do you complete yours. What is sin? The dead have no claims on the
living; the living alone have rights."

While distracted by grief and doubts, she suddenly saw, arising through
the darkness, the vision described in the New Testament, of Satan and
the angel contending for the possession of the body of Moses.

"I'm not a corpse!" exclaimed she suddenly. "There are neither angels
nor devils. It is all false! In song and story, and from generation to
generation, they've been handing down all sorts of fables, just as they
do with children whom they lull to sleep in the dark.

"Day has dawned. I can draw the curtain aside, and the whole world of
light is mine. Are there not thousands who have erred as I have, and
who still live happily?"

She felt as if buried alive in the earth. Fancy ever transported her to
that one grave. She rushed to the window.

"Light! I must have light!"

She raised the curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room.
She sprang back, the curtain fell and she again lay in darkness.

But she soon heard a voice that went to her heart. Colonel Bronnen had
come from the capital to pay the last honors to Eberhard. He begged
Irma--his powerful voice was thick with emotion--to permit him to mourn
with her for the dead.

All her blood seemed to flow back to her heart. She opened the door
and, through the darkness, held out her hand to her friend. He pressed
it to his lips, and she heard the strong man weep. Suddenly, the
thought flashed upon her that this man could save her, and that she
could serve him, and look up to him. But how, could she dare?

"I thank you," said she, at last. "May it ever make you happy to know
that you've been kind to the departed and to myself--"

Her voice faltered; she could say no more.

Bronnen departed, leaving her in the dark.

Irma was again alone.

The last stay left her was broken. Had she imagined that Bronnen had
picked up fragments of a torn letter which he had found on the road,
and that they were now in his pocket, she would have cried out for very
shame.

One idea constantly possessed her. What good would it do her to see the
sun rise so many thousand times more? Every eye would make the writing
stand out more clearly, and certain words had become undying torments
to her. Father--daughter! Who would banish these words from the
language, so that he might nevermore hear them, nevermore read them?

Her ideas seemed to move in an unfathomable void