Elizabeth lay for a long while awake.  She would have given anything to have been able to cry, but the tears would not come; and she felt as if she was freezing internally.  When at last she did fall asleep, it was not of him she dreamt, but of Salve—­the whole time of Salve.  She saw him gazing at her with that earnest face—­it was so heavy with grief, and she stood like a criminal before him.  He said something that she could not hear, but she understood that he condemned her, and that he had thrown the dress overboard.

She rose early, and tried to occupy her thoughts with other dreams—­with her future as an officer’s lady.  But it was as if all that had before seemed to be pure gold was now changed to brass.  She felt unhappy and restless; and it was a long time before she could make up her mind to go into the sitting-room.

Carl Beck did not leave that morning.  He had perceived that there was something on Elizabeth’s mind.

During the forenoon, when his sisters were out, and his stepmother was occupied, he found an opportunity to speak with her alone:  she was in a fever, always waiting for him to have spoken to Madam Beck.

“Elizabeth,” he said, gently smoothing her hair, for she looked dispirited, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground, “I couldn’t leave without having spoken to you again.”

She still kept her eyes upon the ground, but didn’t withdraw herself from his hand.

“Do you really care for me?—­will you be my wife?”

She was silent.  At last she said, a shade paler, and as if with an effort—­

“Yes—­Herr Beck.”

“Say ‘du’ to me—­say Carl,” he pleaded, with much feeling, “and—­look at me.”

She looked at him, but not as he had expected.  It was with a fixed, cold look she said—­

“Yes, if we are engaged.”

“Are we not then?”

“When is your stepmother to know it?” she asked, rather dragging the words out one after the other.

“Dear Elizabeth!  These people at home here must notice nothing for—­for three months, when I shall be—­” But he caught an expression now in her face, and something in the abrupt way in which she drew her hand from him, that made him keep back what he had originally intended to say, and he corrected it hastily.

“Next week, then, I’ll write from Arendal and tell my father, and then let my stepmother know what I have written.  Are you offended, Elizabeth—­dear Elizabeth? or shall I do it at once?” he broke out resolutely, and seized her hand again.

“No, no—­not now! next week—­let it not be till next week,” she cried, in sudden apprehension, returning the pressure of his hand at the same time almost entreatingly—­it was the first he had had from her.

“And then you are mine, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, then”—­she tried to avoid meeting his eye.

“Farewell, then, Elizabeth!  But I shall come back on Saturday.  I can’t live for longer without seeing you.”