The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen:

"She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting."

Tears came into the kind old eyes.

Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out
his hand.

"Catharina," he said gently.

She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him.

Then the sad face smiled a welcome.

He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to
examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time. He
asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen
her, and she said:

"Waiting. I am always waiting."

He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an
avalanche the eve before their wedding morning. That was four years ago,
but Catharina was still waiting. Allitsen remembered her as a bright
young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests:
a bright gracious presence. No one could cook trout as she could; many a
dish of trout had she served up for him. And now she sat in the sunshine,
knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up. That was her life.