felt as if her own conscience was in some way guilty; and then, too, what was to become of her now?  His crime, and her duty as a daughter, urged her imperatively into the arms of this man whom she thoroughly despised.  There seemed no way of escape.  The idea flashed across her brain to renounce her identity with the Moravians; but that would be synonymous with total separation from her father, for in his present frame of mind, when he was continually dwelling on repentance and reparation, he would never tear himself away from his old faith.  Leave her father?  Never!  One thought tempted her—­the thought of Wollmershain and Frau von Trautenau; but she put it resolutely from her:  she could not, she dared not; she had no claim on any one there, and here she belonged to her father.

Ah, how her poor bleeding heart ached!  If she could only weep, perhaps it would help to lighten the weary burden which was crushing her to the earth; but no relieving tears would come to her burning eyes.  At last she sat down on a ledge of the wall near the doorway, to rest in solitude a little while, and to try to compose herself before going into the house.  It had now ceased raining, and a dimly-burning lantern which was hung near by dispelled the darkness in a measure, and threw its uncertain rays over the wet stones of the yard, and over Carmen’s drooping figure.  The streets were perfectly quiet, the water dripped monotonously from the roofs, now and then the footsteps of some solitary passer-by echoed faintly on the ear, followed by the deep silence, broken only by the falling drops.  There was something soothing in this great hush of nature; and the gentle dripping seemed like a loving voice singing some tired child to sleep; Carmen felt as if drawn within a magic circle.  For a long time she sat there, till at last she heard a step approaching from the distance, and a man made his appearance in the light of the lantern.  Something sparkled and glittered on his coat; and as he strode along with quick, firm steps, the spurs on his boots clanked.  Carmen saw and heard it all as if in her sleep.  Still motionless, she sat staring out into the darkness, and her heart, her poor heart, seemed dead and cold.  There! did not the stranger enter the portico?  He certainly did; and, as his figure became more distinctly discernible in the uncertain light, her pulses began to throb violently—­those pulses which she a moment ago believed would never again beat with lively emotion.  She leaned back closer to the wall, and stared at the figure with wide-opened eyes.  As the man ascended the steps and saw the shrinking form close against the wall, he started, hesitated a moment, and then, putting his hand to his cap in greeting, said joyfully:  “Fraulein Carmen, can it really be you?  I have come, although it is so late, to greet you, and make the acquaintance of your father, as I am here only for to-night, and leave early in the morning.  Adele told me I would find you here, in the house with the portico.”  He spoke with a glad tone and put out his hand, for at Wollmershain they had parted with a hearty hand-shake, and now he ventured on the same privilege.