"'It is no great festival,' said she; 'only two or three people are coming; Anna Maria will have it so, and he too. But just for that reason it should be right beautiful.'
"I went into the girl's sleeping-room and stepped up to the child's little bed. He was slumbering sweetly, without a suspicion that his mother had left him forever. But be quiet, you poor little fellow; you still have a mother, a true, earnest one--Anna Maria. I stood in the recess of the window and listened to the breathing of the boy.
"After a while the door opened softly and Anna Maria entered. She did not see me, but I saw that she had been weeping. She knelt down to the child and kissed it, and then stood with folded hands before the bed a long time.
"Then footsteps sounded in the next room. 'Anna Maria!' called Stürmer. She flew to the door. 'Edwin!' I heard her say jubilantly. They whispered together a long time, and when I came in they were standing at the window.
"'Is that a nuptial eve?' I asked, in jest. 'In the dark thus, and without any ringing of bells and music?'
"They both laughed. But then the church-bell began its evening peal, and from the next room came in the clear sound of a child's voice: 'Mamma, mamma, Anna Maria!' Then she threw her arms about my neck and kissed me. 'And do you call that without ringing of bells and music?' she asked happily. Then she brought in the child, and they sat together on the sofa, with it between them, and spoke of Klaus, of past days, of the future, and of their happiness.
"It was Anna Maria who first mentioned Susanna's name. 'It is so long since she has written,' she said. 'I have received no answer to two letters. Can she be coming, Edwin? She knows that to-morrow is to be our wedding-day.'
"'Susanna?' I replied. 'No, Anna Maria, she is _not_ coming!'
"'Have you news?' they asked, both together.
"'She is married, Anna Maria, and is no longer in Europe.'
"Then she bent over and kissed the baby, who had gone to sleep on her lap. 'Edwin,' she whispered, in a strangely faltering voice, 'this is the wedding present from my only brother!'"
So ended the manuscript. It was the third evening of the reading. The young man laid the sheets on the table and looked in the agitated face of his wife. "My mother died in America," he said. "Mother Anna Maria tied a strip of crape about my arm one day, and cried, and kissed me so often; we were living right here in Bütze then; and then we went up to Aunt Rosamond, and she cried too, and kissed me. They told me that my mother was dead, but I did not understand them, because I saw Anna Maria before me, and I did not know or care to know any mother but her."