The conversation now turned on the two girls, of whom they spoke as sweet children, both much to be pitied; and, when Orion observed that his niece was old for her tender years, Paula replied with a slight accent of reproach:  “But Katharina, too, has ripened much during the last few days; the lively child has become a sober girl; her recent experience is a heavy burden on her light heart.”

“But, if I know her at all, it will soon be cast off,” replied Orion.  “She is a sweet, happy little creature; and, of all the dreadful things I did on that day of horrors, the most dreadful perhaps was the woe I wrought for her.  There is no excuse possible, and yet it was solely to gratify my mother’s darling wish that I consented to marry Katharina.—­ However, enough of that.—­Henceforth I must march through life with large strides, and she to whom love gives courage to become my wife, must be able to keep pace with me.”

Katharina could only just hear these last words.  The speakers now turned down the path, sparsely shaded from the midday sun by a few trees, which led to the tank in the centre of the garden, and they went further and further from her.

She heard no more—­still, she knew enough and could supply the rest.  The object of her ambush was gained:  she knew now with perfect certainty who was “the other.”  And how they had spoken of her!  Not as a deserted bride, whose rights had been trodden in the dust, but as a child who is dismissed from the room as soon as it begins to be in the way.  But she thought she could see through that couple and knew why they had spoken of her thus.  Paula, of course, must prevent any new tie from being formed between herself and Orion; and as for Orion, common prudence required that he should mention her—­her, whom he had but lately loaded with tenderness—­as a mere child, to protect himself against the jealousy of that austere “other” one.  That he had loved her, at any rate that evening under the trees, she obstinately maintained in her own mind; to that conviction she must cling desperately, or lose her last foothold.  Her whole being was a prey to a frightful turmoil of feeling.  Her hands shook; her mouth was parched as by the midday heat; she knew that there were withered leaves between her feet and the sandals she wore, that twigs had got caught in her hair; but she could not care and when the pair were screened from her by the denser shrubs she flew back to her raised seat-from which she could again discover them.  At this moment she would have given all she held best and dearest, to be the thing it vexed her so much to be called:  a water-wagtail, or some other bird.

It must be very near noon if not already past; she dusted her sandals and tidied her curly hair, picking out the dry leaves and not noticing that at the same time a rose fell out on the ground.  Only her hands were busy; her eyes were elsewhere, and suddenly they brightened again, for the couple on which she kept them fixed were coming back, straight towards the hedge, and she would soon be able again to hear what they were saying.