* * * * * You have, doubtless, known all along that there was something utterly amiss in Johannes' fine, new life--that he had made a pitiful mistake, and was all at sea. He, also, knew it now, although he would not admit it to himself. Those joyful expectations had not been prompted by the Father's voice, and he knew now that one could be misled by positive impressions. However, he was not yet out of the scrape. To acknowledge again that he had made a mistake--to leave this life and return to Markus and Marjon, was a hard thing to do. Here were far greater attractions than Aunt Seréna's raspberries and fresh rolls. When he thought of the garden at Vrede-best, ah, how eagerly he longed to be there again! But that which held him here had a much stronger hold upon him, for he would not admit to himself that it would be better to leave it. That he should be an intimate little friend of this beautiful, distinguished woman--_that_, above all things--preoccupied him day and night. Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good for you--that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on, just one more chapter, to see how it ended. That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores. He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna--nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed. One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done--the same as with her two little daughters? Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about. Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him. It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain--sharp pain--and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory--so confounding! One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding. He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life--cruel, human life--with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp.