vanity, the need of approval, her own pride--all opposed this view.

When the last snow of winter had melted, and the spring sunshine of April
was unfolding the green leafage and opening bright flowers in the
meadows, the hedges, the woods, and the gardens, she found the new home
which she had entered during the frosts of February, and whose solid
walls excluded every breath of air, more and more unendurable. A gnawing
feeling of homesickness for the free out-of-door life, the wandering from
place to place, the careless, untrammelled people to whom she belonged,
took possession of her. She felt as though everything which surrounded
her was too small, the house, the apartments, her own chamber, nay, her
very clothing. Only the hope of the first token that Lienhard was not so
cold and unconquerable as he seemed, that she would at last constrain him
to pass the barrier which separated them, still detained her.

Then came the day when, to avoid answering his question whether she
needed anything, she had gone into the garden. Before reaching the
children, who were playing among the crocuses and tulips, she had said
to herself that she must leave this house--it was foolish, nay mad, to
continue to cherish the hope which had brought her hither. She would
suffer keenly in tearing it from her heart, but a wild delight seized her
at the thought that this imprisonment would soon be over, that she would
be free once more, entirely her own mistress, released from every
restraint and consideration. How rapturous was the idea that she would
soon be roving through the fields and woods again with gay, reckless
companions! Was there anything more pleasurable than to forget herself,
and devote her whole soul to the execution of some difficult and
dangerous feat, to attract a thousand eyes by her bewitching grace, and,
sustained by her enthusiasm, force a thousand hearts to throb anxiously
and give loud applause as she flew over the rope?