As if she had been called, Anne ran across Mrs. Henrietta’s threshold. The house smelt of freshly scrubbed boards. Many preserve bottles stood in a row on the top of the wardrobe. Now and then, the cracking of a dry parchment cover would interrupt the silence. Anne crouched down on a footstool and surveyed the room. It was full of embroidery. “Keys” was embroidered in German character on the keyboard, “Sleep well” on a cushion and “Brushes” on a bag.
“The Fügers must be very absent-minded people,” mused the little girl; “it is obvious what all these things are meant for, and yet they have to label them.”
Mrs. Henrietta sighed. She could sigh most depressingly. When she did so, her nostrils dilated and she shut her eyes.
“Many a time did Mrs. Christina sit here and make me tell her ghost stories. She loved to be frightened—like a child. She was afraid of everything: of moths, of the cracking of the furniture, of the master’s voice, of ghosts. At night she did not dare to cross the garden; Leopoldine had to take her hand and go with her.”
“Leopoldine? Who was she?”
“My daughter.” Mrs. Füger’s eyes wandered over a picture hanging on the wall of the bay window. It represented a grave with weeping willows, made of hair, surrounded by an inscription in beads: “Love Eternal.”
“Is she in heaven too?”
“No. Never mention her. Füger has forbidden it.”
“Why?”
“Children must not ask questions.”