I was walking along quietly--'twas already dawning--when suddenly a gaunt form arose from the ditch beside the road. I looked, and saw before me a miserable beggarwoman, who called out to me in a trembling voice: "Marie--Madame--Daughter!" I turned cold in fear and horror, and, unable to utter one sound, I began to run; and I ran, ran, ran, and behind me I only heard her agonizing call: "My Marie--my daughter!" And so, I ran away from my own mother. And now, after a few hours' thought, I realize I did wrong. I must see her and speak to her, and learn from her own lips who and what I am; and as papa has forbidden me to leave this house--I would go in spite of him, but I have a fear--I beg of you, George, dear, go to her, I implore you, find her for me--she cannot be far away, and----
George.
And then?
Marie.
Then bring her to me, into the garden, or, better still, into this room towards evening, when papa and mama are calling on the old pastor----
George.
Marie, I cannot do that!
Marie.
The first time I ask a favor of you--and you say you cannot do it?