[Illustration] CHAPTER VI. EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE. It was May, and the whole land smiled under the consciousness of thraldom removed–of winter finally passed away. The old house was beautiful in the sunshine; its grey walls set in a frame of trees, all bursting into the first exquisite spring foliage–of hyacinths and primroses, late daffodils and early wallflowers, all nodding their heads in the borders and on the flower-beds, and singing, most plainly to be heard by those who understand their language– ‘Der Lenz ist gekommen, Der Winter ist aus!’ Sara, after breakfast this sunshiny morning, threw a shawl around her shoulders, and went out into the garden to read a letter. As she paced about the sheltered, sunny south terrace, it was plain to see that she was at least restored to bodily health. There was almost all the splendid beauty of former days, yet somewhat paler and more refined. But the face was perceptibly changed. It was an older, sadder face–grander, but, as it looked now, far more sorrowful; for there was not the inner contentment which gives the outward expression of peace. The eyes, which now and then were raised to survey the smiling spring landscape, were not filled with a deep, secure content. They were troubled, clouded, dissatisfied. But presently she became absorbed in her letter. We may look over her shoulder and read. It was one of those English letters, whose advent Ellen did not love. ‘MY DEAR SARA, ‘At last the day comes round on which I may write to you. No doubt you were perfectly right to say I must not write oftener than once a fortnight, and I am sure, by doing so, you saved yourself from being fearfully bored; but it makes me wild with impatience sometimes. It is such a comfort to feel as if I were almost speaking to you–to feel that in a few days you will be holding this that I have written in your hand, and that for a time at least you will be _obliged_ to think of me.