one of them!" cried Paula, drawing herself up proudly.

"That is just the difficulty," replied Perpetua. "They took you in,
and thought it gave them a claim on your person and also on your sorrows.
Perhaps they longed to comfort you; for, believe me, child, there is a
secret pleasure in doing so. Any one who is able to show us sympathy
feels that it does him more good than it does us. I know life! Has it
never occurred to you that you are perhaps depriving your relations in
the great house of a pleasure, perhaps even doing them an injury by
locking up your heart from them? Your grief is the best side of you, and
of that you do indeed allow them to catch a glimpse; but where the pain
is you carefully conceal. Every good man longs to heal a wound when he
sees it, but your whole demeanor cries out: 'Stay where you are, and
leave me in peace.'--If only you were good to your uncle!"

"But I am, and I have felt prompted a hundred times to confide in him--
but then. . ."

"Well--then?"

"Only look at him, Betta; see how he lies as cold as marble, rigid and
apathetic, half dead and half alive. At first the words often rose to my
lips. . ."

"And now?"

"Now all the worst is so long past; I feel I have forfeited the right to
complain to him of all that weighs me down."

"Hm," said Perpetua who had no answer ready. "But take heart, my child.