Her eyes travelled from needle to scissors, from pencil to work.
"There, there," she said, her face beaming, "we are a busy German family. Begin now, dear husband, we are all quite ready to hear your book."
The father of the family often read aloud to them in the evenings. But the books he read were not such as children would even look at to-day.
Bettina and Marianne, the twins, Carl and the others all listened, on those long, cold Memel evenings, to grown-up histories, to romances, or sometimes to plays or poems, very long and very serious.
Now and then the Professor would talk, not read, and then Bettina loved it. He told of the new Republic across the sea, America, which had fought a great war and was now free and independent, and there were stories of the great men called Washington and Franklin, and of all the excitement when they had signed a treaty of peace in Paris.
"I was young then," said the Professor, "and in Helsingör, and there was much talk of a new life beginning for the world with the Declaration of Independence,—you must read it, Otto,—and the ships and the harbour were gaily decorated and cannon were fired and we all drank to the health of this new Republic at a fine party given to celebrate the birth of Liberty. And they raised the American flag and lit bonfires, and heavens, children, but there was hurrahing!"
And he told of a great Englishman, named Nelson, who had conquered Napoleon at Trafalgar, and of the Revolution in France, and all that in his day had happened. But often he read, and sometimes Bettina's little head fell to nodding. One night she was almost asleep when the Professor's voice stopped suddenly.
"Richard," interrupted his wife, and her tone was furious, "see our Marianne."
Bettina dropped her knitting and stared. So did the twins, and Carl stopped cutting. What had Marianne done? Her cheeks were quite crimson and one hand held something under the table cover.
"My Heavens, Richard, think of it! Let me see it, Marianne. Obey me."