no sin.  She had not summoned it.  It had taken possession of her against her will and harmed no one except herself, not even the wife who was so sure of her husband.  How could she have presumed to dispute with her the possession of Herr Lienhard’s love?  Yet it seemed an insult that Frau Katharina had no fear that she could menace her happiness.  Could the former know that Kuni would have been content with so little—­a tender impulse of his heart, a kiss, a hasty embrace?  That would do the other no injury.  In the circles whence she had been brought no one grudged another such things.  How little, she thought, would have been taken from the wealthy Katharina by the trifling gift which would have restored to her happiness and peace.  The fact that Lienhard, though he never failed to notice her, would not understand, and always maintained the same pleasant, aristocratic reserve of manner, she sometimes attributed to fear, sometimes to cruelty, sometimes to arrogance; she would not believe that he saw in her only a person otherwise indifferent to him, whom he wished to accustom to the mode of life which he and his friends believed to be the right path, pleasing in the sight of God.  Love, feminine vanity, the need of approval, her own pride—­all opposed this view.

When the last snow of winter had melted, and the spring sunshine of April was unfolding the green leafage and opening bright flowers in the meadows, the hedges, the woods, and the gardens, she found the new home which she had entered during the frosts of February, and whose solid walls excluded every breath of air, more and more unendurable.  A gnawing feeling of homesickness for the free out-of-door life, the wandering from place to place, the careless, untrammelled people to whom she belonged, took possession of her.  She felt as though everything which surrounded her was too small, the house, the apartments, her own chamber, nay, her very clothing.  Only the hope of the first token that Lienhard was not so cold and unconquerable as he seemed, that she would at last constrain him to pass the barrier which separated them, still detained her.

Then came the day when, to avoid answering his question whether she needed anything, she had gone into the garden.  Before reaching the children, who were playing among the crocuses and tulips, she had said to herself that she must leave this house—­it was foolish, nay mad, to continue to cherish the hope which had brought her hither.  She would suffer keenly in tearing it from her heart, but a wild delight seized her at the thought that this imprisonment would soon be over, that she would be free once more, entirely her own mistress, released from every restraint and consideration.  How rapturous was the idea that she would soon be roving through the fields and woods again with gay, reckless companions!  Was there anything more pleasurable than to forget herself, and devote her whole soul to the execution of some difficult and dangerous feat, to attract a thousand eyes by her bewitching grace, and, sustained by her enthusiasm, force a thousand hearts to throb anxiously and give loud applause as she flew over the rope?