ppers flapping at each
step, returning presently with a bunch of keys.

"Merciful powers!" cried she as she opened the door, "I can't believe
my own eyes--Mrs. Linden! Have you been taking a morning walk, ma'am?
I've always wondered if you wouldn't come here some day with your
husband--and now here you are--and that is a pleasure to be sure!" And
she ran before, opening the doors.

"It is all in order, Mrs. Linden--my man always insists upon
that--'Just you see,' he says, 'some day some of the ladies will be
popping in on you.'" And the square little body ran on again to open a
door. "It is all as it used to be--there is your bed and there are the
books, only the evergreens and the beeches have grown taller."

The young wife nodded.

"Bring me a little hot milk," she said, shivering, "as soon as you can,
Mrs. Rode."

"This very minute!" And the old woman hurried away. Gertrude could hear
the clatter of her slippers on the stairs and the shutting of the hall
door. At last she was alone.

A cool green twilight reigned in the room from the branches of the
beeches which pressed close up to the pane. It was not so dark here
that last summer she had spent in "Waldruhe." Otherwise--the woman was
right--everything was as it had been then, the mirror in its pear-wood
frame still displayed the Centaurs drawing their bows in the yellow
and black ground of the upper part; above the small old-fashioned
writing-table still hung the engraving, "Paul and Virginia" under the
palm trees; the green curtains of the great canopied bed were not in
the least faded, the sofa was as uncomfortable as ever, and the table
stood before it with the same plush cover. She had passed so many
pleasant hours here, in the sweet spring evenings at the open window,
and on stormy autumn evenings when the clouds were flying in the sky,
the storm came down from the mountains and beat against the lonely house.
The rain pattered against the panes, and the woods began to rustle with
a melancholy sound. Then the curtains were drawn, the fire burned
brightly in the fireplace, and opposite in the cosy sitting-room her
father sat at a game of cards. She was the hostess here in "Waldruhe,"
and she felt so proud of going into the kitchen with her white apron on
and of going down into the cellar, and then at dinner all the old
gentlemen complimented her on the success of her venison pie. The dear
old friends--there was only Uncle Henry left now.

There on that