“Not to-day, my child,” he said, “not to-day. I have business with Monsieur Maurice this afternoon. Stay here till I come back.”
And with this he got up, took his hat and went quickly out of the room.
So I waited and waited—as it seemed to me for hours. The waning day-light faded and became dusk; the dusk thickened into dark; the fire burned red and dull; and still I crouched there in the chimney-corner. I had no heart to read, work, or fan the logs into a blaze. I just watched the clock, and waited. When the room became so dark that I could see the hands no longer, I counted the strokes of the pendulum, and told the quarters off upon my fingers.
When at length my father came back, it was past five o'clock, and dark as midnight.
“Quick, quick, little Gretchen,” he said, pulling off his hat and gloves, and unbuckling his sword. “A glass of kirsch, and more logs on the fire! I am cold through and through, and wet into the bargain.”
“But—but, father, have you not been with Monsieur Maurice?” I said, anxiously.
“Yes, of course; but that was an hour ago, and more. I have been over to Kierberg since then, in the rain.”
He had left Monsieur Maurice an hour ago—a whole, wretched, dismal hour, during which I might have been so happy!
“You told me to stay here till you came back,” I said, scarce able to keep down the tears that started to my eyes.
“Well, my little Mädchen?”