Ay, and she was afraid of him, in spite of her love. After all, he had committed murder; he could do such things in his rage! Oh! if in a fit of passion she too--. But she would defend herself; with the strength of despair she would cling to life. Had she not herself felt strong enough to kill--? No, no. Not she, surely. She was too timid. And, besides, she loved him so dearly; she adored him, and soon she would be his wife! Still, she was afraid. The Sundays were no longer days so sweet as to leave a treasure of memory in which she could live through the week. On the contrary, Eva now dreaded Sunday; she awaited it with terror.... Friday--Saturday.... Here it was again! There was Frank, she heard his step. And still she was afraid, and still she loved him. * * * * * They were sitting thus one evening, hand in hand, and silent. It was still early in the afternoon, but a storm threatened, and the grey gloom peered in through the thick lace curtains. Eva, depressed by the heavy weather, thirsting for some comfort, suddenly, in spite of her fears, threw herself on Frank's breast. "I can no longer endure this weather!" she wailed, almost moaning. "This dark, cloudy sky always oppresses me of late. I want to go to Italy, Frank, to the sun, the sun!" He pressed her to him but did not speak. She began to weep softly. "Say something, Frank," she sobbed. "Yes; I do not like this heavy sky," he said, dully. Again there was silence; she tried to control herself, clinging closely to him. Then she went on: "I cannot bear up against it; I believe since that rainy day which overtook us in Molde, so long ago now--five years and more--you remember--when we had met three or four times, a few days before, at Dronthjem?" She smiled and kissed his hand, remembering her youth: she was old now. "You recollect, we got home to the hotel drenched. I believe I have been ill ever since that day, that I took a bad cold which settled in me, though at first I did not feel it and said nothing about it, but which has been undermining me ever since, all this long time--" He made no reply; he, too, had a vague recollection of something tragically painful at Molde, but he could no longer remember what. But she suddenly burst into a violent fit of weeping. "Oh, Frank, speak! Say something," she besought him, in despair at his silence, feeling her terror grow greater in the stillness, and her heart throbbing wildly in spite of herself. He passed his hand over his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he slowly replied: "Yes, Eva--for I have something to say to you. Just this very day." "What is that?" she asked, looking up through her tears, in surprise at his strange tone. "I want to speak to you very seriously, Eva. Will you listen?" "Yes." "I want to ask you something--to ask you if you would not rather be free. To ask if you would not be glad that I should release you?"