"No; she forbade it; I can't tell why. Her indisposition is her own fault; she has been taking one of those wild rides again, and does not want to confess it. Indeed, dear Johann, you must forbid her riding so much." "Nonsense!" cried the Freiherr. "What has riding to do with it? You women could not exist without your headaches. Johanna is following the fashion. But what the deuce is the matter with you, lad?" he blurted out, turning to Otto, half laughing, half vexed. "Letting every dish pass you untasted, and looking like----have you a headache out of pure sympathy? Don't drive me altogether wild!" Otto tried to control himself; but Aunt Thekla's suspicions had been aroused and would not be laid to rest. After breakfast, while the Freiherr was reading the papers, she drew Otto into one of the window-recesses, and said, with decision, "Something has occurred between Johanna and you. Tell me what it is. You know how I love you both." Otto would have refused to satisfy her anxiety; but when he looked into his aunt's kind, pleading eyes, he remembered how often he had as a boy appealed to her, and never in vain, for aid, and it struck him that he could find no better intercessor. "You are right, my dear aunt," he replied, kissing her hand. "I will make my confession to you, hard though it is. You are my last, my sole hope,--and you will help me, I know, and not reproach me. Heaven knows I do that enough myself!" And he told her, briefly, and with as much frankness as he could command, the history of his betrothal, and of to-day's wretched scene in the forest. The old lady listened with the most painful and contradictory sensations. Her integrity, her sense of honour, were outraged by the treachery of Otto's and Magelone's conduct towards Johanna, and yet her warm, kindly heart could not forbear pitying Otto in the midst of his complaints and self-reproaches, and her stern loyalty to the Dönninghausens impressed upon her the conviction that now, as at all other times, the first consideration was the preservation of the honour of the name. She was quite ready, at Otto's request, to undertake the task of reconciliation, and went up to see Johanna. The curtains were still closed, but Johanna was no longer lying down. With hands clasped in front of her, she was restlessly walking to and fro. When the door opened, she turned and came towards it. "My poor, dear child," Aunt Thekla began, but paused in dismay, as, even in the dim light, she distinguished the expression of Johanna's countenance. Not a trace was to be seen of weakness or of need of sympathy: the pale face was as if carved in marble. Nothing that the old lady had prepared to say would fit this occasion. "Are you better?" she asked at last, to put an end to the distressing silence. "Yes, dear aunt; do not trouble yourself about me," Johanna replied, with forced composure.