Willi.
MOTHER PATIENCE was once again sitting by her window writing. She had often been called that day, and had much to confide to her mighty folios, much too that was good and pleasant; that is why an air of cheerful calm rested on her features. The whole room was filled with the scent of lovely flowers, and on the hearth there burnt a bright fire that threw magic lights and shades upon the industrious scribe. Without it was blowing cold, and like sharp needle points the frozen snow flew against the window panes. A light covering of ice lay over the lake, firm enough to hold the ravens. The distant road resounded hard and dry under the quick steps of shivering wanderers, the wind sang melancholy tunes round the lonely little house, as though he would recount to Mother Patience all the misery of the earth. He shook and tussled at the ivy that tenderly inwrapt the house. Suddenly she stopped to listen; a light, well-known footstep had passed her window, and the next moment Sorrow knelt at her feet, breathless, trembling like a hunted deer.
"Mother," she said, "mother, how terrible. Why were you not there, then that awful woman would not have gone with me, and it all would not have happened."
So speaking Sorrow looked behind her fearfully, as though that pursued her that had alarmed her so.
"Calm yourself, child, no awful people come hither. Tell me what has occurred."
"It was my fault," wailed Sorrow; "I did it. Oh, why am I in the world? why am I not there, deep down in the lake where the frozen water would bury me safely?"
"Be quiet, child, quiet; do not murmur, do not complain, for you bow down the haughty and soften the hardhearted."
"No, mother, that is just it; I harden the hearts, and those who love know each other no more. You must hear my tale.