"'No,' she said, 'else meanwhile that will happen which must not happen. Henceforth all is over between him and me.' "'You little know him,' said I. "'But I know myself,' said she. 'I break it off.' "'Martha!' I cried, horrified. "'I know very well,' she said, 'that I shall die of it, but what does that matter? I am of very little account. It is better so, than that I should make him unhappy.' "'You are talking in a fever, Martha,' I cried, 'for I do not think you silly enough to let yourself be baited by the trash of that old hag.' "'I feel only too well that she speaks the truth,' said she. A cold shudder passed through me when I heard her pronounce these despairing and hopeless words as calmly and composedly as if they were a formula of the multiplication table. 'Do not gainsay me.' she continued; 'not only since to-day do I know this--I have always felt something of the kind, and ought by rights not to have been startled to-day; but it certainly does upset one, when one so unexpectedly sees in writing before one's eyes the death sentence which hitherto one has scarcely dared to suggest to one's own conscience.' "As eloquently as I possibly could, I remonstrated with her. I consigned our aunt to the blackest depths of hell, and proved to a nicety that she (Martha) alone was born to become the good angel in Robert's house. But it was no good, her faith in herself would not be revived; the blow had fallen upon her too heavily. And finally she expected it of me to write no further letter to him, and to break off our intercourse once and for all. I was alarmed to the depths of my soul, no less for my own than for her sake. I refused, too, with all the energy of which I was capable; but she persisted in her determination, and as she even threatened to betray our correspondence to our parents, I was at length forced to comply, whether I would or no. * * * * * "Troubled days were in store. Martha slunk about the house like a ghost. Papa rode like wild through the woods, stayed away at meal-times, and had not a good word for any of us. Mama, our good, fat mama, sat knitting in her corner, and from time to time wiped the tears out of her eyes, while she looked round anxiously, lest any one should notice it. Yes, it was a sad time! "Two urgent letters from Robert had arrived. He wrote that he was in great trouble, and I was to send him tidings forthwith. I told Martha nothing of them, but I kept my promise. "A week had passed by, when I noticed that our parents were discussing what answer they would send to aunt. In order to exclude any suspicion of sneaking into a marriage, papa had the intention of binding himself by a final promise, and mama said 'yes,' as she said yes to everything that did not concern jellies and sweets. "The same day Martha declared that she felt unfit to leave her bed--that she had no pain, but that her limbs would not carry her.