The evening after her return she went to the nursery at the usual hour, but lingered only by the crib of the sleeping boy, passing her daughter's bed with averted face. Rika sat up and looked after her; her mother had reached the door without once looking back. This the child could not endure. She sprang out of bed, ran to her mother, and seized her by her skirt. "Mother! mother!" she cried, in a frenzy, "you will not go without bidding me good-night?"
"Let go of my gown," Frau von Strachinsky replied, in a cold voice, which nevertheless trembled with emotion.
"But what have I done, mother?" the child cried, clinging to her passionately.
"Can you ask?" her mother rejoined, sternly.
"Why should I not ask? How should I know what he has told you? I was not by when he accused me."
"Erika! is that the way to speak of your father?" her mother said, angrily.
The little girl frowned. "He is not my father," she declared, defiantly.
Frau von Strachinsky sighed. "Your ingratitude is shocking," she exclaimed, and then, controlling herself with an effort, she added, "But that I cannot alter: you are an unnatural, hard-hearted, stubborn child. I cannot soften your heart, but I can insist that you conduct yourself with propriety, and I forbid you once for all to run after vagabonds in the street. And now go to bed."
"I will not go to bed until you bid me good-night!" cried the child. She stood there with naked little feet, in her white night-gown, over which her long reddish-brown hair hung down. "And I was not so naughty as you think. You ought not to condemn me without giving me time to defend myself."
The child was so desperately reasonable, her mother could not think her wrong, in spite of her momentary anger. She paused. An idea evidently occurred to the little girl. "Only wait one minute!" she exclaimed, as she flew across the room to a drawer where she kept her toys, and, returning with her protégé's water-colour sketch, held it up triumphantly before her mother's eyes. "Look at that!" she cried.