sat down in one corner. Emanuel remained standing before her, leaning on his umbrella, and made no sign of sitting down.
She sat a moment bending forward with her hands folded in her lap, looking at the toes of her shoes. Then she said without lifting her head—
"You spoke of your mother—it has just occurred to me—have I dreamt it, or did you once tell me, that you were very young when your mother died."
"I?" said he, starting and looking down at her suddenly with an attentive glance. "Oh, I was fifteen or sixteen years old—but why do you ask about it"
"Oh, I don't know"
"Have you been talking to any one lately about my mother?"
"Yes, to-day father and I were talking about I think father once met someone who knew your mother."
The curate's eye darkened.
"Then I suppose your father also talked of—of my mother's end?"
"Yes."
A pained expression came over his face. After a moment's silence he said softly and with difficulty—
"My poor mother was a sacrifice to her time, to her family, and to the society to which you and I also belong, Miss Ragnhild; and which
