spirit.”  At another time, I pictured the delightful evenings I should pass during the holidays.  But no, no, this cannot be.  She is everything I sought, thought, hoped and believed.  Here was at last a human soul, as clear and fresh as a spring morning.  I had seen at the first glance what she was and how she felt, and we had greeted and recognized one another.  And my good angel in me, she answered me no more.  She was gone and I felt there was no place on earth where I should find her again.

Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her every evening.  We soon realized that we were in truth old acquaintances and that we could only call each other Thou.  It seemed also as if we had lived near and with one another always, for she manifested not an emotion that did not find its counterpart in my soul, and there was no, thought which I uttered to which she did not nod friendly assent, as much as to say:  “I thought so too.”  I had previously heard the greatest master of our time and his sister extemporize on the piano, and scarcely comprehended how two persons could understand and feel themselves so perfectly and yet never, not even in a single note, disturb the harmony of their playing.  Now it became intelligible to me.  Yes, now I understood for the first time that my soul was not so poor and empty as it had seemed to me, and that it had been only the sun that was lacking to open all its germs, and buds to the light.  And yet what a sad and brief spring-time it was that our souls experienced!  We forget in May that roses so soon wither, but here every evening reminded us that one leaf after another was falling to the ground.  She felt it before I did, and alluded to it apparently without pain, and our interviews grew more earnest and solemn daily.

One evening, as I was about to leave, she said:  “I did not think I should grow so old.  When I gave you the ring on my confirmation day I thought I should have to take my departure from you all, very soon.  And yet I have lived so many years, and enjoyed so much beauty—­and suffered so very much!  But one forgets that!  Now, while I feel that my departure is near, every hour, every minute, grows precious to me.  Good night!  Do not come too late to-morrow.”

One day as I went into her room, I met an Italian painter with her.  She spoke Italian with him, and although he was evidently more artisan than artist, she addressed him with such amiability and modesty, with such respect even, one could not avoid recognizing that nobility of soul which is the true nobility of birth.  When the painter had taken his leave, she said to me:  “I wish to show you a picture which will please you.  The original is in the gallery at Paris.  I read a description of it, and have had it copied by the Italian.”  She showed me the painting, and waited my opinion.  It was a picture of a man of middle age, in the old German costume.  The expression was dreamy and resigned, and so characteristic that no one could doubt