“But I came up on purpose to tell you something more about Paula.  She sends you her love, and she invites you to go to her and stay with her, always.  But you must keep it quite a secret and tell no one, not even Eudoxia and Katharina; for I do not know myself how we can contrive to get your grandmother’s consent.  At any rate we must set to work very prudently and cautiously, do you understand?  I have only taken you into our confidence that you may look forward to it and have something to be glad of at night, when you are such a silly little thing as to keep your eyes open like the hares, instead of sleeping like a good child.  If things go well, you may be with Paula to-morrow perhaps—­think of that!  I had quite given up all hope of managing it at all; but now, just now—­ is it not odd—­just within these two minutes I suddenly said to myself:  ’It will come all right!’—­So it must be done somehow.”

A flood of tears streamed down Mary’s burning cheeks but, freely as they flowed, she did not sob and her bosom did not heave.  Nor did she speak, but such pure and fervent gratitude and joy shone from her glistening eyes that Orion felt his own grow moist.  He was glad to find some way of concealing his emotion when Mary seized his hand and, pressing a long kiss on it, wetted it with her tears.

“See!” he exclaimed.  “All wet! as if I had just taken it out of the fountain.”

But he said no more, for the bedroom door was suddenly thrown open and Eudoxia’s high, thin voice was heard saying: 

“But why make any fuss?  Mary will be enchanted!  Here, Child, here is your long-lost friend!  Such a surprise!” And the water-wagtail, pushed forward by no gentle hand, appeared within the doorway.  Eudoxia was as radiant as though she had achieved some heroic deed; but she drew back a little when she found that Orion was still in the room.  The divided couple stood face to face.  What was done could not be undone; but, though he greeted her with only a calm bow, and she fluttered her fan with abrupt little jerks to conceal her embarrassment, nothing took place which could surprise the bystander; indeed, Katharina’s pretty features assumed a defiant expression when he enquired how the little white dog was, and she coldly replied that she had had him chained up in the poultry-yard, for that the patriarch, who was their guest, could not endure dogs.

“He honors a good many men with the same sentiments,” replied Orion, but Katharina retorted, readily enough.

“When they deserve it.”

The dialogue went on in this key for some few minutes; but the young man was not in the humor either to take the young girl’s pert stings or to repay her in the same coin; he rose to go but, before he could take leave, Katharina, observing from the window how low the sun was, cried:  “Mercy on me! how late it is—­I must be off; I must not be absent at supper time.  My boat is lying close to yours in the fishing-cove.  I only hope the gate of the treasurer’s house is still open.”