nderful! Lead us gently, let
not the peace go out from us that has dwelt so long beneath this roof,
let no second Mischief-maker have crossed this threshold, preserve the
old, sacred bond between Klaus and Anna Maria. Amen!'

"At this moment the door opened and the old actress came back. She did
not deign to look at me, but knelt down by the bed, laid her head on the
pillow, and began to weep bitterly.

"'Isa! Isa!' murmured Susanna in her sleep. The old woman raised her
head and pressed the dark hair to her lips.

"'I am going, Mademoiselle,' she whispered to me; 'no one has a heart
here in this house. But if a hair of her head is hurt, or a tear falls
from her eyes, I--I--' She gasped out a few words more, and threw
herself down again beside the bed.

"'When shall you leave?' I asked.

"'Early in the morning,' she replied, in a lifeless tone.

"'Then lie down now, and go to sleep,' I said, pointing to the sofa, and
prepared to leave the room.

"'Oh, Mademoiselle!' She sprang up and held me fast. 'Promise me you
will be kind to Susanna, you will speak a kind word to her if she
cries!'

"'Certainly, as far as I can; but she will receive only kindness from
every one here.'

"'Not from the blonde lady,' she said. 'She is a girl without a heart;
perhaps she never had one, perhaps it is dead. She does not know what
youth, beauty, and love are. She never laughs. I notice that people who
cannot laugh are envious of every being that can be happy, that pleases
others by its charm; she will never love Susanna!'

"She spoke pathetically and theatrically, yet a tone of deep pain rang
through her words.

"'Life is so serious,' I returned.

"'But laughing, cheerfulness, beauty are the air she breathes,' began
the strange person again.

"'I promise you to look after the child,' said I, about to go; but in
vain. She held me by the dress, and begged me to hear first, for God's
sake, that it was not tyranny or arbitrary choice that bound her to the
child, but a sacred promise. And whether I would or not, I had to
listen to a story which the old woman delivered as if she were on the
stage, and which, in spite of the whispered tone in which it was given,
was, by means of gestures and rolling of the eyes, a perfect specimen of
high mimic art. I could not now repeat the words as they came from the
lips of the old actress, but only know now that she contrived to
announce that she was just forty years old and had been very be