with you . . . because I feel that you do love me . . . a little . . . and that you are not angry with me . . . and that you forgive me. . . ."
"I have nothing to forgive, Marianne. . . ."
"Yes, you have, yes, you have, Auntie. . . . Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Tell me you forgive me! . . ."
"How do you spend your time here, dear?"
"Quietly, Auntie, but I'm quite satisfied. I try to be of some little use . . . to Mamma . . . and others. I have some poor people whom I look after. But I can't do much, I haven't much. . . . In the old days, you know, Mamma used to do a lot of good . . . in between all her rush and worry; and I try to do a little now. But it is hard work . . . and rather thankless work. . . . However, that's all that's left: to live a little for others . . . and do a little for others. But sometimes . . . sometimes I find it too much for me. . . ."
"Poor Marianne!"
"Yes, sometimes it's too much for me. I am so young still . . . and I feel as if I had done with everything, for good and all! . . ."
"No, dear, no. . . . If you only knew! You're a child still, Marianne . . . And life, real life, will come later . . ."
"It will never come for me, Auntie. Oh, forgive me! I feel ashamed of myself. I don't want to talk like this . . . but with you, just with you, because
