CHAPTER VI.
Thirty years had passed away, and on a stormy autumn evening a young couple sat before a crackling fire, in Bütze Manor-house—she, a slender, girlish figure, fair, with pleasant blue eyes; he, tall, or seeming so from a certain delicacy of form, and also fair; but a pair of bright brown eyes contrasted strangely with his light hair.
Without, the wind was raging about the old house, as it had done many years before, and sang of past times; now and then it set up a howl of furious rage, and then sounded again in low, long-drawn, plaintive tones, as if singing a long-forgotten love-song.
The young wife in the comfortable easy-chair had been listening to it a long time; now she said in a clear voice:
"Klaus, this would be just the evening to read aloud the journal."
He started up out of a deep revery. "What journal, my child!"
"That little packet of papers that we found the other day, in rummaging about in Aunt Rosamond's writing-desk."
He nodded. "Yes, we will do it," he said, "it will be a bit of family history, perhaps about my parents. I was just thinking how little I know of them, and it makes me sad. Mother Anna Maria makes her account so short and scanty, as if she did not like to talk about it, and whenever she mentions her only brother her eyes grow moist. Come, sit down on the sofa with me; I will get the papers."
He rose, went to an old-fashioned desk, and took a little packet of papers from the middle drawer. The young wife had meanwhile taken up a bit of dainty needlework, and now they sat, side by side, on the sofa, before the lamp, and he unfolded the sheets.