Before the girl could answer, she spoke more strangely still.
"Are you just as fond of Fritz as ever? would it break your heart if you lost him?"
Minna placed her mother's hand on her bosom.
"Feel it, mamma," she said quietly. Madame Fontaine took her chair by the fire-side—seating herself with her back to the light. She beckoned to her daughter to sit by her. After an interval, Minna ventured to break the silence.
"I am very sorry for Mrs. Wagner, mamma; she has always been so kind to me. Do you think she will die?" Resting her elbows on her knees, staring into the fire, the widow lifted her head—looked round—and looked back again at the fire.
"Ask the doctor," she said. "Don't ask me."
There was another long interval of silence. Minna's eyes were fixed anxiously on her mother. Madame Fontaine remained immovable, still looking into the fire.
Afraid to speak again, Minna sought refuge from the oppressive stillness in a little act of attention. She took a fire-screen from the chimney-piece, and tried to place it gently in her mother's hand.
At that light touch, Madame Fontaine sprang to her feet as if she had felt the point of a knife. Had she seen some frightful thing? had she heard some dreadful sound? "I can't bear it!" she cried—"I can't bear it any longer!"
"Are you in pain, mamma? Will you lie down on the bed?" Her mother only looked at her. She drew back trembling, and said no more.