depart. Then she threw herself on to her nurse's shoulders, crying:

"Now, come what may! Nothing can divide us; not even death!"




CHAPTER XXIV.

The bishop was too late. He found the widow Susannah a corpse; standing
at the head of the bed was little Katharina, as pale as death,
speechless, tearless, utterly annihilated. He kindly tried to cheer her,
and to speak words of comfort; but she pushed him away, tore herself from
him, and before he could stop her, she had fled out of the room.

Poor child! He had seen many a loving daughter mourning for her mother,
but never such grief as this. Here, thought he, were two human souls all
in all to each other, and hence this overwhelming sorrow.

Katharina had escaped to her own room, had thrown herself on the couch
--cowering so close that no one entering the room would have taken the
undistinguishable heap for a human being, a grown up, passionately
suffering girl.

It was very hot, and yet a cold shiver ran through her slender frame.
Was she now attacked by the pestilence? No; it would be too merciful of
Fate to take such pity on her woes.

The mother was dead, dragged to the grave by her own daughter. The
disease had first shown itself on her lips; and how many times had the