"Why, Wolfgang! Wölfchen!" His mother stretched out her arms to him, but he buried his head in the girl's lap.
Käte frowned at the girl: what nonsense to sing such songs to him.
"Oh, the mistress!" Cilia jumped up, her face crimson, and let everything she had on her lap stocking, darning ball, wool and scissors--fall on the floor; the boy as well.
Why were they both so terrified? Wolfgang stared at her as if she were a ghost.
He had risen now, had kissed his mother's hand, and mechanically raised his face to receive her kiss; but his face did not show that he was glad to see her. Or was it embarrassment, a boyish shame because she had taken him by surprise? His eyes did not gaze straight at her, but always sideways. Did he look upon her as a stranger--quite a stranger?
An inexpressible disappointment filled the heart of the woman who had just returned home, and her voice sounded harsh without intending it as she told the girl to go away. She sat down on the seat near the table, which she had just vacated, and drew her boy toward her.
"How have you got on, Wölfchen? Tell me--well?"
He nodded.
"Have you missed your mother a little?"
He nodded again.