The curtains were still closed, but Johanna was no longer lying down. With hands clasped in front of her, she was restlessly walking to and fro. When the door opened, she turned and came towards it.
"My poor, dear child," Aunt Thekla began, but paused in dismay, as, even in the dim light, she distinguished the expression of Johanna's countenance. Not a trace was to be seen of weakness or of need of sympathy: the pale face was as if carved in marble. Nothing that the old lady had prepared to say would fit this occasion.
"Are you better?" she asked at last, to put an end to the distressing silence.
"Yes, dear aunt; do not trouble yourself about me," Johanna replied, with forced composure.
Aunt Thekla sighed. It grieved her that the young girl had so little confidence in her, but it should not deter her. "Come, sit down by me; I want to talk with you," she said, taking her seat on the lounge. And when Johanna mechanically obeyed, she added, "You need put no force upon yourself; Otto has made a frank confession to me."
"Scarcely frank!" Johanna said, contemptuously.
"You do him injustice!" Aunt Thekla cried. "He said not one word to excuse himself; on the contrary, he accused himself bitterly. If you could have heard how he repents and longs for your forgiveness, you would grant it him with all your heart."
"I cannot," Johanna said, without looking up.
"Oh, do not say that! You not only can, but you must forgive. Do we not pray every day, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us'?"
"I cannot," Johanna repeated.