of the day, and no more." Tetchen
could not have heard it all, or she would hardly have talked of the
compliments of the day. When Ludovic had told Linda that she was the
fairest girl in all Nuremberg, and that he never could be happy, not
for an hour, unless he might hope to call her his own, even Tetchen,
whose notions about young men were not over strict, could not have
taken such words as simply meaning the compliments of the day.
But there was Linda sick in bed, and this was Sunday morning, and
nothing further could be said or done on the instant. And, moreover,
such love-making as had taken place did in truth seem to have been
perpetrated altogether on the side of the young man. Therefore it was
that Madame Staubach spoke with a gentle voice as she prescribed to
Linda some pill or potion that might probably be of service, and then
went forth to her church.

Madame Staubach's prayers on a Sunday morning were a long affair. She
usually left the house a little after ten, and did not return till
past two. Soon after she was gone, on the present occasion, Tetchen
came up to Linda's room, and expressed her own desire to go to the
Frauenkirche,--for Tetchen was a Roman Catholic. "That is, if you
mean to get up, miss, I'll go," said Tetchen. Linda, turning in her
bed, thought that her head would be better now that her aunt was
gone, and promised that she would get up. In half an hour she was
alone in the kitchen down-stairs, and Tetchen had started to the
Frauenkirche,--or to whatever other place was more agreeable to her
for the occupation of her Sunday morning.

It was by no means an uncommon occurrence that Linda should be
left alone in the house on some part of the Sunday, and she would
naturally have seated herself with a book at the parlour window as
soon as she had completed what little there might be to be done in
the kitchen. But on this occasion there came upon her a feeling of
desolateness as she thought of her present condition. Not only was
she alone now, but she must be alone for ever. She had no friend
left. Her aunt was estranged from her. Peter Steinmarc was her
bitterest enemy. And she did not dare even to think of Ludovic
Valcarm. She had sauntered now into the parlour, and, as she was
telling herself that she did not dare to think of the young man, she
looked across the river, and there he was standing on the water's
edge.

She retreated back in the room,--so far back that it was impossible
that