Ernestine turned away, greatly agitated. She would not have Johannes observe her emotion, and therefore only breathed a gentle "Farewell," and would have left the room.
"Are you going? Have I offended you? May I not come again?" he asked.
Ernestine stood still, and did not speak.
"May I not?" he repeated,--and there was such urgent entreaty in his voice that it stirred the very depths of Ernestine's soul.
There was one moment of hesitation; then she returned to him, held out her hand and said, with eyes swimming in tears,--eyes that pierced his heart to the core:
"Yes; come again."
"God bless you!" he said, with a long sigh of relief, and then, kissing her hand respectfully, he left the room. She stood still where he had left her, lost in thought.
The tones of the Æolian harp floated out upon the air, the roses exhaled fresh fragrance, the birds twittered, and the sunlight shone in soft rays through the blue curtains. She heeded none of these things, she stood there absorbed in the pursuit of some dim, half-remembered image in the distant past--even in the days of her childhood.
Why was it that the oak boughs, whither she had fled from the handsome lad, seemed to rustle around her again? Why was the little Angelika so distinct in her memory,--the little girl rocking in her arms the doll that her brother had sent her, in the sure hope that her tenderness would inspire it with life?
And as she stood there, dreaming in the midst of Æolian tones, fragrance, and light, she herself was like Pygmalion's statue, when beneath the breath of love the first glow of life informed its marble breast, and the cold lips opened for its first sigh!