Melitta did not know what to answer. She felt too deeply that the gypsy woman could not act differently, and that she, in her place, would have done the same. And yet could she let the two go out again into the wide world? To see Oldenburg's little daughter, whom he yearned after, whom he was searching for everywhere, disappear once more, after an accident such as might never happen again in all her life, had brought her right in her path--she could not bear the thought, and like a child that feels how helpless and friendless it is, she broke into tears.
The gypsy woman seemed to be touched. She took Melitta's hand and kissed it.
"You are very kind, I know," she said; "I know it well. I would rather give you the Czika than anybody else."
She reflected deeply. Suddenly she took Melitta's hand once more and led her aside.
"Do you know," she asked, "who Czika's father is?"
"Yes."
"And are you doing what you do for the father's sake, or for your own?"
Melitta's cheeks reddened.
"For the sake of both," she replied, after some hesitation.
"Where are you going to now?"