"'Anna Maria!' I called, 'Susanna has come back!' She sprang up suddenly, hastily drawing her lace veil over her forehead; but I saw, as I came nearer, that tears were shining in her eyes.
"'Have you been anxious?' I asked, and put my arm in hers, to support myself, as we walked on.
"'Anxious?' she repeated questioningly. 'Yes—no,' she replied absently. 'Ah, you said Susanna has come? I knew perfectly well that she would, aunt, she is so fond of roving about; that comes from the vagabond blood of her mother, no doubt.'
"'Anna Maria!' I exclaimed, startled.
"'Certainly, Aunt Rose,' she repeated, 'it is in her, it ferments in her little head and shines from her eyes. So often I have noticed when she is standing by me or sitting opposite me, busied with some work, how her looks wander away, in eager impatience; how only the consciousness 'I must obey' compels her to stay still by me. Then she naturally makes use of every opportunity to rush out, to lie down under some tree and forget time and the present. Happy being, thus constituted, through whose veins runs no slow, pedantic, duty-bound blood!'
"We were standing just at the bottom of the terrace, and I involuntarily seized hold of the railing to steady myself. Was it Anna Maria who spoke such words! Was not the whole world turned upside down then? And I saw in the moonlight that her lips quivered and tears shone in her eyes. Had Anna Maria something to regret in her life? And, like a flash of lightning, Edwin Stürmer's handsome face came before my mind's eye.
"'Anna Maria,' I whispered, 'what did you say? Who—?' But I got no further, for the sound of a woman's voice fell on our ears; so full, so sweet and ringing the tones floated out on the summer night, so strangely were time and tune suited to the words, that we lingered there breathless. Anna Maria looked up toward the open window in the upper story. 'Susanna!' she said softly.
'Home have I come, my heart burns with pain.
Ah, that I only could wander again!'
sounded down below.
"But what was the matter with Anna Maria? She fairly flew back into the garden. I stood still and waited; the singing above had ceased. 'Anna Maria!' I called. No answer. What an evening this was, to be sure! Anna Maria, who took the most serious view of the world, who hated nothing more than sentimentality and moonlight reveries, was running about in the garden, moved to tears by a little song! They were all incomprehensible to me to-day—Klaus, Susanna, and Anna Maria, but especially the latter. How could I talk to her about Susanna to-day? I had to keep my discovery to myself; the best thing I could do would be to go up myself to Susanna and ask her, for we should hardly assemble about the round table in the sitting-room this evening, and Anna Maria would hardly be in the mood to read aloud the evening prayers as usual. And Klaus? No, I would not see him at all; better to-morrow by daylight, when he would be his old self again, when his voice would have lost its sultry summer-night cadence, it was to be hoped. No more to-day, I had had enough. I should not be able to sleep, as it was.