been
weeping in silence before he had appeared, and she had no power left
to throw back her scorn at him. Still weeping, she went up into her
room, and throwing herself on her bed, began, in her misery, to cry
aloud for mercy. Some end must be brought to this, or the burden on
her shoulders would be heavier than she could bear. She had gone to
the window for a moment as she entered the chamber, and had thrown
one glance in despair over towards the Ruden Platz. But the night was
dark, and full of rain, and had he been there she could not have seen
him. There was no one to befriend her. Then she threw herself on the
bed and wept aloud.

She was still lying there when there came a very low tap at the door.
She started up and listened. She had heard no footfall on the stairs,
and it was, she thought, impossible that any one should have come up
without her hearing the steps. Peter Steinmarc creaked whenever he
went along the passages, and neither did her aunt or Tetchen tread
with feet as light as that. She sat up, and then the knock was
repeated,--very low and very clear. She still paused a moment,
resolving that nothing should frighten her,--nothing should startle
her. No change that could come to her would, she thought, be a change
for the worse. She hastened up from off the bed, and stood upon the
floor. Then she gave the answer that is usual to such a summons.
"Come in," she said. She spoke low, but with clear voice, so that her
word might certainly be heard, but not be heard afar. She stood about
ten feet from the door, and when she heard the lock turned, her heart
was beating violently.

The lock was turned, and the door was ajar, but it was not opened.
"Linda," said a soft voice--"Linda, will you speak to me?" Heavens
and earth! It was Ludovic,--Ludovic in her aunt's house,--Ludovic at
her chamber door,--Ludovic there, within the very penetralia of their
abode, while her aunt and Peter Steinmarc were sitting in the chamber
below! But she had resolved that in no event would she be startled.
In making that resolve, had she not almost hoped that this would be
the voice that should greet her?

She could not now again say, "Come in," and the man who had had the
audacity to advance so far, was not bold enough to advance farther,
though invited. She stepped quickly to the door, and, placing her
hand upon the lock, knew not whether to close it against the intruder
or to confront the man. "There can be but a moment, Lind