Thus was it with Gretchen and Hilsborn when the latter's low knock at the door aroused the girl from her grief, and she arose from her knees and admitted him. She put her hand in the one he held out to her, and looked confidingly into his serious blue eyes.
"You never went to bed, dear Fräulein Gleissert," said he. "I can see that."
"How could I rest?" she replied. "They would not even let me watch by his body. All that I could do was to wake and pray for him here where he drew his last breath. How hard it is to have to leave what one has loved so dearly, and not to be allowed to cling to it at least until it is consigned to the earth! Suppose he were not quite dead. If he should stir, no one will be near to fan the spark of life into a flame. If he should open his eyes once more and find himself alone, and then die in helpless despair----Oh, the thought is madness!"
"I can assure you, Fräulein Gleissert," said Hilsborn quietly, "that your father sleeps peacefully. I did what you were not permitted to do,--I spent the night by his body."
"Could you do this for the man for whom you could have had no regard?" cried Gretchen.
"I did it for you. I could imagine all you felt, and I knew it would be some comfort to you this morning to know that I had done it."
"Oh, how can I thank you, sir? I am too childish and insignificant to thank you as I ought. My heart is filled with gratitude that will not clothe itself in words! You watched by my father from pure humanity,--compelled by no duty, no obligation,--only that you might soothe the grief of a poor orphan. I cannot express what I feel. You must know----" She could go no further. Tears gushed from her eyes. She took his hand, and, before he knew what she was doing, had imprinted upon it a fervent kiss.
"Fräulein Gleissert!" cried Hilsborn, in great embarrassment. And a deep blush overspread his cheeks.
Gretchen never dreamed that she had committed any impropriety,--how could she, at such a moment? And Hilsborn knew this, and would not shame her by hastily withdrawing his hand. She was still but a child, in spite of her blooming maidenhood, and the kiss was prompted by the purest impulse of her heart.
"You reward me far more richly than I deserve," he said softly. "Although it is long since I suffered the same sorrow, I know what it is. Grief for the death of my father never deserts me. Sorrow easily unites with sorrow, and you are more to me in your affliction than any of the gay, laughter-loving girls of my acquaintance. Let me do what I can for you,--it will be done with my whole heart,--and, for your own sake, do not give way to grief. Remember,--it is a melancholy consolation, nevertheless it is a consolation,--that it is far better for him to die before his crime brought its dreadful consequences. His home could never again have been among honourable men. What, then, would have become of you? Believe me, it is better as it is!"