“He understands and reads it; but you are a stranger, and why should we place our burdens on your shoulders?”
“Oh! you must not mind my way; this sort of thing is a mania with me, you know.”
“It is a mania seldom found,” croaked out the old man.
“I think,” put in Maheleth, “it is time for me to leave you. How can I thank you, Mr. Holcombe? Perhaps, when you leave my friend here, you will stop at the next landing, and go in and see my father?”
“I will, and you must not think I am in a hurry.”
The ice thus broken, many visits followed, and at night, when Maheleth was at home, Henry read to the family in the little plain room that was so beautiful in his sight. More than once had he again seen the girl in the cathedral, always standing, [pg 524] and separated from the worshippers, always with that same sad, anxious look. One night, he noticed a certain constraint in the father's and daughter's manner, and Löwenberg was less cordial to him than usual. After that, Maheleth seemed yet more troubled, and grew paler and thinner. He asked old Zimmermann if he knew of any fresh trouble in the family, but he could learn nothing from him. Rachel, who always answered the bell, detained him one evening, and said:
“I would not go in to-night, if I were you. Don't be offended, mein Herr.”
“Why, Rachel, what is the matter?”
“Fräulein Löwenberg went to the Catholic Church last night, and her father found it out, and he said it was your fault.”
“Well, I will go in all the same; I had nothing to do with it, and my friend must not be angry with his daughter.”