so?" asked the brother and sister.

"Because I shall not go to the parson to-morrow, but shall wait until
after Sunday. I am going to your church on that day, and till then I
can't tell whether I wish to belong to it or not."

This prudent resolve met with Aaron's hearty approbation.

* * * * *

It was not long before Anna and Blanka became the warmest of friends.
They shared the same room together, and the newcomer was allowed to look
over all her companion's books, drawings,--for she, like her twin
brother, was an artist,--keepsakes, and treasures of every sort. One day
she came upon something that made her start back as if stung by an
adder. It was a little portrait in an oval frame, a man's face, highly
idealised by the artist, and yet strikingly true to life. Evidently the
hand of love had depicted those lineaments. The eyes were bright, the
lips wore a proud smile, the whole expression was one to charm the
beholder. It was Benjamin Vajdar's likeness, and no ghost could have
given Blanka a greater start. It was as if her most hated foe had
pursued her into paradise itself, to spoil her pleasure there.

Anna noticed her friend's involuntary movement, and she sighed deeply.
"Did Manasseh tell you about him?" she asked.

"I know him well," replied Blanka, and she could not control an accent
of abhorrence in her voice as she spoke.

Anna clasped her companion's hand in both her own. "I beg you," she
entreated, in tones at once sad and tender, "if you know aught ill of
him, do not tell it me."

"You still love him?" asked the other, in compassion.

The young girl sank down on the edge of her bed and hid her face in her
hands. "He has killed me," she sobbed; "he has done much that a man, an
honourable man, ought not to do; and yet I cannot hate him. We may say,
'I loved you yesterday, to-morrow I shall hate you,' and we may act as
if we meant it; but we cannot really _feel_ it."

"My poor Anna!" was all Blanka could say.

"I know he is dishonourable," admitted the girl; "there are women here
that report everything to me, thinking thus to cure me. But what does it
avail? A sick person is not to be made well with words. How many a woman
has waited for the return of an absent lover who may perhaps have gone
around the world, or to the north pole, and who yet cannot get beyond
the reach of her love and yearning!"

"If it were only the earth's diameter that lay between you!" murmure