From Adrian and Bessie the conversation turned upon their own childhood.
Henrica had grown up among her father's boon companions, amid the
clinking of glasses and hunting-shouts, Maria in a grave burgher
household, and what they told each other seemed like tidings from a
strange world.

"It was easy for you to become the tall, white lily you are now," said
Henrica, "but I must thank the saints, that I came off as well as I did,
for we really grew up like weeds, and if I hadn't had a taste for singing
and the family priest hadn't been such an admirable musician, I might
stand before you in a still worse guise. When will the doctor let me
hear you sing?"

"Next week; but you musn't expect too much. You have too high an opinion
of me. Remember the proverb about still waters. Here in the depths it
often looks far less peaceful, than you probably suppose."

"But you have learned to keep the surface calm when it storms; I haven't.
A strange stillness has stolen over me here. Whether I owe it to illness
or to the atmosphere that pervades this house, I can't tell, but how long
will it last? My soul used to be like the sea, when the hissing waves
plunge into black gulfs, the seagulls scream, and the fishermen's wives
pray on the shore. Now the sea is calm. Don't be too much frightened,
if it begins to rage again."

At these words Maria clasped the excited girl's hands, saying
beseechingly:

"Be quiet, be quiet, Henrica. You must think only of your recovery now.