istance, and in an instant the door was closed, and
she was seated on the old sofa with her aunt beside her.

"Have you seen Herr Molk?" demanded Madame Staubach.

"Yes; I have seen him."

"And what has he said to you?" Then Linda was silent. "You told me
that you would seek his counsel; and that you would act as he might
advise you."

"No; I did not say that."

"Linda!"

"I did not promise. I made no promise."

"Linda, surely you did promise. When I asked you whether you would do
as he might bid you, you said that you would be ruled by him. Then,
knowing that he is wise, and of repute in the city, I let you go.
Linda, was it not so?" Linda could not remember what words had in
truth been spoken between them. She did remember that in her anxiety
to go forth, thinking it to be impossible that the burgomaster should
ask her to marry a man old enough to be her father, she had in some
way assented to her aunt's proposition. But yet she thought that she
had made no definite promise that she would marry the man she hated.
She did not believe that she would absolutely have promised that
under any possible circumstances she would do so. She could not,
however, answer her aunt's question; so she continued to sob, and
endeavoured again to hide her face. "Did you tell the man everything,
my child?" demanded Madame Staubach.

"Yes, I did."

"And what has he said to you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know! Linda, that cannot be true. It is not yet half an
hour since, and you do not know what Herr Molk said to you? Did you
tell him of my wish about our friend Peter?"

"Yes, I did."

"And did you tell him of your foolish fancy for that wicked young
man?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what did he say?"

Linda was still silent. It was almost impossible for her to tell her
aunt what the man had said to her. She could not bring herself to
tell the story of what had passed in the panelled room. Had Madame
Staubach been in any way different from what she was,--had she been
at all less stubborn, less hard, less reliant on the efficacy of her
religious convictions to carry her over all obstacles,--she would
have understood something of the sufferings of the poor girl with
whom she was dealing. But with her the only idea present to her mind
was the absolute necessity of saving Linda from the wrath to come by
breaking her spirit in regard to things of this world, and crushing
her into atoms here, that those atoms might be remoulde