You are right. At that time the pastor and we could scarcely keep him. [_Counts once more the afore-mentioned persons_.] Then here Mr. Möller; and there your godfather, my cousin Mr. Wilkens; then I myself here; there Robert and you; finally, at the foot, Andrew and William. How the time passes! If I think back to my engagement day! Then I was not as happy as I am today. MARY. Mother, I wonder whether every girl that is to become a bride feels as I do? SOPHY. Not every one has such good cause to be glad as you have. MARY. But is it gladness that I feel? I am so depressed, mother, so-- SOPHY. Of course. You are like the flower on which clings a dewdrop. It hangs its head, and yet the dew is no burden. MARY. I feel as if it were wrong of me to leave my father, even if it is to go with Robert. SOPHY. The Bible says, "A woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her husband."--But my case was quite different from yours. Your father was a stately man, no longer quite young, but tall and straight like a pine. At that time his beard was still black as coal. Many a girl that would gladly have married him set her cap at him; that I knew. But to me he seemed too serious, too severe. He took everything so seriously, and he cared nothing for amusements. It was no easy matter to accommodate myself to him. I never had to worry about the means of subsistence; and if I should say that he ever treated me harshly, I should be telling a lie; even if he pretended to be harsh. MARY. And that was all you had expected? Was that all. SOPHY. As if the good Lord could grant everything that is dreamt of by the heart of a girl who herself does not know what she desires! But here comes Robert. We will be quite merry, so that no gloomy thoughts will come to him. SCENE II _Enter_ ROBERT. ROBERT. Good morning, mother dear. Good morning, Mary. SOPHY. Good morning, Mr. Bridegroom-to-be. ROBERT. How glad I am to see you so cheerful. But you Mary? You are sad, Mary? And I am so joyful, so over-joyful. The whole morning I have been in the forest. Where the bushes glistened brightest with the dew, there I penetrated, so that the moist branches should strike my heated face. There I threw myself down on the grass. But I could not stay anywhere. It seemed that nothing could relieve me but weeping aloud. And you--at other times as blithe and gay as a deer--you are sad? Sad on this day? SOPHY. She surely is glad, dear Robert. But you have known her ever since she was a little child; when others proclaim their happiness, she hides hers in silence. MARY. No, Robert. Sad I surely am not. I only have a feeling of solemnity; it has been upon me the whole morning. Wherever I go, it seems to me as though I were in church. And-- ROBERT. And what? MARY.