alking. Peter
went up into his own room to put away his hat and umbrella, and
then, if ever, would have been the moment for Linda to have told her
story. But she did not tell it then. Her aunt was leaning back in
her accustomed chair, with her eyes closed, as was often her wont,
and Linda knew that her thoughts were far away, wandering in another
world, of which she was ever thinking, living in a dream of bliss
with singing angels,--but not all happy, not all sure, because of the
danger that must intervene. Linda could not break in, at such a time
as this, with her story of the young man and his wild leap from the
boat.

And certainly she would not tell her story before Peter Steinmarc. It
should go untold to her dying day before she would whisper a word of
it in his presence. When they sat round the table, the aunt was very
kind in her manner to Linda. She had asked after her headache, as
though nothing doubting the fact of the ailment; and when Linda had
said that she had been able to rise almost as soon as her aunt had
left the house, Madame Staubach expressed no displeasure. When the
dinner was over, Peter was allowed to light his pipe, and Madame
Staubach either slept or appeared to sleep. Linda seated herself
in the furthest corner of the room, and kept her eyes fixed upon a
book. Peter sat and smoked with his eyes closed, and his great big
shoes stuck out before him. In this way they remained for an hour.
Then Peter got up, and expressed his intention of going out for a
stroll in the Nonnen Garten. Now the Nonnen Garten was close to
the house,--to be reached by a bridge across the river, not fifty
yards from Jacob Heisse's door. Would Linda go with him? But Linda
declined.

"You had better, my dear," said Madame Staubach, seeming to awake
from her sleep. "The air will do you good."

"Do, Linda," said Peter; and then he intended to be very gracious in
what he added. "I will not say a word to tease you, but just take you
out, and bring you back again."

"I am sure, it being the Sabbath, he would say nothing of his hopes
to-day," said Madame Staubach.

"Not a word," said Peter, lifting up one hand in token of his
positive assurance.

But, even so assured, Linda would not go with him, and the town-clerk
went off alone. Now, again, had come the time in which Linda could
tell the tale. It must certainly be told now or never. Were she to
tell it now she could easily explain why she had been silent so
long; but