The young stranger read human nature by instinct, rather than by experience. She felt assured that the girl who had pleaded with her so passionately against the commission of her meditated sin, was sincere, truthful, and trustworthy, and she resolved to place confidence in her. She had been struck by the words, “I live by myself quite, quite alone--no one visits me, for I am humble.” Upon them had followed the promise of the tender, affectionate, loving services of a sister, and those words had conjured up before her eyes a young, loving, anxious face--that of one whose gentle heart would break if she came to know that the tenant of the sick couch she had so patiently watched had perished by the terrible crime of self-murder. Then she found it impossible to resist the earnest pleadings of her new found friend, and she yielded her will up to her with some vague notion that she should be conducted to a quiet retired place, where her friends--search for her as they might--would never discover her. They proceeded slowly along the path stretching across the park, Lotte alone sustaining the conversation which she knew how to shape, so as not to jar upon the feelings of her companion. She tried, also, so to arrange her discourse as to give some knowledge of her occupation and style of life, that the young lady might have a just notion of the new home she was going to, and how it was supported. Lotte spoke hopefully and cheerfully of the future, even though she extracted not a sound, not even a monosyllable, in reply; but she was not disconcerted at this, for she knew, by sad experience, the heart of the young mourner upon her arm was too full for speech. The increasing darkness spreading over the wide, treeless expanse, contrasted by the distant lights, made the surrounding place seem drear, and caused Lotte--who was not much more courageous, when in the midst of a wide moor-like space, in the dark, than most of her sex--to increase her speed. Her companion, who had drawn a thick veil down over her face, completely shrouding her features, offered no objection to this change in their pace, but, if anything, appeared desirous of accelerating it, seemingly wishful, now she had decided on accepting a new condition of life, to hurry to it, so as to escape the observation of the outer world. Their walk thus became rapid, and the lights drew nearer, and grew brighter. Suddenly, a footstep, quick and light, sounded immediately behind them, and a hand touched Lotte lightly on the shoulder. She turned, and perceived at her elbow a tall, moustached gentleman, a little in advance of two others, arm in arm, who were following him up. He addressed Lotte. “What a hurry you are in, my dear,” he said; “I have had to increase my pace to a gallop to catch you. Don’t walk so fast, I beg of you; you fatigue me, and do you know that disturbs my serenity.” Lotte gazed upon him with inexpressible astonishment.