or thrice repeated. The whole resembled a letter written by a lunatic,
yet every line, every stroke of the pen, expressed the same desire
uttered with passionate longing: "Take me away from here! Take me away
from this woman and this house!"

The epistle was addressed to her father. She implored him to rescue her
from this place, come or send for her. "Her uncle, Matanesse Van
Wibisma," she said, "seemed to be a sluggish messenger; he had probably
enjoyed the evenings at her aunt's, which filled her, Henrica, with
loathing. She would go out into the world after her sister, if her
father compelled her to stay here." Then she began a description of her
aunt and her life. The picture of the days and nights she had now spent
for weeks with the old lady, presented in vivid characters a mixture of
great and petty troubles, external and mental humiliations.

Only too often the same drinking and carousing had gone on below as
to-day-Henrica had always been compelled to join her aunt's guests,
elderly dissolute men of French or Italian origin and easy morals. While
describing these conventicles, the blood crimsoned her flushed cheeks
still more deeply, and the long strokes of the pen grew heavier and
heavier. What the abbe related and her aunt laughed at, what the Italian
screamed and Monseigneur smilingly condemned with a slight shake of the
head, was so shamelessly bold that she would have been defiled by
repeating the words. Was she a respectable girl or not? She would
rather hunger and thirst, than be present at such a banquet again. If
the dining-room was empty, other unprecedented demands were made upon
Henrica, for then her aunt, who could not endure to be alone a moment,
was sick and miserable, and she was obliged to nurse her. That she
gladly and readily served the suffering, she wrote, she had sufficiently
proved by her attendance on the village children when they had the