But Paula interrupted her:  “I love the traitor no more!  No, I hate him, hate him beyond words!  And the rest of them!  I loathe them all!”

“Alas! that it should be so!” sighed the nurse.  “Your lot is no doubt a hard one.  He—­Orion—­of course is out of the question; but I often ask myself whether you might not mend matters with the others.  If you had not made it too hard for them, child, they must have loved you; they could not have helped it; but ever since you have been in the house you have only felt miserable and wished that they would let you go your own way, and they—­well they have done so; and now you find it ill to bear the lot you chose for yourself.  It is so indeed, child, you need not contradict me.  This once we will put the matter plainly:  Who can hope to win love that gives none, but turns away morosely from his fellow-creatures?  If each of us could make his neighbors after his own pattern —­then indeed!  But life requires us to take them just as we find them, and you, sweetheart, have never let this sink into your mind!”

“Well, I am what I am !”

“No doubt, and among the good you are the best—­but which of them all can guess that?  Every one to some extent plays a part.  And you!  What wonder if they never see in you anything but that you are unhappy?  God knows it is ten thousand times a pity that you should be!  But who can take pleasure in always seeing a gloomy face?”

“I have never uttered a single word of complaint of my troubles to any 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.  Orion has at any rate learnt how far he may venture.  You can hold your head high enough and look cool enough.  Bear all that cannot be mended, and if an inward voice does not deceive me, he whom we seek. . .”