hought that she was the most unhappy. Ah, but there stood the
little carriage with the sleeping child, and that belonged to Johanna,
and Johanna could think of _him_ without other sorrow and heartache
than that for his loss. To lose a loved one by death, is not half so
hard as to lose him in life. Gertrude could find no word of sympathy.

"Oh, how could I live through it!" sobbed the young widow. "So fresh
and strong as he went across the threshold, I think I can see him now
striding up the street. And the very night before, we had a little
quarrel for the first time and I thought, 'Just you wait, you will have
to beg for a pleasant word from me.' And I went to bed without saying
good night, and the next morning I wouldn't make his coffee.

"I heard him moving about in the room and I was glad to think that he
would have to go without his breakfast. He came to my bed once and
looked in my face and I pretended to be asleep. But as soon as he had
shut the outside door behind him, I jumped up and ran to the window and
looked after him--I was so proud of him. It was the last time; it
wasn't two hours later when they brought him home, and day and night I
was on my knees before him, shrieking, and asking if he was angry with
me still. And I prayed to God that He would let him open his eyes just
once, only once, so I could say, 'Good-bye, Fritz, come home safe,
Fritz.' But it was all of no use; he never heard me any more."

Gertrude sprang up suddenly and left the kitchen. O God! She felt sick
unto death. Everything seemed to whirl round and round in her brain, as
if her mind were unsettled. She could no longer follow out a train of
thought to its end, and an idea which had seized upon her five minutes
ago in the most horrible clearness, she was now unable to recall; try
as hard as she might, nothing remained to her but a dull dread of
something dreadful hanging over her.

It was no doubt the heavy air, the oppressive stillness of nature
before a storm that had so excited her nerves.

She rang for ice-water. When Johanna set the glass before her she
turned her head away.

"Johanna, do you happen to know how long the--young lady is going to
stay at Niendorf?"

"I think the whole summer, ma'am," was the reply. "A good thing, too.
What could they do without her over there?"

Gertrude bit her lip; she felt ashamed. What right had _she_ to ask
about it?

"Did you want anything more, ma'am?"

"Nothing, thanks."

And she