This was all very well; but in spite of her reasoning and her forced courage, and her self-possession in the presence of others, Natalie had got into the habit of crying in the quietude of her own room, to the great distress of the little Anneli, who had surprised her once or twice. And the rosy-cheeked German maid guessed pretty accurately what had happened; and wondered very much at the conduct of English lovers, who allowed their sweethearts to pine and fret in solitude without sending them letters or coming to see them. But on this particular afternoon Anneli opened the door, in answer to a summons, and found outside a club commissionaire whom she had seen once or twice before; and when he gave her a letter, addressed in a handwriting which she recognized, and ask for an answer, she was as much agitated as if it had come from her own sweetheart in Gorlitz. She snatched it from the man, as if she feared he would take it back. She flew with it up-stairs, breathless. She forgot to knock at the door. "Oh, Fraulein, it is a letter!" said she, in great excitement, "and there is to be an answer--" Then she hesitated. But the good-sense of the child told her she ought to go. "I will wait outside, Fraulein. Will you ring when you have written the answer?" When Natalie opened the letter she was outwardly quite calm--a little pale, perhaps; but as she read it her heart beat fast. And it was her heart that instantly dictated the answer to this brief and simple appeal: "My Natalie,--It is your father's wish that I should not see you. Is it your wish also? There is something I would like to say to you." It was her heart that answered. She rose directly. She never thought twice, or even once, about any wish, or menace, or possible consequence. She went straight to her desk, and with a shaking hand wrote these lines: "My Own,--Come to me now, at any time--when you please. Am I not yours? Natalie." Despite herself, she had to pause, to steady her hand--and because her heart was beating so fast that she felt choked--before she could properly address the envelope. Then she carried the letter to Anneli, who she knew was waiting outside. That done, she shut herself in again, to give herself time to think, though in truth she could scarcely think at all. For all sorts of emotions were struggling for the mastery of her--joy and a proud resolve distinctly predominant. It was done, and she would abide by it. She was not given to fear. But she tried hard to think. At last her lover was coming to her; he would ask her what she was prepared to do: what would she answer?