"Fortunately, my dear boy, I can say that I have nothing to reproach myself with, and can look into the faces of my children without shame. The man for whom I cared was unhappily married--just as I was. We have never seen each other again--not even...." There was a pause in which the voice of the beautiful speaker broke, while her eyes were veiled in the tears that she was making an effort to repress. Johannes' heart was melting with sympathy. "Not even," she resumed, "when I was free. My husband made this the opportunity for taking away from me my two children. For years I lived separated from them, even in poverty and privation, with only one old servant who, notwithstanding his low wages, would not desert me. "During that time, my boy,--you may be surprised to know it,--I longed not only for my children, but even for him who had caused me so much suffering. The mutual parentage of dearly loved children is a wonderful bond that is never completely severed. I would have forgiven him all if he had only called me back." A silence, in which Johannes' heart, already so inclined to admiration, surrendered itself wholly. The lady continued: "I was recalled, but alas! too late. They telegraphed me that he was ill, and wished to speak with me. When I arrived, he lay raving, and never recovered his reason. For three days and nights I sat beside him, almost without sleep, to catch anything he might have to say to me. But he raved and raved, incessantly, uttering nothing but nonsense and inarticulate sounds. He certainly knew me; but just the same, he remained hard and cold--sometimes taunting, sometimes angry and abusive. Never shall I forget that night...." "With my own two children I found an older girl whom I had never seen. They told me she was a child of a former union. I had never even heard of her. Where the mother was, no one could say. It was thought she was not living. The girl was then about fifteen years of age, beautiful, with a brilliant color, a fine profile, and flowing black hair." "More beautiful than Frieda or Olga?" asked Johannes. The countess smiled. "Quite another kind of beauty. Much more gloomy and melancholy. When I went to her, she sat crying, and would pay no attention to me. 'Every one dislikes me,' she kept saying. And she repeated this all day long. She did nothing but walk back and forth, crying and lamenting. Only with the greatest trouble could she be induced to rise in the morning, and be dressed, and in the evening, to go to sleep. Her mind was diseased, and little by little it has grown worse. My husband died, and I remained with the three daughters, caring for them as well as I could." Countess Dolores studied for a while her beautiful, gem-adorned hands, and then went on, with frequent pauses. "Heléne knew very little concerning her mother; but she steadfastly maintained that she was living, and would return, and also ... that her father and mother had been married...."