantly. The little boy, who had been named
'Klaus' for his father, was not allowed to be called so; she called him
her little Jacky, her treasure, the only thing she had left in the
world, and yet sometimes would start back from the cradle with a cry, he
had looked at her so terribly like Klaus!

"Then came the mourning visits from far and near, and Susanna received
them in the salon. She sat there, so broken down, her charming face
surrounded by the black crape veil, the point of her little widow's cap
on her white forehead, and her black-bordered handkerchief always wet
with bitter tears.

"Anna Maria was never present during such calls. She fled to the garden
and did not return till the last carriage had rolled away from the
court. She was gentle and tender toward Susanna--'he loved her so much!'
she said softly.

"It was November. In Susanna's little boudoir the lamp was lighted, and
the young wife lay, in her deep black woollen dress, on the blue
cushions; she held a book in her hand, and now and then cast a glance at
it. Occasionally she coughed a little, and each time quickly held her
handkerchief to her lips. I had come down, as I did every evening, to
look after her and the child. The little fellow was already
asleep--'thank God,' as Susanna added. The nurse was probably asleep
with him in the next room, it was very still in there. Isa was bustling
busily about the stove, for it was b