A transfiguring glow seemed to illumine the doctor's bowed head. "All is well with me, Henriette," he said, with emotion. "I dare to hope that I shall not pass a lonely and embittered life; nay, better still, I know that even at the eleventh hour my dream of the true happiness of existence will be fulfilled. Does that content you, my sister?" He pressed his lips upon the small hand that was growing cold in his own. "I thank you from my soul," he added.
A blush, faint and rosy as the evening sky, came and went upon the cheek of the dying girl; her timid glance involuntarily sought her sister, who, her hand leaning upon Bruck's chair, was evidently struggling to control her grief. At sight of her Henriette's heart melted in pity and sympathy.
"Look at my Kitty, Leo!" she said, imploringly, in a failing voice. "Let me tell you of what has so often distressed and pained me. You have always been so cold to her,—once harsh even to cruelty,—and yet there is none to be compared to her. Leo, I have never understood your prejudice against her. Be kind to her—befriend her——"
"To my latest breath! while life lasts!" he interrupted her, scarce able to master his emotion.
"Then all is well! I know you will take care of her,—and my strong, brave darling will stand between you and all annoyance——"
"Like a faithful sister, which from this moment I am," Kitty completed the sentence, in a choking voice.
An ecstatic smile hovered about Henriette's mouth. She closed her eyes, and did not see the shudder that shook her strong sister's frame as the doctor held out his hand to her and she rejected it as if she had no right to its mute pressure. The smile faded, and the dying girl struggled for breath. "Say farewell to grandmamma. Now I would rest,—ah, give me rest, Leo, I entreat!" she gasped.
"In ten minutes you will fall asleep, Henriette," he said, in a low, soothing tone. He laid her hand upon the coverlet, and softly put his arm beneath the pillow supporting her head; she lay like a child upon his breast,—a happy death!
And before the ten minutes were passed she slept. The fluttering vine-leaves at the window stirred, as if lightly touched, and the rosy light in the sky, in which the parting soul had longed to bathe, suddenly glowed to deepest crimson. The little tame bird perched upon the window-sill as usual at sunset,—his soft twitter towards the waxen face upon the pillow was heard for the last time,—and then these windows also were closed, not to be opened until the councillor's house had passed into stranger hands.
The Frau President came up to the room, bowed as with a sudden added weight of the age she had so steadily tried to ignore. The white cloud of tulle once more enveloped cheek and chin: no mourning should be worn for a scoundrel, she said. She went to the bedside, and a spasm passed over her features as she gazed upon the calm countenance of the dead. "She is happy," she said, in a broken voice. "She has chosen the better part,—she need not go into exile,—she is spared the bitter, bitter struggle with poverty."