“I do think so.”
“And I am not more honest than she is. No,” said he, resolutely, “Tintefleck is true-hearted.”
“What of me?” cried she, coming up and leaning her arm on the old man's shoulder,—“what of me?”
“I have said that you are honest, and would not deceive!”
“Not you, Vaterchen,—not you,” said she, kissing him. And then, as she turned away, she gave me a look so full of meaning, and so strange, withal, that if I were to speak for an hour I could not explain it. It seemed to mean sorrow and reproach and wounded pride, with a dash of pity, and above all and everything, defiance; ay, that was its chief character, and I believe I winced under it.
“Let us step out briskly,” said Vaterchen. “Constance is a good eleven miles off yet.”
“He looks tired already,” said she, with a glance at me.
“I? I'm as fresh as when I started,” said I. And I made an effort to appear brisk and lively, which only ended in making them laugh heartily.