Nora stumbled. She would have fallen at the bedside had not a hand, seeming to stretch out of the darkness, caught her and held her. It was Frau von Arnim. How long she had been there Nora could not tell. She felt herself being drawn gently but firmly away. "Go to your room, Nora. Lie down and sleep. I should never have left you. Poor child!" In the midst of her grief the tones of deep, generous pity awoke in Nora’s heart a strange awe and wonder. She did not dare meet Frau von Arnim’s eyes. It was as though she knew she would see there a tragedy greater than her own, a pain too sacred for words of comfort. She crept from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone. "Nora, Nora, what have you done?" The words followed her; they rang in her ears as she flung herself down by her table, burying her face in her arms in a passion of despair. "What have I done?" she asked again and again. And all that was generous and chivalrous in her answered: "She loved you, and you have stolen her one happiness from her. You are a thief. You have done the cruellest, meanest thing of your life." Justice protested: "How could you have known? You did not even know that _you_ loved, or were loved—not till this morning." Then the memory of that morning, that short-lived happiness already crumbled and in ruins, swept over her and bore down the last barriers of her self-control. Poor Nora! She sobbed as only youth can sob face to face with its first great grief, desperately, unrestrainedly, believing that for her at least life and hope were at an end. Another less passionate, less governed by emotion would have reasoned, "It is not your fault. You need not suffer!" Nora only saw that, wittingly or unwittingly, she had helped to heap sorrow upon sorrow for a being who had shown her only kindness and love. She had brought fresh misfortune where she should have brought consolation; she had dared to love where she had no right to love; she had kindled a love in return which could only mean pain—perhaps worse—to those who had given her their whole trust and affection. She had done wrong, and for her there was only one punishment—atonement by renunciation. The grey winter dawn crept into the little bedroom, and Nora still sat at her table. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were wide open and tearless. Only an occasional shudder, a rough, uneven sigh, told of the storm that had passed over her. As the light grew stronger she took up a crumpled letter and read it through, very slowly, as though each word cost her an effort. When she had finished she copied an address on to an envelope and began to write to Robert Arnold. Her hand shook so that she had to tear up the first sheet and begin afresh, and even then the words were scarcely legible. Once her courage almost failed her, but she pulled herself back to her task with a pathetic tightening of the lips.