"I have told you," faltered Von Barwig.
"What have I done, what have I done!" cried Hélène, "that you won't claim me?" Her voice was now choked with sobs and she no longer made any effort to restrain them. "He wouldn't tell me either; he referred me to you. What have I done? I have waited and waited and waited, but you won't speak! You knew me from the first. You must have known me from the likeness. I was under your roof, you were under mine; but you wouldn't claim me. There is some disgrace!" The old man nodded. "Ah, then it's my mother!" cried Hélène.
"Your mother? No! No!" cried Von Barwig. "No! she was an angel; an angel of goodness, of purity."
"Then what are you concealing?" cried Hélène; "of what are you ashamed? Of what is he ashamed?"
Von Barwig rocked himself in agony, but at last he forced himself to speak.
"It's a little story of life, of love—foolishness; of—of folly. Ah, it is ended, ended!" wailed the old man. "It is over and done with. Why should we bring it out into the daylight when it has slept so long over there in Leipsic. Surely it has slept itself into silence. No! no! The secret is buried there in Leipsic. I—I put these orange blossoms on its grave!" and Von Barwig gently took the flowers from her. "I take them back to Leipsic; a little token of silence she would love."
"Now I know why she cried so constantly," sobbed Hélène. "She was thinking of you!" She grasped his hand and looked pleadingly into his face. "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Von Barwig shook his head. "Silence is best! The marriage is over; I have the orange blossoms," and the old man kissed them tenderly.
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" entreated Hélène.
"Your husband, what does he say?" said Von Barwig, in a low voice. He felt he could not restrain himself much longer.