self
upon her, but to be her true friend.

Manna made no answer. At last she turned and kissed the lips of her
startled companion.

"I kiss the lips which have spoken the dreadful words, and all the
rest. Yes, I must experience it, I, myself. I believe that I am now
first consecrated as the sacrifice."

The Mother stood helpless before this enigmatical being, and Manna at
last promised to be quite calm. She seated herself on a bench which
stood under a fir-tree, leaned back against the tree, and gazed up at
the sky.

"Why," she said to herself, "does there now come no voice to us from
the air? Ah, I would so gladly follow it forth over mountain and
valley, to darkness and death."

Manna wept; the Professorin reminded her of her promise to be quite
calm, but the girl declared she could not, it grieved her so to be torn
from this place, which she must leave, since she could not be true in
it. She would be living falsely, because people had not been true to
her.

Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had
known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had
done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying
that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried
to calm and console her unhappy companion.

"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands,
"only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that
the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies--No, that I did
not mean--but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me,
that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I
beg--it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."

The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful
impulses, the girl shook her head, saying:--

"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole
truth, for I am hiding something myself."

The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the
child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her
troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna
gazed wonderingly at her, as she said:--

"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."

"You too?"

"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he
is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will
go home with us."

Manna rose and sat down again, hastil