ink that the acerbities of religion are intended altogether for
their own sex. That men ought to be grateful to them who will deny?
Such women seem to think that Heaven will pardon that hardness of
heart which it has created in man, and which the affairs of the world
seem almost to require; but that it will extend no such forgiveness
to the feminine creation. It may be necessary that a man should be
stiff-necked, self-willed, eager on the world, perhaps even covetous
and given to worldly lusts. But for a woman, it behoves her to crush
herself, so that she may be at all points submissive, self-denying,
and much-suffering. She should be used to thorns in the flesh, and to
thorns in the spirit too. Whatever may be the thing she wants, that
thing she should not have. And if it be so that, in her feminine
weakness, she be not able to deny herself, there should be those
around her to do the denial for her. Let her crush herself as it
becomes a poor female to do, or let there be some other female to
crush her if she lack the strength, the purity, and the religious
fervour which such self-crushing requires. Poor Linda Tressel had not
much taste for crushing herself, but Providence had supplied her with
one who had always been willing to do that work for her. And yet the
aunt had ever dearly loved her niece, and dearly loved her now in
these days of our story. If your eye offend you, shall you not pluck
it out? After a sort Madame Staubach was plucking out her own eye
when she led her niece such a life of torment as will be described in
these pages.

When Linda was told one day by Tetchen the old servant that there was
a marriage on foot between Herr Steinmarc and aunt Charlotte, Linda
expressed her disbelief in very strong terms. When Tetchen produced
many arguments to show why it should be so, and put aside as of no
avail all the reasons given by Linda to show that such a marriage
could hardly be intended, Linda was still incredulous. "You do not
know aunt Charlotte, Tetchen;--not as I do." said Linda.

"I've lived in the same house with her for fourteen years," said
Tetchen, angrily.

"And yet you do not know her. I am sure she will not marry Peter
Steinmarc. She will never marry anybody. She does not think of such
things."

"Pooh!" said Tetchen; "all women think of them. Their heads are
always together, and Peter talks as though he meant to be master of
the house, and he tells her everything about Ludovic. I heard them