With that resolution I returned to Vienna. The conditions of my parents were, of course, still the same, and I was very anxious to find work in order to contribute to our livelihood. After looking about for some time, I obtained a situation during the afternoons to look after a boy of nine years of age, whose mother had come over from America and intended to stay in Vienna until January. But bravely as I worked, and much as I tried to feel happy and contented, I was far from being so. The common misery, and more than that the quarrels between my father and my brother which were ever sought for by the latter, affected me greatly, and my scarcely recovered health began to fail again. When I came home in the evening I used to sit down at the small window and stare out in the little courtyard, which was surrounded by a grey, massive wall, at the top of which, looking like a roof, hung a piece of sky. It happened many times that I still sat there after the courtyard wall and sky had long become invisible, and a single lonesome gas-jet timidly streamed forth its cool, pale, trembling rays through the darkness. But when I knew myself alone, I burst into tears--into those tears which, in spite of all their bitterness, soothe and relieve. My mother often looked at me with sorrowful, troubled eyes, but the only answer I made to her silent questions was a woeful little smile. "What could I have told her?" She did not know that another thing tortured me besides the misery of poverty that we all shared. She did not know him, nor would she have understood it all. So I suffered on, and suffered inexpressibly. Now and again I received a letter from him--cool, formal lines, containing sometimes in a light, casual way the question, "What was I going to do?" I read these notes a thousand times, hid them away like costly treasures, and reflected in a helpless, stupid manner on the wonderful endurance and submission of a girl's love. And once in the midst of these reflections I remembered suddenly the little story called "Morgan" which he had given me first to read--remembered the man full of restless desire, the dreamer, the idealist, the conqueror, the despiser, who was by the purity and virtue of a woman brought to acknowledge "love" at last. And whilst I yet pondered over it, my heart grew strangely calm. "Mother," I said the same evening, "would it not be far the best if I went away again? I would, of course, send home my monthly wages, so there would be no difference in the money, and one less to feed." My mother gave me a quick, uncertain glance, and said in a singular, hesitating manner: "You want to go back to Buda-Pesth, don't you?" I felt my heart beat to my very throat, but my eyes, as they looked into hers, did not waver. "No," I answered, "I want to go to England." At first it seemed that she was relieved from some secret fear, then her face looked the same again.