I could not help recalling the words of Platen:  “That which proves itself everlasting under all circumstances, told in the fetters of words, is the unfettered spirit.”

“Yes,” said she, with a cordial but sweetly playful smile; “but I have a privilege which is at the same time my burden and loneliness.  I often pity the young men and maidens, for they cannot have a friendship or an intimacy without their relatives or themselves pronouncing it love, or what they call love.  They lose much on this account.  The maiden knows not what slumbers in her soul, and what might be awakened by earnest conversation with a noble friend; and the young man in turn would acquire so much knightly virtue if women were suffered to be the distant witnesses of the inner struggles of the spirit.  It will not do, however, for immediately love comes in play, or what they call love—­the quick beating of the heart—­the stormy billows of hope—­the delight over a beautiful face—­the sweet sentimentality—­sometimes also prudent calculation—­in short, all that troubles the calm sea, which is the true picture of pure human love------”

She checked herself suddenly, and an expression of pain passed over her countenance.  “I dare not talk more to-day,” said she; “my physician will not allow it.  I would like to hear one of Mendelssohn’s songs—­that duet, which my young friend used to play years ago.  Is it not so?”

I could not answer, for as she ceased speaking and gently folded her hands, I saw upon her hand a ring.  She wore it on her little finger—­the ring which she had given me and I had given her.  Thoughts came too fast for utterance, and I seated myself at the piano and played.  When I had done, I turned around and said:  “Would one could only speak thus in tones without words!”

“That is possible,” said she; “I understood it all.  But I must not do anything more to-day, for every day I grow weaker.  We must be better acquainted, and a poor sick recluse may certainly claim forbearance.  We meet to-morrow evening, at the same hour; shall we not?”

I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, but she held my hand firmly, pressed it and said:  “It is better thus.  Good bye.”

FIFTH MEMORY.

It would be difficult to describe my thoughts and emotions as I went home.  The soul cannot at once translate itself perfectly in words, and there are “thoughts without words,” which in every man are the prelude of supreme joy and suffering.  It was neither joy nor pain, only an indescribable bewilderment which I felt; thoughts flew through my innermost being like meteors, which shoot from heaven towards earth but are extinguished before they reach the goal.  As we sometimes say in a dream, “I am dreaming,” so I said to myself “thou livest”—­“it is she.”  I tried again to reflect and calm myself, and said, “She is a lovely vision—­a very wonderful