Rimminger, who had taken his discharge and had married the only daughter of the rich owner of the saw-mill, endeavored, as an old comrade of her deceased husband, to bring about friendly relations between Annette and his household. She kept him at a distance, however, and expressed herself quite forcibly on the subject. She maintained that the young wife always looked like an _ennuied_ duchess, and was constantly trying to show that she had been educated in Paris. My wife said that she disapproved of such personalities. Annette looked at her with surprise and then cast her eyes to the ground. Our days were full of work, our evenings all leisure; and Annette called our attention to something that had never occurred to us. She found it very strange that there were no playing-cards in our house. She could not conceive how, living in the country, we could have overlooked this pastime. But we had never felt the want of it. Annette had a rich, musical voice, and would often read aloud to us. Joseph and his wife would come and listen, while Martella would spin so softly that one could not hear her wheel. Rothfuss would sit on the bench near the stove, and would artfully prevent us from noticing when he fell asleep. When the reading was over, he was always wide-awake, and would insist on being permitted to light the way to Joseph's house for Annette. In her letters to Richard, my wife described our pleasant genial life; and yet, for the first time, Richard did not visit us once during the whole winter. He regretted that he had an extensive work in hand which could not be laid aside, and believed that he was about to finish a novel and important contribution to his favorite science. Annette had procured various fugitive articles of Richard's that had been published in scientific journals, and during the winter had read all of his books, as well as an essay of his on the "Origin of Language." She once said: "I do not consider it vanity when a writer asks me, 'Have you read such and such work of mine?' How can he believe that one faithfully listens to his words if one does not care to become acquainted with the best that he has done--the fruit of the deepest labors of his calmer hours? "I read the Professor's writings, and find much in them that I cannot understand; but he wrote them, and I read them for that reason, if for no other. And then again, I often chance on passages which are quite clear to me." My wife looked at me with a significant glance, and for the first time it occurred to me that it might be possible that Richard was in love with Annette, and for that reason held himself aloof from her. It was towards the end of February. There was grief among our nearest friends. Joseph's father died. On the day that he was buried, Annette received a letter informing her of the illness of her mother-in-law in Paris.