ime more and more nervous and excited. It seemed that
something about her sister was tantalising her, drawing her on, worrying
her, making her lose sleep.

Her restlessness became so great that she could no longer sit at the
quilting frame; in fact, it was no longer possible for her to do any
kind of exacting work. Something drew her out of the house, and once she
was away, something forthwith drew her back home. Her heart beat
violently when she was alone, and yet, if her father or brother or
Eleanore came in, she could not stand their presence, and took refuge
in her own room. If it was hot, she closed the windows; if it was cold,
she opened them and leaned out. If it was quiet, she was filled with
fear; if it was not quiet, she longed for peace. She could not say her
prayers; she had none to say; her mind and soul were muted, muffled,
dumb. She felt the hours following each other in regular order as
something terrible; she wanted to skip over years, just as one might
skip over pages of a tiresome book. And when the worst came to the
worst, and she did not know what on earth to do, she ran to the Church
of Our Lady, threw herself prostrate before the high altar, buried her
face, and remained perfectly motionless until her soul had found greater
peace.

Something made her go to Eleanore; she did not want to do it, but she
could not help it. She was naturally vigilant, and she wished to ward
off misfortune if possible. She was obsessed with an uncanny feeling, a
gruesome curiosity. She dogged her sister's steps in secret. One time
she saw from a distance that Eleanore had started off with a man who had
been waiting for her. She could not move from the spot; Eleanore caught
sight of her.

The next day Eleanore came to her voluntarily, and told her quite
candidly of her relation to Eberhard von Auffenberg. Concerning what she
knew of Eberhard's fate she said nothing; she merely indicated that he
was extremely unhappy. She told her how she had met him the previous
winter on the Dutzendteich at the ice carnival, how he ran after her,
how glad she was to show him a little friendship, and how much he needed
friendship.

Gertrude was silent for a long while. Finally she said, with a voice so
deep that it seemed to have burst from being too full: "You two either
must get married, or you must not see each other any more. What you are
doing is a crime."

"A crime?" said Eleanore astonished, "how so?"

"Ask your conscience