“No, no,” protested Maurice, eagerly. “Do you trust me so little after all these years? When have I ever doubted you?”
He spoke earnestly. The elder man was moved. Laying his hand gently on his friend’s arm, he said softly—
“I know. You must forgive my jealousy. The only wonder is that I have had you to myself for so long.”
“And you have still. Believe me, you do not understand my feelings towards this child. Love? I hardly know whether it is love or not. And she? She, I am certain, has never guessed what brings me here day after day. I almost wish she did. I am afraid sometimes lest, if I ever speak to her of love, I shall frighten her from me altogether, like some timid bird.”
He broke off, catching the sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside. The next moment Dorothea herself appeared under the archway which led into the arbour, framed like a picture in the green trellis-work. She bore in her hand a second goblet, like the first, but with a small piece chipped out of the rim.
“You must excuse the flaw, sir,” she said, with a bright smile, as she set it down before Herr Auguste. “It was done by my cousin Johann when he was a boy.”
Rising from his seat at this moment, Maurice moved to the other side of the table, and invited Dorothea to take the place by his side; but she preferred to remain standing, and busied herself in pouring out cider for her guests. Auguste kept his eyes fixed on the pair, and shrewdly noted everything as he sipped from time to time at the pale straw-coloured beverage in the cool green chalice.
The other two kept up a half-confidential chat, during which old Franz drew slowly near, and took up a post of observation on the path outside. His face wore an expression of satisfaction, though he threw an occasional glance of suspicion at Auguste.
Suddenly, during a pause in the conversation, Maurice bethought himself, and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket.
“See,” he said, drawing into view a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper, “I have brought you a keepsake.”