The early evening darkness of winter had set in. She dressed herself for going out, and left her room, with the necklace in its case, concealed under her shawl.
Poor puzzled Minna was waiting timidly to speak to her in the corridor. "Oh mamma, do forgive me! I meant it for the best."
The widow put one arm (the other was not at liberty) round her daughter's waist. "You foolish child," she said, "will you never understand that your poor mother is getting old and irritable? I may think you have made a great mistake, in sacrificing yourself to the infirmities of an asthmatic stranger at Munich; but as to being ever really angry with you——! Kiss me, my love; I never was fonder of you than I am now. Lift my veil. Oh, my darling, I don't like giving you to anybody, even to Fritz."
Minna changed the subject—a sure sign that she and Fritz were friends again. "How thick and heavy your veil is!" she said.
"It is cold out of doors, my child, to-night."
"But why are you going out?"
"I don't feel very well, Minna. A brisk walk in the frosty air will do me good."
"Mamma, do let me go with you!"
"No, my dear. You are not a hard old woman like me—and you shall not run the risk of catching cold. Go into my room, and keep the fire up. I shall be back in half an hour.
"Where is my necklace, mamma?"