adened
the sound of my steps, and I entered the snug little room unperceived.
Susanna was resting on the divan; I saw her beautiful black curls
falling over the blue cushions, a tiny lace cap was half-hidden among
them. Her face was turned toward the fire, which, notwithstanding the
warm April evening, was burning brightly in the little fire-place.

"'Susanna!' I called softly. She started up, and with a cry of joy fell
on my neck. 'Aunt Rosamond, dear aunt!' she cried, and kissed and patted
me with the pleasure of a happy child. 'My good Aunt Rosamond!' And she
seized my hands and drew me, without letting go, to the sofa. She
exercised the same old charm upon me; I had never been able to be angry
with her; her grace was irresistible, and took heart and mind prisoner.

"I raised the round chin a little and looked at her. It was the old,
sweet, childish face, only still more attractive by reason of a slight
pallor and a strange, sad look about the mouth; the eyes had lost the
questioning look which sometimes gave them such a peculiar expression,
but I thought they had grown larger and more brilliant. She threw her
arms about my neck again, and kissed me and laughed, and then came a
tear or two, and then she laughed again.

"She chattered about Nice, about Paris, and said she wanted to live here
quietly only a little while, and then fell on my neck again and
whispered a thanks.

"'No, no!' said I, smiling, 'I am not guilty of that; your thanks belong
to Anna Maria.'

"She grew silent and pale. Then she sprang up and drew me into the
salon. I had to gaze at a hundred things which she had brought with
her--worthless toys, knick-knacks, fans, and all manner of folly, of
whose existence I had never dreamed till now, and which struck me as
infinitely useless. 'Klaus has had to give me everything, everything,'
she cried, joyfully, 'except this. Aunt, do you see?' She pointed to a
charming shepherdess of Sevres porcelain. 'That is a present from
Stuermer.'

"I stared at her. 'Have you met him on the way?' She did not return my
look, but her face glowed as rosy red as the ribbons on her white dress.
'Yes,' said she lightly, 'we were with him a day in Nice, but he went
away in haste, and this is a souvenir.' And then she told me about the
sea and the palm-trees, of gondola-sails by moonlight, till her cheeks
grew crimson at the recollection.

"'Ah, life is so beautiful, so beautiful!' she cried, 'and--' She broke
off, for