And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister Anna, even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou rememberest how he fetched in his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was come back to the old home once more, changed as I was. And she would scarce believe him, and scanned me with a cold, distrustful eye, till at length--for I knew her of old as Babette Müller--I said that I was well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for what they had to give. And then she asked--not me, but her husband--why I had kept silent so long, leading all--father, brother, every one that loved me in my own dear home--to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou rememberest?) said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell; that I was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in his old age, as I had been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart for his trust; for were the need for telling all less than it seems to me now I could not speak of my past life. But she, who was my sister-in-law still, held back her welcome, and, for want of that, I did not go to live in Heidelberg as I had planned beforehand, in order to be near my brother Fritz, but contented myself with his promise to be a father to my Ursula when I should die and leave this weary world. That Babette Müller was, as I may say, the cause of all my life's suffering. She was a baker's daughter in Heidelberg--a great beauty, as people said, and, indeed, as I could see for myself I, too--thou sawest my picture--was reckoned a beauty, and I believe I was so. Babette Müller looked upon me as a rival. She liked to be admired, and had no one much to love her. I had several people to love me--thy grandfather, Fritz, the old servant Kätchen, Karl, the head apprentice at the mill--and I feared admiration and notice, and the being stared at as the 'Schöne Müllerin,' whenever I went to make my purchases in Heidelberg.