“Yes, it may do good, since he loves you—we can but try,” she paused to wipe her eyes on her apron; “but as for you, dear lady, my heart aches. It seems but yesterday, when you stood out there in the garden in the sunshine a girl, with Mitli in your arms. What you have been to her ever since, the good God, and I, alone know. Now she has deserted you; try and put her away from your thoughts.—You are still young, you have your own life.”
“I am going to make another home; but what can replace a child?” cried Letty, rising as she spoke. “I want to see her room, and settle about her things.”
“Her room is dusted and in order, otherwise as she left it. We will go there now,” and Frau Hurter climbed the stairs, and threw open the door into an empty chamber.
There were Cara’s familiar frocks hanging on familiar hooks; her silver-backed hair-brushes (a birthday gift) on the dressing-table; a hat with the pins still sticking in it, as it had been cast down, lay on the bed. There was a little writing-table and blotter—both spattered with ink—and peeping in at the window that hoary old pear tree—the accomplice of the girl in her midnight flights.
“Ach ye!” exclaimed Frau Hurter in a lachrymose key, “there is the blouse you made her; the skirt you embroidered, the little slippers.—Freda and I will pack everything, and send them down by Jost.”
“No, no; I could not bear to see them again,” protested Letty, making an effort to choke back her tears. “Please keep all, except the books and writing materials, and personal treasures,” gathering them together in feverish haste.
“Here are dozens and dozens of letters,” announced Frau Hurter, who was diving into a deep drawer.
“What of them, meine Frau?”
“Let them go too.”
“To England! Why not burn them?”