Magnhild heard the beating of her own heart; she dared not stir; she suppressed even her breathing. She felt cold drops of moisture start from every pore. "Yes, yes, Magnhild;--be now on _your_ guard!" Magnhild started up. The lady turned her head after her. "Be not proud!" said she. "Is there any place where you can now go?" Magnhild did not hear what she said. The lady repeated her question as calmly as she had spoken before. "Is there any place where you can now go? Answer me!" Magnhild could scarcely collect her thoughts, but she answered: "Yes," merely out of accustomed acquiescence to the lady. She did not think of any special place of refuge, only that she must go away from here now, at once. But before she could move, the lady, who had been watching her closely, said,-- "I will tell you one thing that you do not know: you love him." Magnhild drew back, swift as lightning, her eyes firmly fixed on _hers_. There arose a brief conflict, in which the lady's eyes, as it were, breathed upon Magnhild's. Magnhild grew confused, colored, and bowed her head on her hands. The lady sat up and took hold of her arm. Magnhild still resisted; her bosom heaved--she tottered, as though seeking support; and finally leaned aside toward where she felt the pressure of the lady's hand. Then throwing herself on the lady's bosom she wept violently. CHAPTER VIII. While he was still in bed the next morning there was brought to Tande by the sailor's wife a letter. It had a dainty, old-fashioned, somewhat yellow, glazed envelope, and the address was written in an unpracticed lady's hand, with delicate characters, of which those extending below the lines terminated in a little superfluous flourish, as if afraid of being round and yet with a strong tendency to become so. "From whom can this be?" thought Tande. He opened the letter. It was signed "Magnhild." A warm glow ran through him, and he read:-- HR. H. TANDE,--I thank you very much for your kindness to me, and for the instruction you have so generously given me. My husband has said that you have no room-rent to pay. I am obliged to go away without waiting for an opportunity to tell you of this. Once more my best thanks. MAGNHILD. He read the letter through at least five times. Then he studied each word, each character. This epistle had cost fully ten rough sketches and discarded copies; he was sure of it. The word "Magnhild" was written with more skill than the rest; the writer must have had frequent practice in that early in life. But with such trifling discoveries Tande could not silence the terrible accusation that stared at him from this letter. He lay still a long time after letting the letter drop from his hands. Presently he began to drum on the sheet with the fingers of his right hand; he was playing the soprano part of a melody. Had it reached the piano, and had Magnhild heard it, she would surely have recognized it.