"Listen! do you hear how prettily that bird sings? I would not have thought that a city bird could have such a sweet voice."
She looks up. "Yes, papa," murmurs she, and bows her head anew.
Compassionately his eyes follow every movement of the poor child. They have put a white morning dress on her. She is sallow, her cheeks are sunken. Still her little face is unspeakably, touchingly attractive.
"As soon as you are better, we will play a great deal together," he begins, after awhile.
Mascha does not answer. He repeats his words. Then she looks up, confused, distracted. "What did you say? I--I did not hear," murmured she.
"Of what are you thinking, then, Mascha?"
"Of what? I--I only thought how all will be now," stammered she, and stares at the ground.
Yes, how will it be? He also thinks of that. He does not believe in the success of Nita's undertaking; he would not have let himself be forced to marry in such a case. And what then? Suppose he marries Mascha to some philosopher who surrenders himself for her few groschen? The present would at least be covered thus, but what of the future? Humiliation--ill treatment! No, he will not give his child to that--no, no! He alone will care for her, be all in all to her, recompense her for everything with his love. His pride will not permit him to return to his fatherland with his dishonored child, but he will make a home for her in the most beautiful place in the world, in Sorrento, or somewhere in southern France. He will keep her like a princess, distract her by his art, read with her, teach her, surround her with lovely flowers, with all beautiful objects before which she need not lower her eyes.
With fearful bitterness, he suddenly breaks off this air-castle building. That is all nonsense--sentimental dotage. A moment will yet come when longing for companions will overcome her. Those with whom his daughter should associate will not have anything to do with her; but others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute crowd, without every moral restraint, will assemble round the child. And then--Mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy amusement, without good examples in her associates, without any urgent reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her temperament. He will see her sink--she, his darling, his white lamb--sink, sink!
All at once she shudders, springs up. "What is it, Mascha?" he asks, lovingly, holding her back by the hand.