I turned, laughing, to point out the figure of my companion. The drive was empty. The songs of the birds, the shadows of the trees, the golden swathes of light, were there, but of Margaret von Lichtenberg there was no trace.
"She has hidden herself amidst the trees," I cried. "Come."
But there was no trace of her amidst the trees.
"Margaret!"
I was frightened at my own voice, at its ghostliness, and the echo of the sweet name that came back from the wood.
A wreath of morning mist could not have vanished more completely.
I am sure that just then the Franzius' must have thought me mad.