But Tante Ilde made no pretense at drinking hers, not even a sip. Those little shivers had changed into a continuous trembling. She felt both hot and cold. Her eyes were filmy. The only thing she wanted to do really was to lie down, never to move again, to give way to that over-powering lassitude that she could no longer struggle against. She was only vaguely worried because she'd lost the new bag; dropped it at the grave probably, though when Eberhardt went back to get it, immediately when she noticed its loss, on coming out of the cemetery, it had already vanished from the earth. After her first dismay, she had strangely not cared, and now she was murmuring something about the alcove, not at all what any of the others were thinking or talking of.
Suddenly Kaethe, startled out of her own grief at a trembling motion of her aunt's shoulders, had looked at her in alarm.
"But what is the matter, Tante Ilde?" she asked.
"Why, she's really ill!" cried Fanny sharply, "we've got to get her home."
Her aunt hearing the word home muttered once more something about the alcove. Her face was ashen, but her pale, wide eyes shone strangely through the film that again threatened to veil them.
"We must go right away," Fanny cried and hastily paid for the coffee.
Her aunt didn't even hear her. All her strength was engaged in getting totteringly to the door, the professor's arm about her.
"I'm going to take her with me," Fanny whispered to Kaethe as they followed out to get into the coach.
Kaethe looked at her deeply, there was much love in her glance, but she only said:
"I don't think she likes it at Irma's. Irma's so fierce and she's so gentle."