"Yes, I know you. You are Hilda," he repeated, dully. "Why are you here?"
"Won't you ask me in and let me tell you?"
"I beg your pardon." He stepped back that she might pass him. "You have surprised me almost out of my senses—entirely out of my manners, as you see."
He gave her a splint chair—one of the two which were the room's complement—and stood before her. His arm lay on the mantel-shelf, his fingers clutching its edge until the nails grew white. The girl took off her heavy black bonnet and laid it on the table. The lamp behind her shone through the golden hair that made a halo around her face, the face of a child, unworldly, confiding. The only mark of maturity about her was the straight line of a determined mouth.
Friedrich spoke first.
"You are wearing black. Is it Max?"
The great, innocent blue eyes filled with tears.
"Yes, it is Max."
"Poor child!"
A shiver passed over the girl.