"What do you mean?" asked Fritz, "'over there,' 'here,' 'in the streets'? Surely we shall live together."
Laura looked at him with open eyes, and a blush slowly mantled over her face up to her temples.
"We cannot, as man and wife, live in different houses?"
Laura held her hand before her eyes and remained silent. As she did not answer, Fritz drew her hand quietly from her face, and large tears rolled down her cheeks.
"My mother," she said, softly, as she wept.
So touching was the expression of her grief, that Fritz said, sympathizingly:
"Do not grieve, Laura, about her, we will live where you like, and exactly as you think fit."
But even these kind words could not comfort the poor soul, whose maidenly anxieties cast a shadow over her future. The colored haze with which her childish fancy had invested her free life in the neighborhood of her loved one, had been dissolved.
She sat silent and sad.
The coachman stopped before a village inn to refresh himself and his horses. The young landlady stood at the door with her child in her arms; she approached the carriage and civilly invited them to alight. Laura looked anxiously at the Doctor; he nodded, the carriage door was opened. Laura seated herself on a bench in front of the door, and asked the young woman questions about her family, in order to show the self-possession of a traveller. The woman answered, confidently: