The children were shy. Especially Frida. She was the eldest, and she felt how forced the friendly inquiries were. She made her curtsey as she always did, quickly and pertly like a water wagtail bobbing up and down, but her high girl's voice did not sound so clear to-day; the tone was more subdued, almost depressed. And she did not laugh. Artur copied his sister, and Hans Flebbe copied the girl too, for he always considered all she did worthy of imitation. The two boys stood there, poor little wretches, staring fixedly at the points of their boots and sniffing, as they dared not take out their handkerchiefs and use them. Kate was in despair. She could not understand that her Wolfgang could find pleasure in having such playfellows. Moreover, he was exactly like the others that day, taciturn and awkward. Even when they commenced to look for the eggs, the children set about it very stupidly; she had positively to push them to the hiding-place. At last, tired out and almost irritable, Kate went indoors; she would only stop there a short time. No, she could not stand it any longer, always to have to talk and talk to the children and still not get any answer out of them. But hardly had she reached her room, when she pricked up her ears; a cry reached her from outside that was as clear, as piercing and triumphant as a swallow's when on the wing. Children shouted like that when they were thoroughly happy--oh, she knew that from former times, from the time before Woelfchen had come. Then she had often listened to such shouts full of longing. Oh--_she_ had only to go, then the children were merry, then Wolfgang was merry. She felt very bitter. She had gone to the window and was looking out into the garden, with her forehead pressed against the pane. How they ran, jumped, hopped, laughed. As though they had been set free. They were trying to catch each other. Frida darted behind the bushes like a weasel, came into sight again with a sharp piercing laugh, and then disappeared once more with a shriek. Wolfgang set off after her wildly. He took no notice of the beds in which the flowers were growing, his mother's delight; he jumped into the middle of them, caring little whether he broke the hyacinths or the tulips, his one thought being to prevent Frida escaping. And the two others copied him. Oh, how they trampled on the beds now. All three boys were after the girl. The fair plait flew up and down in the sunshine like a golden cord, now here, now there. At last Wolfgang seized hold of it with a triumphant shout. Frida endeavoured to get it away, but the boy held it fast. Then she turned round as quick as lightning, and, laughing all over her face, grasped him firmly round the body with both hands.