urely to say of a widow that she's to
be married to an honest man is not to say harm."

"But it is not true, Tetchen; and you should not say it." Then
Tetchen departed quite unconvinced, and Linda began to reflect how
far her life would be changed for the better or for the worse, if
Tetchen's tidings should ever be made true. But, as has been said
before, Tetchen's tidings were never to be made true.

But Madame Staubach did not resent the offer made to her. When Peter
Steinmarc told her that she was a lone woman, left without guidance
or protection, she allowed the fact, admitting that guidance would be
good for her. When he went on to say that Linda also was in need of
protection, she admitted that also. "She is in sore need," Madame
Staubach said, "the poor thoughtless child." And when Herr Steinmarc
spoke of her pecuniary condition, reminding the widow that were she
left without the lodger the two women could hardly keep the old
family roof over their head, Madame Staubach acknowledged it all, and
perhaps went very suddenly to the true point by expressing an opinion
that everything would be much better arranged if the house were the
property of Herr Steinmarc himself. "It isn't good that women should
own houses," said Madame Staubach; "it should be enough for them
that they are permitted to use them." Then Herr Steinmarc went on
to explain that if the widow would consent to become his wife, he
thought he could so settle things that for their lives, at any rate,
the house should be in his care and management. But the widow would
not consent even to speak of such an arrangement as possible. She
spoke a word, with a tear in her eye, of the human lord and master
who had lived with her for two happy years, and said another word
with some mystical allusion to a heavenly husband; and after that
Herr Steinmarc felt that he could not plead his cause further with
any hope of success. "But why should not Linda be your wife?" said
Madame Staubach, as her disappointed suitor was about to retire.

The idea had never struck the man's mind before, and now, when the
suggestion was made to him, he was for a while stricken dumb. Why
should he not marry Linda Tressel, the niece; gay, pretty, young,
sweet as youth and prettiness and gaiety could make her, a girl than
whom there was none prettier, none sweeter, in all Nuremberg--and
the real owner, too, of the house in which he lived,--instead of the
aunt, who was neither gay, nor swe