"Most assuredly I do believe it!" she interrupted him, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. "The longing for some little corner of the earth in which I could plant my flowers was there long before necessity forced me to labour; and then, when the crash came both in my outward and my inner life, the talent which I possessed supplied the place of home and friends and love, or rather, let me say, restored them to me; for all of these that I had ever possessed came back to me in the creations of my imagination." Ludwig sat with downcast eyes, silent, his forehead contracted in a frown. "Do not look so stern!" Johanna said. "I am my father's daughter; and if I have inherited only an atom of his grand artistic gift, I must receive it as the one talent intrusted to me, and trade with it as did the servant who was faithful in a few things." Ludwig knew and loved the low, trembling tone in which the last words were spoken. And her eyes, too, shone as in their old youthful days. With a gentler expression he rejoined, "We'll say no more of that; it really is in your blood. Opposition is useless. Only one question: What did the Dönninghausens say to it?" "They knew nothing about it," replied Johanna. "Sometimes, since my book has been so well received, I have thought it might have pleased them." Ludwig did not appear to have heard the last part of her reply. "Your writing, then, was not the cause of your break with Otto?" he asked. "No; Otto did not love me,--he never loved me,--I had proof of that," she replied. "Of course I tell this only to you. Grandpapa never would forgive Otto." "Otto, Otto, always Otto!" thought Ludwig, as he rose. "I must go," he said; but when Johanna took the hand he held out to her, he seemed absolutely unable to leave her. "Come with me to Lindenbad," he begged. "That would be our best Christmas." She shook her head. "Scarcely for your sister," she replied. "And what would become of Lisbeth? I cannot leave her alone, and if I could venture to take her such a journey in winter, she would feel strange and lonely at Lindenbad, and would be still less welcome than I to Mathilde, who is not fond of children." Ludwig took up his hat. "Excuses of all kinds; I yield!" he said, in an irritated tone. "Farewell. _Au revoir!_" And, with one more cordial clasp of her hand, he was gone. "Write to me!" Johanna begged. But the door closed quickly, and she could not be sure that he had heard the words. He certainly was in no hurry to fulfil her request. The Holy-tide came and went, bringing her no word from him. Johanna took herself to task for continuing to watch and to hope, and for her inability to rid herself of the memories which seeing him again had aroused within her. Wherever she was--in church, in the Rupprecht family circle, at her writing-table--Lindenbad and Dönninghausen were always present to her.