She had tried to work, to put the finishing touches to the "Reaping Girl," but her hand had been hopeless, powerless, as in her first attempts, and she had recollected, not without a shudder, that she had vowed not to finish the group. The vow had been--contrary to her anticipations--a forerunner of happiness. What was to her this miserable image of jealous revenge? How worthless appeared to her all this extensive apparatus of her work--this lofty room, these pedestals, these mallets, chisels, modelling-tools; these casts of arms, hands, feet; these heads, these busts from the originals of old masters; her own sketches, attempts, completed works--childish strivings with bandaged eyes for a happiness that was not to be found here--that was only to be found in love, the sole, true talent of woman--her talent, of which she felt that it was unique, that it outshone everything that had till then been felt as love and called love! She could not bear her room this morning; even her studio seemed too small. She stepped into the garden, and wandered along the paths, between the shrubs, under the trees, from whose rustling branches drops of the night's rain fell upon her. How often had she hated the bright sunshine, the blue sky, that had seemed to mock at her anguish! She looked in triumph now up into the grey clouds that passed, dark and heavy, above her head. What need had she of sun and light--she in whose heart was nothing but light and brightness? The drizzling rain that now began to fall would only serve to cool the internal fire that threatened to consume her. Driving clouds, drizzling rain, rustling trees, whispering shrubs, even the damp, black earth--all was wonderfully beautiful in the reflection of her love! She went in again and seated herself in the place where he had kissed her, and dreamed again that happy dream, while near at hand was hammering and knocking, and, between whiles, chattering and whispering, and the rain rattled against the tall window--dreamed that her dream had the power to draw him to her, who now opened the door softly and--it was only a dream--came towards her with the tender smile on his dear lips and the beautiful light in his dark eyes, till suddenly the smile died on his lips, and only the eyes still gleamed, but no longer with tender light, but with the gloomy, melancholy depths of her father's eyes. And now they were not only her father's eyes; it was more and more himself--her father. Good God! She had started out of her doze; her limbs trembled; she sank back in the chair, and drew herself up again. She had seen at once in the glance of his eyes, in the letter which he held in his hand--seen with the first half-waking glance why he had come. She said so, in half-awake, wild, passionate words. He had bent his head, but he did not contradict her; he answered nothing but "My poor child!" "I am your child no longer if you do this to me." "I fear you have never been so in your heart."