When I got home, I found my mother ill, dangerously ill. Smitten down suddenly, as if by an unseen hand. Father had wanted to send for me, but she wouldn’t let him, because of spoiling my pleasure. Imagine how I felt, when I heard that! I kept out of the way. I didn’t dare to touch her; I trembled. She thought it was just a child’s concern, and motioned me to go to her. When I went up to her slowly, she pulled me down and kissed my desecrated mouth. I gave way altogether, I wanted to confess to her. I wanted to tell her what I thought and felt: “I’m to blame for your lying there like that.” I did so, too, but tears and sobs choked my words; she took father’s hand and said, looking at me so happily—“What a tender heart!”
Leonard.
She’s well again now. I came to congratulate her, and—what do you think?
Clara.
And what?
Leonard.
To ask your father for your hand in marriage!
Clara.
Ah!
Leonard.