HEFFTERDINGT.

What is there in the world which draws you away again after an hour?

MAGDA.

I will tell you. I felt it the first minute I came. The paternal authority already stretches its net over me again, and the yoke stands ready beneath which I must bow.

HEFFTERDINGT.

But there is neither yoke nor net here. Do not fear shadows. Here are only wide-opened arms which wait to clasp the lost daughter to the empty breast.

MAGDA.

Oh, I beg you, none of that. I do not intend to furnish a pendant to the prodigal son. If I came back as a daughter, as a lost daughter, I should not hold my head up before you as I do; I should grovel in the dust in full consciousness of all my sins. [_With growing excitement_.] And that I will not do--that I cannot do--for I am what I am, and I cannot be another. [_Sadly_.] And therefore I have no home--therefore I must go forth again--therefore--

_Enter_ Mrs. Schwartze.

HEFFTERDINGT.

For Heaven's sake, hush!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Excuse me, Pastor, I only wanted to know about supper. [_Imploringly to_ Magda, _who sits turned away with her hands before her face_.] We happen to have a warm joint to-day. You know, Pastor, the gentlemen of the card-club were to be with us. Now, Magda, whether you're going away or not, can't you eat a mouthful in your father's house?

HEFFTERDINGT.

Don't ask now, my dear madam.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Oh, if I'm interrupting--I only thought--

HEFFTERDINGT.

Later.

MARIE.

[_Appearing in the doorway_.] Will she stay? [Magda _shrinks at the sound of the voice_.]

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

'Sh! [_Exit_ Mrs. Schwartze _and_ Marie.

HEFFTERDINGT.

You have no home, Miss Magda? Did you hear the old mother beseeching and alluring with the best that she has, though it's only a poor dish?

Did you hear Marie's voice trembling with tears in the fear that I should not prevail? They trust me too much; they think I only need to speak the word. They don't suspect how helpless I stand here before you. Look! Behind that door are three people in a fever of sorrow and love. If you cross this threshold, you rob each of them of so much life. And you have no home?

MAGDA.

If I have one, it is not here.

HEFFTERDINGT.

[_Embarra.s.sed_.] Perhaps-- Nevertheless you should not go. Only a few days,--just not to take away the idea that you belong here. So much you owe to them!

MAGDA.

[_Sadly_.] I owe nothing now to any one here.

HEFFTERDINGT.

No? Really nothing? Then I must tell you about a certain day,--eleven years ago now. I was called into this house in haste, for the Colonel was dying. When I came, he lay there stiff and motionless, his face drawn and white; one eye was already closed, in the other still flickered a little life. He tried to speak, but his lips only quivered and mumbled.

MAGDA.

What had happened?

HEFFTERDINGT.

What had happened? I will tell you. He had just received a letter in which his eldest daughter bade him farewell.

MAGDA.

My G.o.d!

HEFFTERDINGT.

It was a long time before he recovered from the apoplectic stroke. Only a trembling in the right arm, which you perhaps have noticed, now remains.

MAGDA.

That is indeed a debt I owe.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Ah, if that were all, Miss Magda! Pardon me, I call you by the name I used long ago. It springs to my lips.

MAGDA.

Call me what you like. Go on.

HEFFTERDINGT.

The necessary result followed. When he received his discharge,--he will not believe in the cause, don't speak to him of it,--then his mind broke down.

MAGDA.