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And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He banished himself altogether from the house, going away again into lodgings. “No,” he said, on the morning of his departure, “I do not release you. I will never release you. You are mine, and I have a right so to call you. If you choose to release yourself, I cannot help it; but in doing so you will be forsworn.”

“Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing,” said she, meaning that she had not been formally betrothed to him.

“You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell you what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad; but I shall see you occasionally;–perhaps on Sundays.”

“Oh, Herbert!”

“Well, what would you have? If you really cared to see me it would not be thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,– absolutely decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once. Then I shall leave Munich.”

“Herbert, I will never throw you over.” So they parted, and Onslow went forth to his new lodgings.

Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word of love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own quiet, unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of love, though there might be an assurance of constancy. But her constancy he did not, in truth, much doubt. Four years,–fourteen,- -or twenty-four, would be the same to her, he said, as he seated himself in the dull, cold room which he had chosen. While living in the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know how much had been daily done for his comfort by that hand which he had been so seldom allowed to press; but he knew that he was now cold and comfortless, and he wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse.

“Mamma,” said Isa, when they were alone. “Is not Uncle Hatto rather hard on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his brother.”

“So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time. But your Uncle Hatto is hard.”

“He is rich, is he not?”

“Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all his income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He is very good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early marriages are very foolish.”

“Mamma,” said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in silence over their work.

“Well, my love?”

“Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?”

“No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to him. To tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if you wish it, I will do so.”

“I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented or impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle for his money;–for it comes to that.”

“I suppose it does, my dear.”

“And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not think so much of these four years.”

“You would still be young, Isa;–quite young enough.”

“And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma, there has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel myself bound to think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it, you are bound to think of him also. I know that he is unhappy, living there all alone.”

“But why did he go, dear?”

“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this could be shortened.”