First of all there was a long series of apparently monotonous, but in reality very beneficial, days of hard work, in which the joy and pain of her creative fancy had worn away her heart-ache, until there had come an hour which she never should forget.
It was in harvest; she was walking just after sunset beside a hedge-row. White gossamers floated in the clear air; all around her there was absolute silence. Suddenly a joyous note rang out from far above her. It was a belated lark. She looked up, surprised, and in that very moment she had the sudden consciousness of relief and freedom which had so long been unknown to her. Since then she had been able to think of Otto, without bitterness, as of an entire stranger. She still had a sense of having lost something fair and sweet; but her inmost self was untouched, her true life undisturbed.
Thus restored to mental health, she had learned to rejoice in her new existence, in her work for its own sake, in her gradual improvement and success, and the result which she achieved. Many an acknowledgment, many a word of encouragement, many a kindly salutation, had reached her in her solitude, and had given her the assurance that she had not written in vain.
And how her very heart and soul had been fed by Lisbeth's love, and the child's health and progress! When the terrible news had come from Brussels, the little one had cried bitterly for her dear pretty mamma, whom she should never see again. But childhood's tears are soon dried; Lisbeth soon smiled through hers. Her new home became her world, and every one in the house petted and loved the little orphan.
Johanna, however, was the dearest confidante of her childish heart, and an evening walk with her through the silent fields, the hour of quiet talk before she went to bed, the tête-à-tête of the sisters at their early breakfast, were Lisbeth's cherished enjoyments.
Johanna's hope that the child would be left solely to her care had been fulfilled. Batti had written only once after his first outpouring of despair and grief. He had then sent trunks full of expensive dresses, etc., to be kept for Lisbeth; and since no word had come from him. Johanna saw in the newspaper that he had passed the winter in Paris instead of St. Petersburg, and that was all that she knew, and even more than she wished to know, concerning him. She did not conceal from herself for a moment the magnitude of the responsibility which thus devolved upon her; but she felt strong and capable. She wrote upon her blotting-book the homely old motto,—
"Do thou but begin the weaving,
God the yarn will aye be giving."
Thus far it had been given to her, and she would always heed Goethe's admonition, "Go to work and help yourself for the present, and hope and trust in God for the future."
And yet, in spite of all that she possessed, and most frequently when she was vividly conscious of how much this was, she was tormented by a painful sense of deprivation. Her intercourse with the members of the household was most friendly. Dr. Wolf visited her frequently, was her faithful adviser, brought her books and periodicals, intellectual food of all kinds; but with increasing hunger she longed for Aunt Thekla's maternal care, the society of her grandfather, and Ludwig's faithful, honest affection.
She never allowed herself any indulgence in this species of home-sickness; and now, as always when it attacked her, she strove to distract her thoughts; she would call Lisbeth, who was playing with the 'little ones,' and she had just opened her own door to do so, when the landing-door was hastily flung wide.