"And in that I did right, for I was determined to let mamma see that I was not afraid of her wrath."
"And that rose to-day! and your prayer that he should stay--for your sake! Was that right too?"
"Was I to let him go to-morrow?"
"If he wanted to go, was it for you to keep him? Erna, there is but one thing wanting now. Why not say to him: 'Will you marry me?'"
"And I should not think it shame to say so, if I were sure that he wished me to do so. Yes, yes; he does wish it; I see it clearly now; he wishes to avoid even the semblance of suspicion of having beguiled and over-persuaded me; he wishes it on account of my father and mother. Well, God be thanked, now I know what I have to do to-morrow."
"Nay, the pity of it, Erna, the pity of it, that you can talk in such a way; for it is impossible that you should really think so, really do it. My proud Erna cannot forget herself so far. I entreat you, by our great friendship, Erna, follow my advice in this one thing; if it must be, let him at least say the first word--the word that then will be decisive of your fate; and then let come what God will!"
She had folded her hands as if in prayer; big tears were coursing down her cheeks. The simple expression of her great grief touched Erna. She embraced "Granny" and kissed her, and promised at last that she would do what Agatha kept asking of her again and again.
"And now get to your bed, you poor child! You are so wearied, and I too."
Agatha had already lain quietly in bed for an hour or so, mournfully thinking it all over again, and assuming that Erna, who did not stir either, had fallen asleep, when suddenly she thought that she heard subdued sobs.
"Erna!"