room.

"Have you nothing else for me to do, dearest Leah?" asked the little
housekeeper after a pause.

"Nothing, Ginchen. What should I have? I leave no children behind, and
Edwin's books require no care. The cook will water the flowers. But
you--your mother--hark! Didn't the clock strike eight?"

"Seven. There's still a full hour--Leah--"

"What is it, child?"

"Have you reflected upon this?"

"What a strange question to ask? What is there to consider? A journey
to my parents! one falls asleep here, and on awaking finds oneself at
home."

"_At home_, Leah?"

There was no answer from the window. No one who could have obtained
even a side view of the face gazing fixedly out, would have expected
these compressed lips, that seemed with difficulty to repress a groan,
to open for any intelligible answer.

Suddenly two arms embraced the motionless figure, and a fair head in a
neat little cap nestled to the pale cheek of the silent friend. "Leah,"
whispered Reginchen's voice, "if you love me, don't do it, don't go
away; it can't be the right thing; or at least speak plainly first.
What, for God's sake, _what_ has happened, to drive you away so
suddenly, as if--as if you were not _at home_ here."

She covered the eyes and cheeks of the rigid face with the tenderest
kisses. The next instant Leah gently released herself.

"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly. "You're childish in your
anxiety about me. What should have happened? Let me alone, little
goosey. I know what I'm doing only too well; that this is the best, the
only thing, now I'm all alone--"

"You're right, dear Leah," they heard Reinhold's voice suddenly
exclaim. "Don't listen to this foolish woman, who can't believe any one
can leave home for pleasure--that's what she means by not right. But we
still have half an hour; I should like to speak to you; I have a little
commission to be done in Berlin, with which I didn't want to trouble
Father."

"Willingly, dear Reinhold."

"But I must beg you to take the trouble to come up to my little attic
room; I cannot tell you here, partly because we are liable to be
interrupted at any moment, and partly because I keep what's necessary
for the errand up there. Light the little lantern, child; I believe
you've never been up in our garret--true, it's an old rat's nest, but
as I'd not a corner in the whole house where I can work or think
quietly away from the children, I furnished a room there."

Reginch