So he waited in the cold, half hidden by the falling snow that clung to him and that drifted about the quiet and empty streets.
Yes, Franz should live with him and his mother. Comfort was possible with favoring circumstances where happiness was not.
Presently, disturbing his reverie, the dull rumble of wheels was audible, muffled and deadened by the fall of snow.
The carriages rolled into view.
He saw the many figures moving about, as the guests streamed into the house, and straining his eyes he saw Barbara. She stood in the open door, and as she turned to answer some one who had spoken on the walk—her voice reached him, gay and bright.
The guests had disappeared, yet he waited. He would wait until she entered her carriage to be driven to the station. It could not be very long, and then he, too, would forget.
Suddenly the doors swung back. He saw her, attended by her friends, clinging to her husband's arm, and then—she was whirled away and it was over.
Turning he went directly home and to his room, and took from the drawer the bundle of letters. One by one he burned them—and as the last letter left his hand, far off in the distance pealed the shrill shriek of the whistle that announced the approach of the train.
The sound drew him to the window. He opened it and leaned upon the ledge.
He heard the shrill whistle once again, the creaking of the wheels upon the frosted rails, the ringing of a bell—and she was gone! gone!