and
gnaw upon her, till it became a wild and passionate desire. But how
persuade her father to this? Old people cling to places. He was very old
and infirm to change his abode. There was no course but to make him her
confidant; better so than to run away from him; and she felt that would
be the alternative. And now between her uncontrollable desire to fly
and hide, and her invincible aversion to speak out to a man, even to her
father, she vibrated in a suspense full of lively torture. And presently
betwixt these two came in one day the fatal thought, "end all!" Things
foolishly worded are not always foolish; one of poor Catherine's
bugbears, these numerous canals, did sorely tempt this poor fluctuating
girl. She stood on the bank one afternoon, and eyed the calm deep water.
It seemed an image of repose, and she was so harassed. No more trouble.
No more fear of shame. If Gerard had not loved her, I doubt she had
ended there.

As it was, she kneeled by the water side, and prayed fervently to God to
keep such wicked thoughts from her. "Oh! selfish wretch," said she, "to
leave thy father. Oh, wicked wretch, to kill thy child, and make thy
poor Gerard lose all his pain and peril undertaken for thy sight. I will
tell father all, ay, ere this sun shall set." And she went home with
eager haste, lest her good resolution should ooze out ere she got there.

Now, in matters domestic the learned Peter was simple as a child, and
Margaret, from the age of sixteen, had governed the house gently
but absolutely. It was therefore a strange thing in this house, the
faltering, irresolute way in which its young but despotic mistress
addressed that person, who in a domestic sense was less important
than Martin Wittenhaagen, or even than the little girl who came in the
morning and for a pittance washed the vessels, etc., and went home at
night.

"Father, I would speak to thee."

"Speak on, girl."

"Wilt listen to me? And--and--not--and try to excuse my faults?"

"We have all our faults, Margaret, thou no more than the rest of us; but
fewer, unless parental feeling blinds me."

"Alas, no, father: I am a poor foolish girl, that would fain do well,
but have done ill, most ill, most unwisely; and now must bear the shame.
But, father, I love you, with all my faults, and will not you forgive my
folly, and still love your motherless girl?"

"That ye may count on," said Peter cheerfully.

"Oh, well, smile not. For then how can I speak and