"Oh, I am only sorry that I have gone so far," stammered Fräulein Milch, drawing her cap-strings through her fingers. "It is the first time for fifty years that I have paid a visit, or eaten at a stranger's table; I ought not to have done it; I have not yet gained self-control enough."
Her face quivered, and her brown eyes glowed.
"I thought that you looked on me as a friend," said the Professorin, holding out her hand.
"Yes, so I do," cried Fräulein Milch, seizing the hand with both her own, and pressing it with fervor. "You cannot tell how I thank God for having granted me this before my death; since I devoted myself to him, I have renounced all the world; you are the first—oh, I think you must know all, you need be told nothing."
"I do not know all. What do you know of Herr Sonnenkamp?"
Fräulein Milch hung her head sadly, then put both hands before her face, crying,—
"Why must I tell you?" Then she rose, put her mouth to the Professorin's ear, and whispered something. Frau Dournay threw her head back, and grasped the sewing-machine, which stood before her, with both hands. Not a word was spoken. Outside, all was still, except for the cawing of a flock of crows which were hovering over the Rhine.
"I do not think you would tell me such a thing on a mere rumor," said the Professorin at last. "Go on, and tell me plainly how you learned it."
Fräulein Milch looked round timidly, and answered:—
"I have it from the most trustworthy of men, whose nephew has sent a child here to be educated; he knows the name which Herr Sonnenkamp formerly bore, and all about his past life. But, dear, noble lady, why should not a man be able to take up a different life, a new existence, whatever he may have done?"