ous?' she repeated questioningly. 'Yes--no,' she replied absently.
'Ah, you said Susanna has come? I knew perfectly well that she would,
aunt, she is so fond of roving about; that comes from the vagabond blood
of her mother, no doubt.'

"'Anna Maria!' I exclaimed, startled.

"'Certainly, Aunt Rose,' she repeated, 'it is in her, it ferments in her
little head and shines from her eyes. So often I have noticed when she
is standing by me or sitting opposite me, busied with some work, how her
looks wander away, in eager impatience; how only the consciousness 'I
must obey' compels her to stay still by me. Then she naturally makes use
of every opportunity to rush out, to lie down under some tree and forget
time and the present. Happy being, thus constituted, through whose veins
runs no slow, pedantic, duty-bound blood!'

"We were standing just at the bottom of the terrace, and I involuntarily
seized hold of the railing to steady myself. Was it Anna Maria who spoke
such words! Was not the whole world turned upside down then? And I saw
in the moonlight that her lips quivered and tears shone in her eyes. Had
Anna Maria something to regret in her life? And, like a flash of
lightning, Edwin Stuermer's handsome face came before my mind's eye.

"'Anna Maria,' I whispered, 'what did you say? Who--?' But I got no
further, for the sound of a woman's voice fell on our ears; so full, so
sweet and ringing the tones floated out on the summer night, so
strangely were time and tune suited to the words, that we lingered there
breathless. Anna Maria looked up toward the open window in the upper
story. 'Susanna!' she said softly.

'Home have I come, my heart burns with pain.
Ah, that I only could wander again!'

sounded down below.

"But what was the matter with Anna Maria? She fairly flew back into the
garden. I stood still and waited; the singing above had ceased. 'Anna
Maria!' I called. No answer. What an evening this was, to be sure! Anna
Maria, who took the most serious view of the world, who hated nothing
more than sentimentality and moonlight reveries, was running about in
the garden, moved to tears by a little song! They were all
incomprehensible to me to-day--Klaus, Susanna, and Anna Maria, but
especially the latter. How could I talk to her about Susanna to-day? I
had to keep my discovery to myself; the best thing I could do would be
to go up myself to Susanna and ask her, for we should hardly assemble
about the round ta