He strode to the door and looked out. "Where the devil are you, doctor?" he shouted to Ludwig, who had retired to the glass door looking out upon the terrace. And when Johanna held out both hands to him as he approached her, the Freiherr added, "You have him to thank, child. It is he who has brought me here, and explained all your folly and the rest of it. Now don't cry. We've had enough of tears and long faces." "Mine are tears of joy," said Johanna. "But sit down and tell me. It seems like a dream!--you here, grandpapa." And again her eyes filled with tears. The old Freiherr, too, in spite of himself, was too much moved to speak for a few moments. Whilst Ludwig, with a sensation of bitterness, for which he took himself to task, went to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness, the old Herr placed a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself in it, planted both hands upon his knees, and looked about him. "And this is the little cage where you have been hiding all this time!" he said, at last, and his tone was rather melancholy than bantering. Johanna hastened to change his mood. "Do you not like it, grandpapa?" she asked, smiling. "Look out of the window; that pretty little terrace belongs to it." The Freiherr shook his head. "It is all too small and confined for you," he growled. "Well, it's over now. To-morrow morning early,--I promised Thekla that I would stay here overnight,--but to-morrow morning early we're going back to Dönninghausen. One thing I must, however, insist upon: there must never be any more concealments between us. You can and must tell me everything. Promise me this." He held out his hand to Johanna, and his eyes shone as she laid hers in it. "Yes, grandpapa," she replied. "I will, and I will begin now. To go to Dönninghausen is, as you know, the dearest wish of my heart; but I cannot do it unless I may carry back with me two things,--my little sister and my work----" The Freiherr held his grand-daughter's little, cold, trembling hand in a tight clasp. His eyes gleamed beneath their bushy eyebrows, as though he would read her very soul; but she returned his steadfast gaze, and gradually his look grew gentler. "Your sister," he began, when suddenly the door was flung open, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Oh, Hanna dear!" she cried. Then, seeing two strangers in the twilight, she stopped short. "And is this she?" asked the Freiherr. "Come here, little one; give me your hand." "Come," said Johanna. "This is my dear grandfather of whom I have so often told you." Lisbeth obeyed. Her fair curls had escaped from beneath her felt hat, and were hanging about her happy, rosy face, whence large, dark, serious eyes gazed steadily at the Freiherr. One look sufficed. The beautiful child took the old man's heart by storm. Beauty had always been an inheritance of his race.