her lids.

"They didn't beat me--I wouldn't have stood it either--no, they
didn't beat me."

"Shut you up?" she asked curiously.

He did not answer; what was he to say? No, they had not shut him up,
he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street,
to school--and still, still he was not free.

Tears suddenly started to his eyes. "You--you shouldn't--shouldn't
taunt me--Frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "I'm so--so----"

He wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little
and in another way too much. And he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. So
he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. And only his tears, which he
could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the
dust of the street.

They were tears of sorrow and of rage. It was already more than six
months ago--oh, even longer--but it still enraged him as though it had
happened the day before. He had never forgotten for a moment that they
had caught him so easily. They had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere
the sun had risen on a new day. And they had carried him home in
triumph. What he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic
deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. His mother had certainly cried
a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "Once, but not
more, my son. Remember that."

Wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. Frida stood in front of
him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as
well--she had always been his good friend. Now she cried with him.

"Don't cry, Woelfchen," she sobbed. "It isn't so bad. People don't
remember anything more about it--such things are forgotten. You
certainly need not feel ashamed of it--why should you? There's no harm
in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way.
Simply say to them: 'Then I'll run away again,' if they won't let you
come to us. Come next Sunday afternoon. Then I won't go with Artur and
Flebbe--no, I'll wait for you."

She wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the
other.

They stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes.
The lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed
their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of
May. The dark and the light head were close to each other.

"Frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though
clinging to it, "Frida, are _you_ still fond of me, at any rate?"