run, repeat the feat, and, if her buoyancy held out, try to whirl around
twice, which she had never failed to accomplish on the low rope, she
could not resist the temptation of casting a hasty glance at Lienhard;
she had never ascended to the steeple without looking at him.

Secure of herself, in the glad conciousness of success, she gazed down.

There sat the illustrious Maximilian, still clapping his hands.
Gratefully, yet with a passionate desire for fresh applause, the resolve
to show him the very best which she could accomplish was strengthened.
But the next moment the blood faded from her slightly rouged cheeks, for
Lienhard--was it possible, was it imaginable?--Lienhard Groland was not
looking up at her! Without moving his hands or vouchsafing her a single
glance, he was gazing into the face of the little wearer of the laurel
wreath, with whom he was eagerly talking. He was under her thrall, body
and soul. Yet it could not be, she could not have seen distinctly. She
must look down once more, to correct the error. She did so, and a
torturing anguish seized her heart. He was chatting with the child as
before; nay, with still more warmth. As he now saw nothing which was
happening upon the rope, he had probably also failed to heed what she had
performed, dared, accomplished, mainly for his sake, at the peril of her
life, on the dizzy height. His wife was still clapping her hands at his
side, but Lienhard, as though deaf and blind to everything else, was
gazing at the page which the miserable little elf was just giving him.
There was certainly writing on it--perhaps a charm which rendered him
subject to her. How else could he have brought himself to overlook so
unkindly herself and her art--the best she had to bestow--for the sake of
this child?

Then, besides the keenest sorrow, a fierce, burning hate took possession