Her sister nodded, and added mournfully:  “Our father, my Wolff, your poor, stricken heart, and below in the Council chamber, Eva, perhaps whilst we are talking, those who are soon to be my kindred are being doomed.  That is harder to bear, child, than the invectives with which a wicked woman slanders us.  Often I do not know myself where I get the strength to keep up my courage.”

She turned away as she spoke to wipe the tears from her eyes without being seen; but Eva perceived it, and rose to clasp her in her arms and whisper words of cheer.  Ere she had taken the first step, however, she started; in rising she had upset the clerk’s tin water-pail, which fell rattling on the floor.

“The water!” she exclaimed sadly, “and my tongue is parched.”

“I’ll fetch more,” said Els consolingly; “Herr Martin brought it from over yonder.”

Opening the door to which she had pointed, she entered a low, spacious anteroom, in which was a brass fire engine, ladders, pails, and various other utensils for extinguishing a fire in the building, hung on the rough plastered wall which separated this room from the office of the city clerk.  The centre of the opposite wall was occupied by two small windows surmounted by a broad, semicircular arch, and separated by a short Roman pillar.  The sashes of both, whose leaden casings were filled with little round horn panes, stood wide open.  This double window was in the upper part of the Council chamber, which occupied two stories.  To create a draught this hot day it had been flung wide open, and Els could distinguish plainly the words uttered below.  The first that reached her was the name:  “Wolff Eysvogel.”

A burning sensation thrilled her.  If she went nearer to the window she could hear what the Honourables decided concerning the Eysvogel house; and, overpowered by her ardent desire not to lose a single word of the discussion which was to determine the happiness of Wolff’s life, and therefore hers, she instantly silenced the voice which admonished her that listening was wrong.  Yet the habit of caring for Eva was so dear to her, and ruled her with such power, that before listening to what was passing in the Council chamber below she looked for the water, which she speedily found, took it to the thirsty girl, and hurriedly told her what she had discovered in the next room and how she intended to profit by it.

In spite of Eva’s entreaty not to do it, she hastened back to the open window.

The younger sister, though she shook her head, gazed after her with a significant smile.

To Eva this was no accident.

Perhaps it was her saint herself who, when her sister went to seek refreshment for her, had guided her to the window.  Eva deemed it a boon to be permitted to find here in solitude the rest needful for her body which, though usually so strong, had been shaken by horror, and to struggle and pray for a clear understanding of the many things which troubled her; for to her prayer was far more than the petition for a spiritual or earthly blessing; nay, she prayed far less frequently to implore anything than from yearning for the Most High to whose presence the wings of prayer raised her.  So long as she was absorbed in it, she felt removed from the world and borne into the abode of God.