The following day Cornelia awoke with the first glimmer of dawn. The
vague expectation excited by _Heinrich's_ ambiguous words had kept her
long awake, and now drove her from her couch earlier than usual. She
made a hasty toilet and hurried out into the autumn morning. It was
damp and gloomy; a thick fog made earth and sky vanish in a gray cloud;
the withered leaves fell from the wet bushes with a low rustle as her
garments brushed against them. She did not heed it. Spring was in her
heart, and the warm life in her breast seemed to glow through the
chilling scene around her. Mechanically she entered the path she was
most accustomed to follow. It led to the churchyard. She walked through
the long rows of graves, apparently the only living creature in the
broad place of death; but as she approached the well she suddenly saw,
at a few paces' distance, two grave-diggers lowering a little coffin
into the earth. She approached and asked, "Whose child is this you are
burying so entirely alone?"
"It is illegitimate," said one of the men, dryly.