“Oh, Fraulein, it is a letter!” said she, in great excitement, “and there is to be an answer—­”

Then she hesitated.  But the good-sense of the child told her she ought to go.

“I will wait outside, Fraulein.  Will you ring when you have written the answer?”

When Natalie opened the letter she was outwardly quite calm—­a little pale, perhaps; but as she read it her heart beat fast.  And it was her heart that instantly dictated the answer to this brief and simple appeal: 

“My Natalie,—­It is your father’s wish that I should not see you.  Is it your wish also?  There is something I would like to say to you.”

It was her heart that answered.  She rose directly.  She never thought twice, or even once, about any wish, or menace, or possible consequence.  She went straight to her desk, and with a shaking hand wrote these lines: 

“My Own,—­Come to me now, at any time—­when you please.  Am I not yours?

  Natalie.”

Despite herself, she had to pause, to steady her hand—­and because her heart was beating so fast that she felt choked—­before she could properly address the envelope.  Then she carried the letter to Anneli, who she knew was waiting outside.  That done, she shut herself in again, to give herself time to think, though in truth she could scarcely think at all.  For all sorts of emotions were struggling for the mastery of her—­joy and a proud resolve distinctly predominant.  It was done, and she would abide by it.  She was not given to fear.

But she tried hard to think.  At last her lover was coming to her; he would ask her what she was prepared to do:  what would she answer?

Then, again, the joy of the thought that she was about to see him drove every other consideration out of her mind.  How soon might he be here?  Hurriedly she went to a jar of flowers on the table, chose some scarlet geraniums, and turned to a mirror.  Her haste did not avail much, for her fingers were still trembling:  but that was the color he had said, on one occasion, suited her best.  She had not been wearing flowers in her hair of late.

From time to time, for a second or so, some thought of her father intervened.  But then her father had only enjoined her to dismiss forever the hope of her marrying the man to whom she had given her heart and her life:  that could not prevent her loving him, and seeing him, and telling him that her love was his.  She wished the geraniums were less rose-red and more scarlet in hue.  It was the scarlet he had approved of—­that evening that he and she the little Polish lady had dined together.