"Is there no other way across?" asks Elsa, who has meanwhile crawled close to the edge of the meadow, and casting a somewhat anxious glance over the knee-high, dewy grass.
"No, wait a moment," he replies, still absorbed in contemplating the strange trace.
"It will cost me a pair of shoes," she murmurs somewhat vexedly, raises her gown, and resolutely prepares for a very cold foot-bath.
"Elsa, what are you doing?" cries he, perceiving her intention, and, leaving his hunter's problem, he hurries quickly up to her. "With your genius for taking cold."
Before she has time to answer he has taken her in his arms and carries her through the dew. He has wholly forgotten Linda Lanzberg, and also that he had been vexed with his poor nervous wife's unjust, childish antipathy for Linda. He looks down tenderly upon the dear head, which rests with half-closed eyes on his shoulder.
"How light you are," he remarks softly and anxiously; "you do not weigh much more than Litzi now, my mouse."
Elsa does not answer, but her slender arms twine round his neck, and as his lips seek her pale face, he feels that she is crying.
"What is the matter, my darling?" he asks.
"I do not know myself," she murmurs with a slight shiver. "I am afraid."