Von Barwig watched himself closely. He was determined to make no more mistakes, nor to yield to any temptation to give way to his feelings in the slightest degree.
"You have practised since I—during my absence?" he asked, assuming a sternness he by no means felt, and that she saw through at once.
"Yes, maestro," she replied meekly. "I have practised every day. I've really made great progress, caro maestro!" and she laughed softly.
"We shall see," said Von Barwig, with a critical frown on his face. He was a little self-conscious. He knew his own weakness, his temptation to become sentimental, and he had to watch himself continually to prevent his emotional nature from getting uppermost. This self-restraint made him slightly ill at ease, and Hélène noticed it.
"You are strangely quiet this afternoon," she said. "I should have thought you would have had a great deal to tell me." Von Barwig merely looked at her.
"Come," said he, "we must get to work!"
"You did not receive a single line from me?" she asked as they neared the end of the lesson. "What must you have thought?"
"What right have I to think?" replied Von Barwig. "I am only a teacher! There are so many. I thought perhaps you had replaced me."
"Don't talk like that, please," said Hélène quickly, and shutting the piano up with a bang, she arose. "You know that I esteem you very highly," and she stopped suddenly. "I am going to find out all about these stolen letters and father will punish the culprit. He is very strict in these matters; he always punishes the guilty."
"But it is over and done now, so why punish any one?" began Von Barwig. Hélène shook her head.