She rose next morning, very pale and haggard. Rue tried to console her. But no Protestant consolation could touch those inner chords of her ingrained nature. Strange to say, all those she loved and trusted most were of the alien creed; and in these her deepest doubts and fears and troubles they could give her no comfort. About eleven o’clock came a knock at the door. Linnet sat in the breakfast-room; she heard a sound of feet on the staircase hard by—two men being shown up, as she guessed, into the drawing-room. The servant brought down two cards. Linnet looked at them with a sinking heart. One was Andreas Hausberger’s; the other bore the name of her London confessor, a German-speaking priest of the pro-Cathedral at Kensington. She passed them to Rue with a sigh. “I may go up with you?” Rue cried, for she longed to protect her. But Linnet shrank back. “Oh no, dear,” she answered, shaking her head very solemnly. “How I wish you could come! You could sit and hold my hand. It would do me so much good. But this is a visit of religion. My priest wouldn’t like it.” She went upstairs with a bold step, but with a throbbing heart. Rue followed her anxiously, and took a chair on the landing. What happened next inside, she couldn’t hear in full, but undertones of it came wafted to her through the door indistinctly. There was a blur of sounds, among which Rue could distinguish Andreas Hausberger’s cold tone, not angry, indeed, but rather low and conciliatory; the priest’s sharp German voice, now inquiring, now chiding, now hortative, now minatory; and Linnet’s trembling speech, at first defiant, then penitently apologetic, at last awestruck and terrified. Rue leant forward to listen. She could just distinguish the note, but not the words. Linnet was speaking now very earnestly and solemnly. Then came a pause, and the priest spoke next—exhorting, threatening, denouncing, in fierce German gutturals. His voice was like the voice of the angry Church, reproving the sins of the flesh, the pride of the eyes, the lusts of the body. Linnet bowed her head, Rue felt sure, before that fierce denunciation. There was a noise of deep sobs, the low wail of a broken heart. Rue drew back, aghast. The Church was having its way. They had terrified Linnet. For the first time in her life, the gentle-hearted American felt herself on the side of the sinners. She would have given anything just that moment to get Linnet away from those two dreadful men, and set her down unawares in Will’s chambers in Duke Street. She tried hard to open the door, but the key was turned. “Linnet, Linnet!” she cried, knocking loud, and calling the poor girl by her accustomed pet name, “let me in! I want to speak to you!” “No, dear; I can’t!” Linnet answered through the door, gulping down a great sob. “I must fight it out by myself. _My_ sin; _my_ punishment.”