The young girl received this access of courtesy and interest in silence. She still hoped that Henriette might be induced by Doctor Bruck to visit Dresden. Hitherto he had made no attempt to do so, apparently for fear lest the invalid’s irritability might be aroused in opposition; for just now she was irritable and excitable to the utmost. His visits were paid every morning at the same hour. The boudoirs of the two younger sisters were adjoining, and the door between them was almost always open. Kitty could hear his soothing tones, his gentle voice, and now and then a laugh so merry that the invalid could not but join in it. His ringing, musical laugh had a peculiar charm for Kitty: it seemed to come directly from a heart the youthful freshness of which was yet undimmed; it was a proof to her that he felt his future secure, that he was not in reality affected by the thousand trials which at present assailed him.
She herself seldom spoke with him. Sitting at her work-table in her room, she could see him walk to and fro at times; but, inseparable though the sisters usually were, Henriette always withdrew to her own room shortly before the time for his visit, and Kitty took care never to thwart her evident wish by taking part in the conversation either by word or by look.
She frequently saw the dean’s widow, however, in the castle mill. The old lady paid Susie a daily visit, now that she lived so near, carrying her strengthening soups and jellies, and spending hours in cheering the poor old housekeeper, who was much depressed at being still unable to scrub or spin or even knit.
Those were happy twilight-hours in the old room at the mill. The widow would relate stories of her youth, when she had been the pastor’s wife in her happy village home. She told of the sad, tearful time when she took her dear Leo, the doctor, then a boy only eight years old, from his home, where his parents had died within a few weeks of each other; and whatever else she talked of or dwelt upon, she was sure to return to the theme of which she never tired,—her delight in this nephew, who was, as she said, the very sunshine of her life.
Kitty used to accompany the old lady on her way home along the river-bank as far as the bridge across the stream. The little, wrinkled hand lay confidingly upon the girl’s arm, and the two walked along as if they belonged to each other, and must together cross the bridge and enter the "Doctor’s house" in its peaceful retirement among the trees in the twilight. The evenings were still cold, and from the dark forest the floating mists would moisten both hair and dress. The friendly roof and smoking chimney were very attractive. The lamp was usually shining brightly through the windows of the corner room, clearly illuminating the bridge. The old lady could not have missed her way even on a dark night. She would enter; the window-shutters would be closed; and there, in the cosy corner by the stove,—Kitty could see it all in her mind’s eye,—where the faded green rug lay and the high-backed arm-chair stood, would be arranged the table for the pleasant evening meal, and his aunt would sit knitting until the doctor had finished his writing.