“And you would like me to take charge of her?” asked Paula.  “Such a wish is of course granted beforehand—­only. . . .”

“Only?” repeated Orion.

“Only you must send her here; for you know that I will never enter your doors again.”

“Alas that it should be so!—­But the child has been very ill and can hardly leave the house at present; and—­since I must own it—­my mother avoids her in a way which distresses the child, who is over-excited as it is, and fills her with new terrors.”

“How can Neforis treat her little favorite so?”

“Remember,” said Orion, “what my father has been to my poor mother.  She is now completely crushed:  and, when she sees the little girl, that last scene of her unhappy husband’s life is brought back to her, with all that came upon my father and me, beyond a doubt through Mary.  She looks on the poor little thing as the bane of the family?”

“Then she must come away,” said Paula much touched.  “Send her to us.  Kind and comforting souls dwell under Rufinus’ roof.”

“I thank you warmly.  I will entreat my mother most urgently. . . .”

“Do so,” interrupted Paula.  “Have you ever seen Pulcheria, the daughter of my worthy host?”

“Yes.—­A singularly lovable creature!”

“She will soon take Mary into her faithful heart—­”

“And our poor little girl needs a friend, now that Susannah has forbidden her daughter to visit at our house.”

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.