"I think the whole summer, ma'am," was the reply. "A good thing, too. What could they do without her over there?"
Gertrude bit her lip; she felt ashamed. What right had she to ask about it?
"Did you want anything more, ma'am?"
"Nothing, thanks."
And she remained alone in her room as she had been so many days before. She could hear the gnawing of the moths in the old wood-work, and now and then the steps of the servant in the corridor. With burning eyes she gazed at the ever-darkening sky; her hands grasped the slender arm of her chair as if they must have an outward support at least.
Gradually it began to grow dark; the approaching evening and the black storm-clouds together soon made it quite dusk, while now and then sharp flashes of lightning brought the dark trees into full relief. Close by Johanna was closing the windows of the sleeping-room.
"Shall I bring a lamp?" she asked, looking through the half-opened door.
"No, thanks."
"But you oughtn't to sit so near the window, ma'am, it looks so dreadful out there."
Gertrude did not move and the tear-stained face disappeared. A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, the branches were tossed wildly about as if in a fierce struggle with brute force; the slender branches were bent down to the ground only to rise again as quickly, and a fierce blast whirling about gravel, leaves and small stones dashed them against the rattling panes. Then followed a dazzling flash of lightning, thunder that made the house shake, and at the same time a sudden deluge of rain mingled with the peculiar pattering of large hail-stones.