She became very hot and excited, and gesticulated violently.

All this time the young woman sat knitting, but not looking up.  She had been beautiful, but her face was worn now, and her eyes had that vacant stare which betokened the vacant mind.

The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen: 

“She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting.”

Tears came into the kind old eyes.

Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out his hand.

“Catharina,” he said gently.

She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him.

Then the sad face smiled a welcome.

He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time.  He asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen her, and she said: 

“Waiting.  I am always waiting.”

He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an avalanche the eve before their wedding morning.  That was four years ago, but Catharina was still waiting.  Allitsen remembered her as a bright young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests:  a bright gracious presence.  No one could cook trout as she could; many a dish of trout had she served up for him.  And now she sat in the sunshine, knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up.  That was her life.

“Catharina,” he said, as he gave her back her knitting, “do you remember how you used to cook me the trout?”

Another smile passed over her face.  Yes, she remembered.

“Will you cook me some to-day?”

She shook her head, and returned to her knitting.

Bernardine watched the Disagreeable Man with amazement.  She could not have believed that his manner could be so tender and kindly.  The old mother standing near her whispered: 

“He was always so good to us all; we love him, every one of us.  When poor Catharina was betrothed five years ago, it was to Herr Allitsen we first told the good news.  He has a wonderful way about him—­just look at him with Catharina now.  She has not noticed any one for months, but she knows him, you see.”

At that moment the other members of the household came:  Liza, Fritz, and Truedchen; Liza, a maiden of nineteen, of the homely Swiss type; Fritz, a handsome lad of fourteen; and Truedchen, just free from school, with her school-satchel swung on her back.  There was no shyness in their greeting; the Disagreeable Man was evidently an old and much-loved friend, and inspired confidence, not awe.  Truedchen fumbled in his coat pocket, and found what she expected to find there, some sweets, which she immediately began to eat, perfectly contented and self-satisfied.  She smiled and nodded at Robert Allitsen, as though to reassure him that the sweets were not bad, and that she was enjoying them.

“Liza will see to lunch,” said the old mother.  “You shall have some mutton cutlets and some forellen.  But before she goes, she has something to tell you.”