Even in March Frau Sophia thanked Lienhard for the new inmate of her household, who far exceeded her expectations.  In April her praise became still warmer, only she regretted that Kuni’s pretty face was losing its fresh colour and her well-formed figure its roundness.  She was sorry, too, that she so often seemed lost in thought, and appeared less merry while playing with the children.

Lienhard and his young wife excused the girl’s manner.  Comfortable as she was now, she was still a prisoned bird.  It would be unnatural, nay, suspicious, if she did not sometimes long for the old freedom and her former companions.  She would also remember at times the applause of the multitude.  The well-known Loni, her former employer, had besought him to win her back to his company, complaining loudly of her loss, because it was difficult to replace her with an equally skilful young artist.  It was now evident how mistaken the juggler had been when he asserted that Kuni, who was born among vagrants, would never live in a respectable family.  He, Lienhard, had great pleasure in knowing that the girl, on the road to ruin, had been saved by Frau Sophia’s goodness.

Lienhard’s father had died shortly after Kuni entered her new home.  Every impulse to love dalliance, she felt, must shrink before this great sorrow.  The idea sustained her hopes.  She could not expect him to seek her again until the first bitterness of grief for the loss of this beloved relative had passed away.  She could wait, and she succeeded in doing so patiently.

But week after week went by and there was no change in his conduct.  Then a great anxiety overpowered her, and this did not escape his notice; for one day, while his young wife hung on his arm and added a few brief words of sympathy, he asked Kuni if she was ill or if she needed anything; but she answered curtly in the negative and hurried into the garden, where the children, with merry shouts, were helping the gardener to free the beds of crocuses and budding tulips from the pine boughs which had protected them from the frosts of winter.

Another sleepless night followed this incident.  It was useless to deceive herself.  She might as well mistake black for white as to believe that Lienhard cared for her.  To no one save his fair young wife would he grant even the smallest ray of the love of which he was doubtless capable, and in which she beheld the sun that dispensed life and light.  She had learned this, for he had often met her in Frau Sophia’s house since his father’s funeral.  The child of the highway had never been taught to conceal her feelings and maintain timid reserve.  Her eyes had told him eloquently enough, first her deep sympathy, and afterward the emotions which so passionately stirred her heart.  Had the feelings which her glances were intended to reveal passed merely for the ardent gratitude of an impassioned soul?

Gratitude!  For what?