urse, hurried into the parlour, that she might
watch him. In another half minute he was down over the little wall,
into the river, and in three strides had gained the punt. The water,
in truth, on that side was not much over his knees; but Linda thought
he must be very wet. Then she looked round, to see if there were any
eyes watching him. As far as she could see, there were no eyes.

Linda, when she was alone, was by no means contented with herself;
and yet there was a sort of joy at her heart which she could not
explain to herself, and of which, being keenly alive to it, she felt
in great dread. What could be more wicked, more full of sin, than
receiving, on a Sunday morning, a clandestine visit from a young man,
and such a young man as Ludovic Valcarm? Her aunt had often spoken
to her, with fear and trembling, of the mode of life in which their
neighbours opposite lived. The daughters of Jacob Heisse were allowed
to dance, and talk, and flirt, and, according to Madame Staubach,
were living in fearful peril. For how much would such a man as Jacob
Heisse, who thought of nothing but working hard, in order that his
four girls might always have fine dresses,--for how much would he be
called upon to answer in the last day? Of what comfort would it be
to him then that his girls, in this foolish vain world, had hovered
about him, bringing him his pipe and slippers, filling his glass
stoup for him, and kissing his forehead as they stood over his
easy-chair in the evening? Jacob Heisse and his daughters had ever
been used as an example of worldly living by Madame Staubach. But
none of Jacob Heisse's girls would ever have done such a thing as
this. They flirted, indeed; but they did it openly, under their
father's nose. And Linda had often heard the old man joke with his
daughters about their lovers. Could Linda joke with any one touching
this visit from Ludovic Valcarm?

And yet there was something in it that was a joy to her,--a joy which
she could not define. Since her aunt had been so cruel to her, and
since Peter had appeared before her as her suitor, she had told
herself that she had no friend. Heretofore she had acknowledged Peter
as her friend, in spite of his creaking shoes and objectionable hat.
There was old custom in his favour, and he had not been unkind to
her as an inmate of the same house with him. Her aunt she had loved
dearly; but now her aunt's cruelty was so great that she shuddered
as she thought of it. S