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?

His lukewarm interest had tempted her from a free, gay life, full of constant excitement, into the oppressive, wearisome monotony of this quiet house, where she was dying of ennui.  How narrow, how petty, how tiresome everything seemed, and what she had bartered for it was the world, the whole wide, wide world.  As the chicken lured the fox, the hope of satisfying the fervent longing of her heart, though even once and for a few brief moments, had brought her into the snare.  But the fire which burned within had not been extinguished.  An icy wind had fanned the flames till they blazed higher and higher, threatening her destruction.

Frau Schurstab had made her attend church and go to the confessional.  But the mass, whose meaning she did not understand, offered no solace to the soul which yearned for love alone.  Besides, it wearied her to remain so long in the same place, and the confession forced the girl, who had never shrunk from honestly expressing what she felt, into deception.  The priest to whom she was taken was a frequent visitor at the Schurstab house, and she would have died ere she would have confided to him the secret of her heart.  Besides, to her the feeling which animated her was