The Freiherr held his grand-daughter's little, cold, trembling hand in a tight clasp. His eyes gleamed beneath their bushy eyebrows, as though he would read her very soul; but she returned his steadfast gaze, and gradually his look grew gentler.
"Your sister," he began, when suddenly the door was flung open, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Oh, Hanna dear!" she cried. Then, seeing two strangers in the twilight, she stopped short.
"And is this she?" asked the Freiherr. "Come here, little one; give me your hand."
"Come," said Johanna. "This is my dear grandfather of whom I have so often told you."
Lisbeth obeyed. Her fair curls had escaped from beneath her felt hat, and were hanging about her happy, rosy face, whence large, dark, serious eyes gazed steadily at the Freiherr.
One look sufficed. The beautiful child took the old man's heart by storm. Beauty had always been an inheritance of his race.
"Well, you fine little specimen," he cried, drawing her towards him, "will you come with your sister and live with me? You must be a good girl and learn to love me and call me grandfather, as she does?"
Johanna, kneeling at his feet, covered the dear withered hand with tears and kisses.
"Child, child, are you mad! Get up, get up!" cried the Freiherr. And, as he raised her, Ludwig approached.
"Now everything is so happily arranged," he said, with hardly-won composure, "that I can leave you without anxiety. Good-by!"