Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried to calm and console her unhappy companion.
"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands, "only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies—No, that I did not mean—but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me, that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I beg—it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."
The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful impulses, the girl shook her head, saying:—
"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole truth, for I am hiding something myself."
The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna gazed wonderingly at her, as she said:—
"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."
"You too?"
"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will go home with us."
Manna rose and sat down again, hastily. "The father hides from his child and sends strangers!" she murmured to herself. "Come with me to the Superior," she suddenly exclaimed.
She seized the Professorin's hand, and drew her towards the convent. Heimchen came towards them, crying:—