yearning and its longing change into uneasy impatience—­and a woman’s spirit, which is accustomed to waiting and to enduring, must now pass out from its proper sphere, must become active and attempt and do something to make its own happiness.  Ottilie had not given up Edward—­how could she?  Although Charlotte, wisely enough, in spite of her conviction to the contrary, assumed it as a thing of course, and resolutely took it as decided that a quiet rational regard was possible between her husband and Ottilie.  How often, however, did not Ottilie remain at nights, after bolting herself into her room, on her knees before the open box, gazing at the birthday presents, of which as yet she had not touched a single thing—­not cut out or made up a single dress!  How often with the sunrise did the poor girl hurry out of the house, in which she once had found all her happiness, away into the free air, into the country which then had had no charms for her.  Even on the solid earth she could not bear to stay; she would spring into the boat, row out into the middle of the lake, and there, drawing out some book of travels, lie rocked by the motion of the waves, reading and dreaming that she was far away, where she would never fail to find her friend—­she remaining ever nearest to his heart, and he to hers.

CHAPTER XVIII

It may easily be supposed that the strange, busy gentleman, whose acquaintance we have already made—­Mittler—­as soon as he received information of the disorder which had broken out among his friends, felt desirous, though neither side had as yet called on him for assistance, to fulfil a friend’s part toward them, and do what he could to help them in their misfortune.  He thought it advisable, however, to wait first a little while; knowing too well, as he did, that it was more difficult to come to the aid of cultivated persons in their moral perplexities, than of the uncultivated.  He left them, therefore, for some time to themselves; but at last he could withhold no longer, and he hastened to seek out Edward, on whose traces he had already lighted.  His road led him to a pleasant, pretty valley, with a range of green, sweetly-wooded meadows, down the centre of which ran a never-failing stream, sometimes winding slowly along, then tumbling and rushing among rocks and stones.  The hills sloped gently up on either side, covered with rich corn-fields and well-kept orchards.  The villages were at proper distances from one another.  The whole had a peaceful character about it, and the detached scenes seemed designed expressly, if not for painting, at least for life.

At last a neatly kept farm, with a clean, modest dwelling-house, situated in the middle of a garden, fell under his eye.  He conjectured that this was Edward’s present abode; and he was not mistaken.