The old spinner entered. She walked up to Annette, took her by the hand, and uttered a few words which none of us could understand.
Annette called upon us all to bear witness, that from that very hour she would give the spinner a considerable annuity in case her son should lose his life; but that, even if he were to return in safety, she would nevertheless make her a yearly allowance.
Her brother objected that at such a time it were wrong to make a vow. She could, from year to year, give the old woman as much as she thought proper; but that she ought not, at this moment, to make a promise which would be irrevocable, and for life.
We all looked at him with surprise.
He added that he, too would be happy to contribute a generous sum to the annuity.
Annette returned to her dwelling, in order to prepare for her departure. Her orders were, that her rooms should remain in the same condition as she left them, as it was her intention to return.
"Your master is dead," she said to the brown spaniel; "your eye tells me that you understand my words. You must remain here; I shall return again. He loved you, too; but rest quiet: we can neither of us die yet. You are well off--you can neither wish for death for yourself, nor seek it: you cannot think of these things. Yes, you are well off."
I can hardly find room to mention all the strange images that were called up by Annette's words. Her richly endowed and many-sided mind was in unwonted commotion.
The shower had passed away; the grass and the trees were radiant with the sunlight, and the lines of the opposite hills were clear and distinct.
Annette stood at her window gazing into the distance, while she uttered the words: