“But you have learned to keep the surface calm when it storms; I haven’t. A strange stillness has stolen over me here. Whether I owe it to illness or to the atmosphere that pervades this house, I can’t tell, but how long will it last? My soul used to be like the sea, when the hissing waves plunge into black gulfs, the seagulls scream, and the fishermen’s wives pray on the shore. Now the sea is calm. Don’t be too much frightened, if it begins to rage again.” At these words Maria clasped the excited girl’s hands, saying beseechingly: “Be quiet, be quiet, Henrica. You must think only of your recovery now. And shall I confess something? I believe everything hard can be more easily borne, if we can cast it impatiently forth like the sea of which you speak; with me one thing is piled on another and remains lying there, as if buried under the sand.” “Until the hurricane comes, that sweeps it away. I don’t want to be an evil prophet, but you surely remember these words. What a wild, careless thing I was! Then a day came, that made a complete revolution in my whole nature.” “Did a false love wound you?” asked Maria modestly. “No, except the false love of another,” replied Henrica bitterly. “When I was a child this fluttering heart often throbbed more quickly, I don’t know how often. First I felt something more than reverence for the one-eyed chaplain, our music-teacher, and every morning placed fresh flowers on his window, which he never noticed. Then--I was probably fifteen--I returned the ardent glances of Count Brederode’s pretty page. Once he tried to be tender, and received a blow from my riding-whip. Next came a handsome young nobleman, who wanted to marry me when I was barely sixteen, but he was even more heavily in debt than my father, so he was sent home. I shed no tears for him, and when, two months after, at a tournament in Brussels, I saw Don Frederic, the son of the great Duke of Alva, fancied myself as much in love with him as ever any lady worshipped her Amadis, though the affair never went beyond looks. Then the storm, of which I have already spoken, burst, and that put an end to love-making. I will tell you more about this at some future time; I need not conceal it, for it has been no secret. Have you ever heard of my sister? No? She was older than I, a creature-God never created anything more perfect. And her singing! She came to my dead aunt’s, and there--But I won’t excite myself uselessly--in short, the man whom she loved with all the strength of her heart thrust her into misery, and my father cursed and would not stretch out a finger to aid her. I never knew my mother, but through Anna I never missed her. My sister’s fate opened my eyes to men. During the last few years many have wanted me, but I lacked confidence and, still more, love, for I shall never have anything to do with that.” “Until it finds you,” replied Maria. “It was wrong to speak of such things with you, it excites you, and that is bad.”