CHAPTER VIII.
A week later the iron-gray horses were bringing the close carriage back from the church-yard at a sharp trot. On the back seat sat Arthur Fredericks with Uncle Henry beside him; opposite was Linden. They wore crape around their hats and a band of crape on the left arm.
The winter had come back once more in full force before taking its final departure. It was snowing, and the great flakes settled down on a little new-made grave within the iron railings of the Baumhagen family burial-place. Jenny's golden-haired darling was dead!
No one in the carriage spoke a word, and when the three gentlemen got out each went his own way after a silent handshake: Uncle Henry to take a glass of cognac, Arthur to his desolate young wife, while Linden went up to Gertrude. He did not find her in the drawing-room; probably she was with her sister. Presently he heard a slight rustling. He strode across the soft carpet and stood in the open door-way of the room with the bay-window.
"Gertrude!" he cried, in dismay, "for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"
She was kneeling before her little sofa, her head hidden in her arms, her whole frame, convulsed with long, tearless sobs.
"Gertrude!"
He put his arms round her and tried to raise her, when she lifted up her head and stood up.
"Tell me what has happened, Gertrude," he urged; "is it grief for the loss of the little one? I entreat you to be calm--you will make yourself ill."
She had not shed any tears, she only looked deathly pale and her hands, which rested in his, were cold as ice.