"Yes, yes. Come in," cried Bertha. "Gretchen is dressed."
Hilsborn entered. He regarded compassionately the touching figure in the black dress,--the lovely childlike face, with those sad, large eyes, reminding him of a wounded doe's. His heart overflowed with pity, and he held out his hand, with, "Come, we must be upon our way."
"I am ready," Gretchen murmured.
"Stop," cried Bertha. "You must take something first." And she poured out a cup of chocolate, and followed Gretchen, who was collecting her various trifles for her travelling-bag, about the room, until she persuaded her to take some of it. "And you must eat some of this cake. You used to be so fond of it, and your lamented,--well, yes,--your lamented father too. Ah, I used to be well treated when I put that cake on the table! Will you not taste it? Well, then, take some with you." And she crammed as much of it as she could into the girl's travelling-bag.
One minute more, and Gretchen was ready to leave the room. "Good-by, mother," she said, throwing herself once more into the arms of her mother, whose hot tears fell upon her child's neck. "I will never forget your kindness to me to-day, and if you ever need me you will find me a daughter to you."
"My child, my good child!" sobbed Bertha. "Try to think as well of me as you can."
"Yes, yes, dear mother. God bless you and yours!"
Hilsborn hurried the girl away. She gently extricated herself from her mother's arms, and, in anguish of soul, descended the stairs that her father had on the previous day ascended for the first and last time.
"Write to me now and then," Bertha called after her.
"Indeed I will, I promise you."