throbbed with true love for
him?" asked her friend in amazement, and looking keenly into her eyes as
though she expected her to say No. And when Ann cried: "How can you
even ask such a question?" My aunt went on: "Then you did love him? And
Margery tells me that you and she have made some strange compact to make
other folks happy. Two young maids who dare to think they can play at
being God Almighty! And the Magister, I conceive, was to be the first
to whom you proposed to be a willing sacrifice, let it cost you what it
may? That is how matters stand?"

Ann was not now so ready to nod assent, and my aunt murmured something I
could not hear, as she was wont to do when something rubbed her against
the grain; then she said with emphasis: "But child, my poor child, love,
and wounded pride, and heart-ache have turned your heart and good sense.
I am an old woman, and I thank God can see more clearly. It is real,
true love, pleasing to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, aye and to the
merciful Virgin and all the saints who protect you, which has bound
you and Herdegen together from your infancy. He, though faithless and a
sinner, still bears his love in his heart and you have not been able
to root yours up and cast it out. He has done his worst, and in doing
it--remember his letter--in doing it, I say, has poisoned his own young
life already. In that Babel called Paris he does but reel from one
pleasure to another. But how long can that last? Do you not see, as I
see, that the day must come when, sickened and loathing all this folly
he will deem himself the most wretched soul on earth, and look about
him for the firm shore as a sailor does who is tossed about in a leaking
ship at sea? Then will he call to mind the past, his childhood and
youth, his pure love and yours. Then you yourself, you, Ann, will be
the island haven for which he will long. Then--aye, child, it is so, you
will be the only creature that may help him; and if you really crave
to create happiness--if your love is as true as--not so long ago--you
declared it to be, on your knees before me and with scalding tears, he,
and not Master Peter must be the first on whom you should carry out
your day-dreams--for I know not what other name to give to such vain
imaginings."

At this Ann sobbed aloud and wrung her hands, crying: "But he cast me
off, sold me for gold and silver. Can I, whom he has flung into the
dust, seek to go after him? Would it beseem an honest and sha