all open
meadows; there at last I see something red and white. Praised be heaven!
It is she--and neither dead nor ill, no, safe and sound in the green
grass; and after her sleep her little cheeks were as red as peonies,
Robert. But--

[_He looks about him and lowers his voice_.]

I hope she is not listening.

[_Draws closer to_ ROBERT; _whenever he forgets himself, he immediately
lowers his voice_.]

I say: "Is it you, really?" "Of course," she says, and rubs her eyes so
that they sparkle. "And you are alive," I say; "and did not die," I say,
"of hunger and fear?" I say. "Half a day and a whole, night alone in the
forest, in the very thickest of the forest! Come," I say, "that in the
meantime mother may not die of anxiety," I say. Says she: "Wait a while,
father." "But, why and for what?" "Till the child comes again," says
she. "And let us take it with us, please, father. It is a dear child."
"But who, in all the world, is this child?" I ask. "The one that came to
me," says she, "when I ran away from you a little while ago after the
yellow butterfly, and when all at once I was quite alone in the forest
and wanted to cry and call after you, and who picked berries for me and
played with me so nicely." "A little while ago?" I say. "Did not the
night come since then?" I say. But she would not believe that. We looked
for the child and--naturally did not find it. Men no longer have faith
in anything, but I know what I know. Do you understand, Robert? Say
nothing. It seems to me I were committing a sacrilege if I should say it
right out. There, shake hands with me without saying anything. All
right, Robert.--For heaven's sake, don't let her hear what we are saying
about her.

[_Goes softly to the door; looks out_.] MARY (_outside_).

Do you want anything, father?

FORESTER (_nods secretly toward_ ROBERT, _then brusquely_).

Nothing. And don't you come in again before I--

[_Comes back; speaks just above a whisper_.]

Do you see? That's the way to treat her. You make far too much fuss
about that girl. She is [_still more softly_] a girl that any father
might be proud of, and I think she is going to be a wife after God's own
heart. I have such a one. Do you see, I don't mind telling you, because
I know you are not going to repeat it to her. For she must not know it;
otherwise all my pains would go for nothing. And pains it certainly cost
me till I got her so far; pains, I tell you. I advise you not to spoil
my girl,