It was a sunny winter's afternoon; Terrace-Cottage lay buried in dreamy repose; the children were at school, the Schwarzwald clock on the landing ticked monotonously, and the sparrows, searching for their daily crumbs upon the terrace, twittered continuously.
Johanna was sitting at her writing-table. She had at last come home to work, as she called it. Her pen flew over the paper, and when, now and then, she raised her eyes, they sparkled with a happy light.
Suddenly she started. The bell on the landing rang, and manly footsteps advanced across it.
"Ludwig," she thought, rising hastily. But some one else entered! For a moment Johanna stood as if chained to the spot; then the spell was broken. "Grandfather!" she cried, rapturously, and was clasped in his arms.
But the Freiherr could give no time to the display of emotion. "Let me look at you!" he said, holding his grand-daughter at arms'-length and scrutinizing her keenly. "Just the same. What does the doctor mean by going on about weary eyes and pale cheeks? But where has the man hidden himself?"
He strode to the door and looked out. "Where the devil are you, doctor?" he shouted to Ludwig, who had retired to the glass door looking out upon the terrace. And when Johanna held out both hands to him as he approached her, the Freiherr added, "You have him to thank, child. It is he who has brought me here, and explained all your folly and the rest of it. Now don't cry. We've had enough of tears and long faces."
"Mine are tears of joy," said Johanna. "But sit down and tell me. It seems like a dream!—you here, grandpapa." And again her eyes filled with tears.
The old Freiherr, too, in spite of himself, was too much moved to speak for a few moments. Whilst Ludwig, with a sensation of bitterness, for which he took himself to task, went to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness, the old Herr placed a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself in it, planted both hands upon his knees, and looked about him. "And this is the little cage where you have been hiding all this time!" he said, at last, and his tone was rather melancholy than bantering. Johanna hastened to change his mood. "Do you not like it, grandpapa?" she asked, smiling. "Look out of the window; that pretty little terrace belongs to it."
The Freiherr shook his head. "It is all too small and confined for you," he growled. "Well, it's over now. To-morrow morning early,—I promised Thekla that I would stay here overnight,—but to-morrow morning early we're going back to Dönninghausen. One thing I must, however, insist upon: there must never be any more concealments between us. You can and must tell me everything. Promise me this." He held out his hand to Johanna, and his eyes shone as she laid hers in it.
"Yes, grandpapa," she replied. "I will, and I will begin now. To go to Dönninghausen is, as you know, the dearest wish of my heart; but I cannot do it unless I may carry back with me two things,—my little sister and my work——"