Meantime the others had descended and gone their separate ways.
As Karl crossed the courtyard a little child ran to meet him with outstretched arms and a shout of satisfaction. He caught it up and carried it away on his shoulder, like one used to caress and be caressed by children.
Helen, waiting at the door of the tower while the major dusted his coat, saw this, and said, suddenly, directing his attention to man and child,—
“He seems fond of little people. I wonder if he has any of his own.”
“Hoffman? No, my dear; he’s not married; I asked him that when I engaged him.”
“And he said he was not?”
“Yes; he’s not more than five or six-and-twenty, and fond of a wandering life, so what should he want of a wife and a flock of bantlings?”
“He seems sad and sober sometimes, and I fancied he might have some domestic trouble to harass him. Don’t you think there is something peculiar about him?” asked Helen, remembering Hoffman’s hint that her uncle knew his wish to travel incognito, and wondering if he would throw any light upon the matter. But the major’s face was impenetrable and his answer unsatisfactory.
“Well, I don’t know. Every one has some worry or other, and as for being peculiar, all foreigners seem more or less so to us, they are so unreserved and demonstrative. I like Hoffman more and more every day, and shall be sorry when I part with him.”
“Ludmilla is his sister, then, or he didn’t tell uncle the truth. It is no concern of mine; but I wish I knew,” thought Helen anxiously, and then wondered why she should care.