Gertrud gave a deep sigh of relief at this thought, or rather endeavoured to do so, but a heavy weight still seemed to be upon her heart, and she clasped her folded hands closer together in wild pain. The young girl had grown much paler these few weeks, and the shade did not lie as of old in her eyes, it was effaced, forced into the background by another expression. There was an anxious unrest, a tormenting pain to be read there now, and the firmly-pressed lips seemed to hold back some secret, which she hardly dared to speak of, even to herself. She took her book and tried to read, but she could not. She opened it in the middle, at the end, in vain. Her eyes wandered over the words without taking in the sense; her thoughts were too strong to be banished.
With a passionate movement, which betrayed the hidden conflict within, she at last threw it down, and hid her face in both hands.
"Gertrud!"
She sprang up with a look of terror.
"Herr von Reinert! You here!"
It was, indeed, Eugen, who stood at some little distance from her. He, too, was pale and agitated, and his voice trembled as with cast down eyes, he asked, in a low tone--
"May I--may I approach?"
"No!" was the firm, grave answer.
In spite of the refusal he dared to advance a step.
"Gertrud, do not be so unforgiving! I know you hate me, that I have made you unhappy--"