She tried to laugh, but the hurried tone, the sudden colour that had rushed to the usually pale cheeks betrayed to Nora the painful impression she had caused. They hurried her to a decision that had already presented itself to her before as something inevitable, something she must do if she were to be just and loyal. Time after time she had shrunk back as before some hard sacrifice, and now she felt she could shrink back no longer.
"_Gnädige Frau_, I wanted to tell you—if you don’t mind, I will give up the riding. After to-day I don’t think I will go again. I think it better not."
It was now Nora’s turn to crimson with embarrassment. She was herself hardly clear as to her reasons. The night before she had played the second act of _Tristan und Isolde_ with Wolff von Arnim, and when it was at an end they had found Hildegarde lying in a sleep from which they could not at first awaken her, so close was it allied to another and graver state. And Wolff von Arnim had had a strange misery in his eyes. Such was the only explanation she knew of. She knew, too, that she could not give it. Nevertheless, she held her ground desperately.
"Because I believe it hurts you, and if not you, at least Hildegarde," she said at last. "She cries sometimes when she thinks I shall not find out, and though she never owns to it, I know it is because I enjoy things she used to have and cannot have. And, besides, it isn’t fair, it isn’t right. You have both been so good to me. You have treated me just as though I were a daughter of the house, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I have only caused Hildegarde pain, and that is what I do not want to do."
Frau von Arnim took her by the hand and drew her closer. A faint, rather whimsical smile played about the fine mouth.
"Dear Nora, the fact that you are the daughter of the house proves that you deserve the best we can give you. Neither Hildegarde nor I are given to adopting relations promiscuously. And as for the other matter, anybody suffering as Hildegarde does is bound to have her moments of bitterness and regret—perhaps envy. Thank God they are not many. In the first months I have known the sight of a child playing in the street bring the tears to her eyes, and it is only natural that you, with your health and strength, should remind her of what she has lost. And there is another thing"—her manner became grave, almost emphatic—"a useless sacrifice is no sacrifice at all; it is simply flying in the face of a Providence who has given to one happiness, another sorrow. It will not make Hildegarde happy if you stay at home—on the contrary, she will blame herself—and you will deprive my nephew of a pleasure. There! After that little lecture you must have your breakfast and read your letters. You have only half an hour before you start, and my nephew suffers from military punctuality in its most aggravated form."