It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and street; she heard nothing except the plashing of the rain.  Maria could not expect her husband until the beat of horses’ hoofs was audible; she was not even gazing into the distance—­only dreamily watching the street and the ceaseless rain.

The room had been thoughtfully heated for the drenched man, whose return was expected, but Maria felt the cold air through the chinks in the windows.  She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky room, it seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must always remain, as if no more bright days could ever come.

Minutes passed before she remembered for what purpose she had entered the room and began to pass the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the piles of papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment.  At last she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his journey.

The portrait of her husband’s first wife hung above the weapons and sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from touching it.

To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been happy.  She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the pleasant face.

Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy.  How much more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?

This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.

Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once that the eyes moved.  A chill ran through her veins, she began to be afraid, yet could not leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with dilated eyes.

She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and quicker, and her eyes seemed to grow keener.

A shadow rested on the dead Eva’s high forehead.  Had the artist intended to depict some oppressive anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that had settled on the colors?

She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her foot on the seat, pushing her dress away in doing so.  Blushing, as if other eyes than the painted ones were gazing down upon her, she drew it over the white stocking, then with a rapid movement mounted the seat.  She could now look directly into the eyes of the portrait.  The cloth in Maria’s trembling hand passed over Eva’s brow, and wiped the shadow from the rosy flesh.  She now blew the dust from the frame and canvas, and perceived the signature of the artist to whom the picture owed its origin.  “Artjen of Leyden,” he called himself, and his careful hand had finished even the unimportant parts of the work with minute accuracy.  She well knew the silver chain with the blue turquoises, that rested on the plump neck.  Peter had given it to her as a wedding present, and she had worn it to the altar; but the little diamond cross suspended from the middle she had never seen.  The gold buckle at Eva’s belt had belonged to her since her last birthday—­it was very badly bent, and the dull points would scarcely pierce the thick ribbon.