Rothe Ross on that evening, and would
not be home till past ten. Tetchen was out, and Linda had gone down
to take her supper with her aunt. The meal had been eaten almost
in silence, for Linda was very sad, and Madame Staubach herself
was beginning to feel that the task before her was almost too much
for her strength. Had it not been that she was carried on by the
conviction that things stern and hard and cruel would in the long-run
be comforting to the soul, she would have given way. But she was a
woman not prone to give way when she thought that the soul's welfare
was concerned. She had seen the shrinking, retreating horror with
which Linda had almost involuntarily contrived to keep her distance
from her future husband. She had listened to the girl's voice, and
knew that there had been not one light-hearted tone from it since
that consent had been wrung from the sufferer by the vehemence of her
own bedside prayers. She was aware that Linda from day to day was
becoming thinner and thinner, paler and still paler. But she knew, or
thought that she knew, that it was God's will; and so she went on. It
was not a happy time even for Madame Staubach, but it was a time in
which to Linda it seemed that hell had come to her beforehand with
all its terrors.

There was, however, one thing certain to her yet. She would never put
her hand into that of Peter Steinmarc in God's house after such a
fashion that any priest should be able to say that they two were man
and wife in the sight of God.

On this Saturday evening Tetchen was out, as was the habit with her
on alternate Saturday evenings. On such occasions Linda would usually
do what household work was necessary in the kitchen, preparatory
to the coming Sabbath. But on this evening Madame Staubach herself
was employed in the kitchen, as Linda was not considered to be well
enough to perform the task. Linda was sitting alone, between the fire
and the window, with no work in her hand, with no book before her,
thinking of her fate, when there came upon the panes of the window
sundry small, sharp, quickly-repeated rappings, as though gravel
had been thrown upon them. She knew at once that the noise was not
accidental, and jumped up on her feet. If it was some mode of escape,
let it be what it might, she would accept it. She jumped up, and with
short hurried steps placed herself close to the window. The quick,
sharp, little blows upon the glass were heard again, and then there
was a