Suddenly she heard behind her hurried footsteps on the gravel, such as she was not generally accustomed to hear in the cemetery. Almost shocked, she turned round. Klingemann was standing before her, in an attitude of greeting, holding in his hand his straw hat, which was fixed by a ribbon to his coat button. He bowed deeply to Bertha. "What a strange thing to see you here!" she said. "Not at all, my dear lady, not at all! I saw you from the street; I recognized you by your walk." He spoke in a very loud tone, and Bertha almost involuntarily murmured: "Hush!" A mocking smile at once made its appearance on Klingemann's face. "He won't wake up," he muttered, between his clenched teeth. Bertha was so indignant at this remark that she did not attempt to find an answer, but called Fritz, and was about to depart. Klingemann, however, seized her by the hand. "Stop," he whispered, gazing at the ground. Bertha opened her eyes wide; she could not understand. Suddenly Klingemann looked up from the ground and fixed his eyes on Bertha's. "I love you, you see," he said. Bertha uttered a low cry. Klingemann let go her hand, and added in quite an easy conversational tone: "Perhaps that strikes you as rather odd." "It is unheard of!--unheard of!" Once more she sought to go, and she called Fritz. "Stop! If you leave me alone now, Bertha...." said Klingemann, now in a suppliant tone. Bertha had recovered her senses again. "Don't call me Bertha!" she said, vehemently. "Who gave you the right to do so? I have no wish to say anything further to you ... and here, of all places!" she added, with a downward glance, which, as it were, besought the pardon of the dead. Meanwhile Fritz had come back. Klingemann seemed very disappointed. "My dear lady," he said, following Bertha, who, holding Fritz by the hand, was slowly walking away: "I recognize my mistake. I should have begun differently and not said that which seems now to have frightened you, until I had come to the end of a well-turned speech." Bertha did not look at him, but said, as though she were speaking to herself: "I would not have considered it possible; I thought you were a gentleman...." They were at the cemetery gate. Klingemann looked back again, and in his glance there was something of regret at not having been able to play out his scene at the graveside to a finish. Hat in hand, and twisting the ribbon, by which it was fastened, round his finger, and still keeping by Bertha's side, he went on to say: "All I can do now is to repeat that I love you, that you pursue me in my dreams--in a word, you must be mine!" Bertha came to a standstill again, as if she were terrified. "You will, perhaps, consider my remarks insolent, but let us take things as they are. You"--he made a long pause--"are alone in the world. So am I--" Bertha stared him full in the face.