"Remember," she said--and it sounded as if she had suddenly acquired a new voice--"I don't care about letters. And I can't write letters." "You don't wish me to write to you?" He had also a new voice. She did not answer, nor did she look at him. "But if anything should happen--?" said he. "Well, of course then--! But you forget that you have Mrs. Dawes." And as if this were not enough, she added: "I don't imagine that you, either, are a good letter-writer, Jörgen. So there will be nothing lost." He could have struck her. As ill luck would have it, the surly old Lapland dog was at the landing-place with his master. No sooner did he catch sight of Jörgen than he began to bark. All his master's attempts to silence him were in vain. Every one turned to look at the new-comers. Jörgen had at once picked up a small stone, and Mary had asked him in a low voice not to throw it. The steamer was now lying to; it diverted the attention of all, including the dog. For this moment Jörgen had been waiting; he flung the stone with all his might, and a loud howl arose. He immediately turned to Mary, swept off his hat with his best smile, and thanked her for the hospitality shown him. For the sake of appearances she could not but remain on the pier until the steamer went; she was even obliged to wave her parasol once or twice. Smiling and triumphant, Jörgen returned sweeping bows from the steamer's deck. How furious she was! But he was hardly less so. * * * * * "He, who should have thrown himself in the dust before me, and kissed the hem of my dress!" This was Mary's feeling. She had had a dawning suspicion last night of a want of delicacy in her lover. He would not let her go. She had had to resort to artifice, and had been obliged to lock her door. But she had explained his behaviour to herself as an unfortunate result of those years of longing which had turned his passion into a morbid possession. Now uncertainty was no longer possible! Only an "experienced hand" could behave like this. She had been deceived! The very best that was in her, fostered and guarded by her noblest instincts, had been led loathsomely astray. With this thought she wrestled and strove all day long. She called herself betrayed, dishonoured. At first she thrust the blame away from herself. Then she took it all upon herself, and pronounced herself unworthy to live. She did nothing but make mistakes; she was her own betrayer! One hour she said to herself: "Violence was done me, although I gave myself to him voluntarily!" The next she said: "All this has its beginning farther back, and I cannot unravel it." What a blessing that her own room remained undefiled! The one next it she would never enter again.