The tall man had turned, and was looking absently at the little wooden cradle.
"And now, Anna Maria? I owe him so much"—he spoke almost imploringly—"may I impose such a burden upon you?"
"Klaus, what a question! Of course! Please take the necessary steps at once, and have the child come."
"The child, Anna Maria? Why, I think she must have reached the limits of childhood now!"
"That doesn't matter, Klaus. Then I will instruct her in housekeeping, and all sorts of things which she may find useful in her life."
"I thank you sincerely, Anna Maria," he replied; "I hope you will take pleasure in the girl." He said this with a sigh of relief, which did not escape Anna Maria's ear.
"You act exactly as if you had been afraid of me, Klaus," she remarked, with a passing smile; "as if I should not always wish anything that seemed desirable to you."
"Just because I know that, Anna Maria," he said, grasping her hands affectionately, "I wish, too, that you might do it gladly, that it might be no sacrifice to you——"
"I am really and truly glad the child is coming," she said honestly. And so they stood opposite each other in the forsaken lumber-room; it was now flooded with sunshine, and the two strong figures stood out from a golden background. The shadows of the young leaves about the window played lightly over them, and the call of the thrush echoed from the woods far away without.
"A sacrifice!" he had said, and yet they had each already made the greatest sacrifice of which a human heart is capable, and each thought it unknown to the other. And at their feet rocked the heavy cradle, moved by Anna Maria's dress, and it rocked on, long after the two had left the room.