It was Benjamin Vajdar's likeness, and no ghost could have given Blanka a greater start.

It was as if her most hated foe had pursued her into paradise itself, to spoil her pleasure there.
Anna noticed her friend's involuntary movement, and she sighed deeply.
"Did Manasseh tell you about him ?" she asked.
"I know him well," replied Blanka, and she could not control an accent of abhorrence in her voice as she spoke.
Anna clasped her companion's hand in both her own.

"I beg you," she entreated, in tones at once sad and tender, "if you know aught ill of him, do not tell it me." "You still love him ?" asked the other, in compassion.
The young girl sank down on the edge of her bed and hid her face in her hands.

"He has killed me," she sobbed; "he has done much that a man, an honourable man, ought not to do; and yet I cannot hate him.

We may say, 'I loved you yesterday, to-morrow I shall hate you,' and we may act as if we meant it; but we cannot really _feel_ it." "My poor Anna!" was all Blanka could say.
"I know he is dishonourable," admitted the girl; "there are women here that report everything to me, thinking thus to cure me.