"I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like to spare you needless strife." "Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living." "Needless quarrels simply embitter the life," he resumed, mechanically. "See, Judith, how I love you." "I know it, and because I know it I will be still, and leave it to you as to how and when you will speak with my father. Of course, if he asks me, I must tell him the truth. You must surely realize it is hard for me; and since you love me, you must not expect to meet me in secret. If you only knew how I felt yesterday and to-day before I came. I knew it was not right, and I felt the shame burning my cheeks, and the bright daylight hurt me. Still, I came--I had to. I was drawn as if with chains; for I love you, I love you!" As she stood before him, her glowing, face drooping over her heaving bosom, he lost what little self-possession he had, and his conscience was deadened by the rushing of blood in his ears. He pressed her to him, covering head, face, and clothes with kisses, till after a few minutes she tore herself away. "I have tolerated it," she said, breathlessly, "because it is the last time before your formal proposal. Farewell!" "May I not accompany you?" he begged, endeavoring to pass his arm about her shoulders. She shook her head in silence, and hurried away. Once again she looked back. He stood as she had left him, gazing after her with ravening eyes. She waved her handkerchief, and hastened on. As she passed into the street which led through the town to her home, she hesitated. It seemed impossible to go along under everybody's eyes; it seemed as if every one must see the kisses that still burned on her cheeks. She slipped into a foot-path that led along in the rear of the houses, sat down on a bench, and gave full vent to the tears that rained down her face. This soothed her, and she went on her way, entering the house by the back door. Her father's carriage was standing in the court-yard, so he had probably returned. The old servant, who had carried her in her arms, met her in the hall. Poor old Sarah was very white, and trembled in every limb. "There you are at last!" she almost screamed, wringing her hands. "O God! merciful God! why did you let me live to see this come to pass?" Judith, too, grew white as the wall, against which she leaned. But the weakness passed away in a moment, and she asked: "Where is my father?" "In the reception-room. But you cannot see him yet. The burgomaster is there, and is telling him the whole story. I have just heard it from the magistrate's cook. Oh! child, what--" "You will let me know when he is alone," interrupted Judith; and she went to her room.