you, I will write to you . . . and till then don't decide on anything . . . wait!'
He pressed Gemma's hand, jumped up from the seat, and to Frau Lenore's great amazement, rushed past her, and raising his hat, muttered something unintelligible—and vanished.
She went up to her daughter.
'Tell me, please. Gemma . . .'
The latter suddenly got up and hugged her. . . . 'Dear mamma, can you wait a little, a tiny bit . . . till to-morrow? Can you? And till to-morrow not a word? . . . Ah! . . .'
She burst into sudden happy tears, incomprehensible to herself. This surprised Frau Lenore, the more as the expression of Gemma's face was far from sorrowful,—rather joyful in fact.
'What is it? ' she asked. 'You never cry . . . and here, all at once . . .'
'Nothing, mamma, never mind! you only wait. We must both wait a little. Don't ask me anything till to-morrow—and let us sort the cherries before the sun has set.'
'But you will be reasonable?'
'Oh, I 'm very reasonable!' Gemma shook her head significantly. She began to make up little bunches of cherries, holding them high above her flushed face. She did not wipe away her tears; they had dried of themselves.
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