But now, he faced her and stood dumb, aware only of hubbub in his brain, and dismay in his breast. She, manifestly unprepared for this style of greeting, started back. Her eyes filled with fear. “Oh Elias,” she faltered, “you--you make me think that it is true.” He, finding his voice, cried piteously: “Oh, why--why did you come here?” And then they were both silent. At last she began: “I came--because I could not believe--because my father told me something which I knew was a lie. I came to have you tell me that it was a lie. Oh, why did he tell me such a cruel thing? Why--why do you act like this?” She paused, expecting him to speak. But he did not speak. All at once she went on passionately: “Oh, you don't know what he told me. He must have wanted to kill me. But I knew it was a lie. I told him it was a lie--oh, such a shameful, cruel lie. Oh, God! Here, this was it: he told me--he told me that you--Elias--oh, no, no, no! I can not say it. But yes, yes--I _will_ say it--I _must_ say it. He said that you--you did not love me any more. Oh, my God, my God!” She had moved up toward him. Now she fell upon his breast, and sobbed her heart out. He passively allowed her to remain there. What to do? what to say? he asked himself, distracted. “Oh, Elias--my darling--I--I knew it could not be true,” she was murmuring between her sobs. Thus, until her grief had spent itself--until she had had her cry out. By and by she raised her eyes to his, and smiling a forlorn little smile, asked timidly, “You think I am very silly?” But her smile did not last long. Suddenly, it changed to an expression of utmost woe and terror. She fell back a step or two. “Elias!” she cried, in a sharp, startled voice. “Why do you look at me like that? Is--do--you can't--mean--that it is true!” He felt that he must speak. He must gather his forces, and make her understand. He was trying to. He was trying to find the words he needed. But before they had come to him, the door opened, and the rabbi glided upon the scene. The rabbi took in the situation at a glance. “Elias,” he said, “this is unfortunate. You ought to have called me.” Turning to Christine: “You have forgotten yourself, madam. By what right are you here? Did your father send you? I shall be happy to show you the way down stairs.” He bowed in the direction of the door. She looked helplessly from the rabbi to his nephew; but she found little to reassure her in Elias's face. “Was there any thing you had to say to this young lady, before she goes, Elias?” the rabbi queried, in a brisk, business-like tone. “No, nothing,” Elias began faintly, “nothing, except--yes, except--” He broke off, and drew a sharp, loud breath; suddenly he began anew: “Christine, I am powerless. The Lord--it is the Lord's will. I--it--what your father told you--it was the truth.” The words found their own way out, mechanically. He could scarcely realize that he had spoken.