heap of burned
paper. The fragments of a letter had fallen beside it, in the hurry
probably. I picked them up--a bold handwriting, English words.

"'I beg for something positive at last,' I read. 'To Berlin--no
hindrance--my love--in a short time--mine forever--Robbin.'

"I sat quite still for a while, with the bits of paper in my hand. Now
it gradually became clear to me--Susanna's restless, distraught manner,
Isa's mysterious conduct, her words of yesterday, and the sudden
departure. Susanna was gone, Susanna would never return; in a short time
she would be the wife of another, of a perfect stranger; she would never
belong to us any more!

"And I took up the pieces of the letter and went to look for Anna Maria.
She was sitting at the window, looking over toward Dambitz. 'Here, Anna
Maria,' said I, 'your fear is groundless.'

"She read, and a painful expression came over her face. 'I pity her,
aunt. She thinks her happiness is floating about without, but it is
slumbering here in this little cradle. She will find it out sooner or
later, and she will return, don't you think so?' she asked, anxiously
confident.

"Then her face lighted up: Stuermer was coming across the garden; he was
leading his horse by the bridle, and sent up a greeting.

"'Your lover, Anna Maria!'

"She grew very red. 'Is it not like a dream?' she asked softly.

"It was in November, the day before Anna Maria's marriage, that a letter
with a strange post-mark lay in the mail-bag for me, the address in a
man's handwriting. I gave a start; I recognized the bold hand, the
peculiar flourish at the last letter of a word. It was the same hand
that had written that letter whose remains I had found in Susanna's
room.

"I broke open the envelope; it contained two letters. The one which
first fell into my hands was a formal announcement of the marriage of
Frau von Hegewitz, _nee_ Mattoni, to Mr. Robbin Olliver, London.

"I took up the other letter. 'Dearest aunt,' my astonished eyes read,
'the accomplished fact has just come to your knowledge; forgive me,
forgive me everything! I am not wicked, not light-minded; I have only
sought for myself the freedom which is as necessary to my life as air to
breathing. I shall gladly follow my husband, with whom I became
acquainted in Nice, to Brazil, out of the narrow circle of rusty old
customs, to a more stirring, varied life, in which to-day and to-morrow,
weeks and months, do not follow each other in dull re