PORTRAIT OF HILDEGARDE.
[CHAPTER III]
IT IS HILDEGARDE
A pair of friends.—Wordsworth.
Fraulein was right. Both driver and horses woke up wonderfully as the first straggling houses of the village came in sight; it would be impossible to describe the extraordinary sounds and ejaculations which Friedrich, as he was called, addressed to his steeds, but which they evidently quite understood.
'How nice it is to go so fast, and to hear the bells jingling so,' said Leonore. 'I wish we had farther to go.'
'If that were the case we should soon sober down again,' said Fraulein with a smile, adding the next moment, 'and here we are. See the good aunt, my child, as I told you—standing at the gate, just as I last saw her, when I left her five years ago! But then it was parting and tears—now it is meeting and joy.'
Tears nevertheless were not wanting in the eyes of both the good ladies—tears of happiness, however, which were quickly wiped away.
'How well you are looking—not a day older,' said the niece.
'And you, my Elsa—how well you look. A trifle stouter perhaps, but that is an improvement. You have always been too thin, my child,' said the aunt, fondly patting Fraulein's shoulders, though she had to reach up to do so. Then she moved quickly to Leonore with a little exclamation of apology.