At these words, Henrica raised herself and with a sigh of relief, exclaimed: 

“That does me good!  Thanks, Doctor.  That’s a human voice again.  If you want to please me, Frau Van der Werff keep on talking, no matter what you say.  Please come and sit down here.  With Sister Gonzaga’s hands, your voice, and the doctor’s—­yes, I will say with Doctor Bontius’ candor, it won’t be difficult to recover entirely.”

“Good, good,” murmured the physician.  “Kind Sister Gonzaga’s injuries are not serious and she will stay with you, but when it is time for you to sleep, you will be moved elsewhere.  You can remain here an hour, Frau Van der Werff, but that will be enough for to-day.  I’ll go to your house and send the servant for you with a lantern.”

When the two ladies were left alone together, Maria said: 

“You set great value on the sound of voices; so do I, perhaps more than is desirable.  True, I have never had any serious illness—­”

“This is my first one too,” replied Henrica, “but I know now what it is to be compelled to submit to everything we don’t like, and feel with two-fold keenness everything that is repulsive.  It is better to die than suffer.”

“Your aunt is dead,” said Maria sympathizingly.

“She died early this morning.  We had little in common save the tie of blood.”

“Are your parents no longer living?”

“Only my father; but what of that?”

He will rejoice over your recovery; Doctor Bontius says you will soon be perfectly well.”

“I think so too,” replied Henrica confidently, and then said softly, without heeding Maria’s presence:  “There is one beautiful thing.  When I am well again, I shall once more—­Do you practise music?”

“Yes, dear Fraulein.”

“Not merely as a pastime, but because you feel you cannot live without it?”

“You must keep quiet, Fraulein.  Music;—­yes, I think my life would be far poorer without it than it is.”

“Do you sing?”

“Very seldom here; but when a girl in Delft we sung every day.”

“Of course you were the soprano?”

“Yes, Fraulein.”

“Let the Fraulein drop, and call me Henrica.”

“With all my heart, if you will call me Maria, or Frau Maria.”

“I’ll try.  Don’t you think we could practise many a song together?”

Just as these words were uttered, Sister Gonzaga entered the room, saying that the wife of Receiver General Cornelius had called to ask if she could do anything for the sick lady.

“What does that mean?” asked Henrica angrily.  “I don’t know the woman.”

“She is the mother of Herr Wilhelm, the musician,” said the young wife.

“Oh!” exclaimed Henrica.  “Shall I admit her, Maria?”

The latter shook her head and answered firmly “No, Fraulein Henrica.  It is not good for you to have more than one visitor at this hour, and besides—­”