Without wasting time by thinking upon this conversation with his aunt, Gottlieb hastened on the road towards the little cottage. He had observed Nanna was not in the boat, and after proceeding to the spring, and fruitlessly searching for her, he hurried to the cottage, his heart beating with such rapidity as he stood before the door, that he was astonished at his great emotion.
"Illness could not have prevented her from going with them," thought he, "certainly not, or they would have remained with her."
Thus thinking he knocked at the door; but he was obliged to repeat the summons several times before he heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching.
"Who is there?" inquired a soft voice from within.
"'Tis I, Nanna!"
An exclamation of joyful surprise was the only reply. The bolt was quickly thrown back; the door opened, and Nanna appeared upon the threshold, pale and careworn. She was clothed in her only holiday dress, a black merino frock which fitted closely around her neck, thereby disclosing her graceful bust to its best advantage.
Without speaking, but overwhelmed with her joyful emotions, she cast herself in Gottlieb's arms, and never was there a purer embrace given or returned than on this occasion. With tender gentleness Gottlieb imprinted his second kiss upon her lips, and then said softly:—
"Poor Nanna, poor child, you have at least one friend in your adversity."
"Then Gottlieb is acquainted with—" She blushingly withdrew herself from his embrace. She had not thought that her greeting had been contrary to customary usage.
"Yes, I know your sorrow; and you may rest assured that I will give myself no rest, during the few days that I remain here, until I see your father at liberty and safely in his own house again."