avy. 'Oh, but that is impossible! How could you
let Susanna accept the hospitality of an unmarried man? It is wrong of
you; you are usually so observant of forms. You _ought_ to have brought
her with you, and the old woman too!' I had spoken impetuously, in my
anxiety. Anna Maria gave me a strange look.

"'Isa is so ill she was in no condition to make the journey hither,' she
replied. 'But Susanna lies across her bed with torn hair and face bathed
with tears; she is nearer to her than all of us, and at such a moment,
aunt, one does not think of--etiquette.' I first noticed now how pale
and exhausted Anna Maria looked. Her fair hair had fallen down, and one
golden tress falling over the white forehead lay on her plain dark-green
dress; her eyes were cast down and her lips quivered slightly.

"'Poor child!' I cried, seizing her hands. 'It has been too much, and
here am I reproving you!'

"She let her hand remain in mine, but did not look up. 'I am quite
well,' she replied; 'but it is painful--to behold human misery and not
be able to help. It was fearful, aunt! And it has cost one human
life--nearly two.' Her voice was strangely lifeless as she said this.
'An old man,' she continued, 'in the act of saving his cow from the
burning stable, was buried beneath the falling building. Stuermer carried
out his grand-daughter, who was trying to help him, unhurt--but it was
at the very last moment--a falling beam injured his arm.'

"She had spoken in snatches, as if it were hard for her to breathe. And
now the peculiar sobbing sound came from her breast; I knew that so
well, for even as a child she had thus suppressed a burst of tears. I
grasped her hands more firmly; she was feverishly hot, and her bosom
heaved violently.

"'The splendid, warm-hearted man! Just the same to-day as he ever was!'
said I, gently. 'God be praised for having protected him!'

"Then we sat silent for a long time. The candles in front of the mirror
had burned low, and flickering they struggled for existence; and the
clock on the console ticked restlessly. I longed to beg the girl beside
me: 'Anna Maria, confide in me; it is not yet too late! See, I know now
that you love Stuermer--since to-day I am sure of it. Anna Maria, it is
not yet too late!' But how could I do it? She had never given me the
slightest right, never allowed me to share in what moved her heart. Oh,
that she would come of her own accord, then, and speak, that she might
know how much