So she remained under the linden, and Dr. Mathys did not put her newly
won virtue of patience, which he prized so highly, to too severe a trial.

Fran Lamperi had watched for him, and hastily announced that his litter
had already passed the Reichart pottery.

Now Barbara did not turn her eyes from the garden door through which the
man she ardently longed to see usually came, and when it opened and
the stout, broad-shouldered leech, with his peaked doctor's hat, long
staff, and fine linen kerchief in his right hand advanced toward her, she
motioned to the nun and the maid to leave them, and pressed her left hand
upon her heart, for her emotion at the sight of him resembled the feeling
of the prisoner who expects the paper with which the judge enters his
cell to contain his death-warrant.

She thought she perceived her own in the physician's slow, almost
lagging step. His gait was always measured; but if he had had good news
to bring, he would have approached more rapidly. A sign, a gesture, a
shout would have informed her that he was bearing something cheering.

But there was nothing of this kind.

He did not raise his hat until he stood directly in front of her,
and while mopping his broad, clamp brow and plump cheeks with his
handkerchief, she read in his features the confirmation of her worst
fears.

Now in his grave voice, which sounded still deeper than usual, he uttered
a curt "Well, it can't be helped," and shrugged his shoulders
sorrowfully.