h tide.

The wind whistled terribly through the rigging of the great ships,
and the moorings and fenders creaked and grated.

Along the gallery of Jacob Worse's warehouse, a slender white form
groped its way down the steps, and stood on the ground floor, which
seemed to rock every time the sea rolled in underneath.

Mustering all her strength, she contrived to draw aside so much of
the hanging door of the warehouse that she could squeeze herself
through the opening.

Supporting herself with one hand, as she leant over the dark water,
she repeated once more her oath before she let go:

"I promise and swear to love you faithfully in life and death, and
never to marry any other person, Lauritz--my own Lauritz."

Saying this, she loosed her hold, a heavy sea swept her under a
lighter, and she sank.

Later in the evening, some seafaring folk, who had been on board a
vessel to look after its moorings, saw something white, which surged
up and down by the stone steps at the market quay.

From the quay the news spread over the whole town, even more quickly
than such news generally travels; for all were in such a state of
consternation and excitement, owing to the long-continued tempest,
that the report of a corpse seemed to chime in with the general
feeling, and the tidings swept over the town as if borne upon the
wings of the tempest.

Children who were going to bed heard the servant girls in the kitchen
wringing their hands, and crying "God preserve us!" but when they
inquired of their mothers what it was all about, they were told that
it was something with which small children could have no concern,
and, believing that it must be something very terrible, they crept
trembling under the blankets.

Many versions of the story were circulated. Some said that she had
left her bed in a fit of madness--she was ill of a nervous
fever--whilst Madame Torvestad was at the meeting and the servant
girl away.

Some only muttered and shook their heads, and these latter gradually
formed the majority.

Others thought that it was another instance of what went on among the
Haugians.

Henrietta Torvestad had committed suicide; of this no doubts were
entertained. Perhaps her mother had tried to force her to marry Erik
Pontoppidan. Yes, the overbearing Madame Torvestad was blamed, she
and the Haugians, the gloomy, deceitful Haugians who grudged any joy,
either to themselves or others. It was they who had caused the death
of the p