"You poor, little fancy-ridden soul!"
"Oh, if you knew how good it sounds!—if I could make you understand! You're the only person who has ever said a thing like that to me—the only one who has ever been in the least sorry for me. Promise me now—promise again—that you will never leave me.—For you are all I have."
"Promise?—again? When you are more to me than my own life?"
"And you will never get tired of me?—never?"
"My own dear wife!"
She strained him to her with a strength for which he would not have given her credit. He tried to see her face.
"Do you know what that means?"
"Yes, I know. It means, if you leave me now, I shall die."
By the next morning, all traces of the storm had vanished; the sun shone; the slanting roads were hard and dry again. Other storms followed—for it was an exceptionally hot summer—and many an evening the two were prisoners in her room, listening to the angry roar of the trees, which lashed each other with a sound like that of the open sea.
Every Sunday in August, too, brought a motley crowd of guests to the inn, and then the whole terrace was set out with little tables. Two waiters came to assist Amalie; a band played in an arbour; carts and wagonettes were hitched to the front of the house; and the noise and merry-making lasted till late in the night. Together they leaned from the window of Louise's room, to watch the people; they hardly ventured out of doors, for it was unpleasant to see their favourite nooks invaded by strangers. Except on Sundays, however, their seclusion remained undisturbed; half a dozen visitors were staying in the other wing of the building, and of these they sometimes caught a glimpse at meals; but that was all: the solitude they desired was still theirs.