"She is bad," she thought, "or how could she have done it?" But she did not speak, and the old man went on:
"I am not angry! No, mein Gott, no! I only want my little girl. Anything to have her back, my baby, my little baby girl, gone these sixteen years! My little baby!"
"Yes, but she wouldn't be a baby now," broke in Jenny.
Von Barwig, about to speak, stopped suddenly. "Of course not; I never thought of that!" Then he shook his head violently.
"I cannot think of her as anything but a baby!"
"Yes, but she'd be a grown-up young lady," insisted Jenny.
"How old was she when you—when she—when you left her."
"Three years and two months," said Von Barwig softly.
"Then she'd be nineteen," said Jenny, "just my age; big, grown-up young lady."
"She is my little baby," repeated Von Barwig plaintively. "I can see her now so plainly; always playing with her little doll—the doll with one eye out. That was the doll she loved, Jenny; the doll she had when I last saw her."