may change, that the seed of this forget-me-not may shed itself again and again, the cells open, the leaves shoot out, and the blossoms decorate the carpet of the meadow; and look upon the lady-bug which rocks itself in the blue cup of the flower, and whose awakening into life, whose consciousness of existence, whose living breath, are a thousand-fold more wonderful than the tissue of the flower, or the dead mechanism of the heavenly bodies.  Consider that thou also belongest to this infinite warp and woof, and that thou art permitted to comfort thyself with the infinite creatures which revolve and live and disappear with thee.  But if this All, with its smallest and its greatest, with its wisdom and its power, with the wonders of its existence, and the existence of its wonders, is the work of a Being in whose presence thy soul does not shrink back, before whom thou fallest prostrate in a feeling of weakness and nothingness, and to whom thou risest again in the feeling of His love and mercy—­if thou really feelest that something dwells in thee more endless and eternal than the cells of the flowers, the spheres of the planets, and the life of the insect—­if thou recognizest in thyself as in a shadow the reflection of the Eternal which illuminates thee—­if thou feelest in thyself, and under and above thyself, the omnipresence of the Real, in which thy seeming becomes being, thy trouble, rest, thy solitude, universality—­then thou knowest the One to Whom thou criest in the dark night of life:  “Creator and Father, Thy will be done in Heaven as upon earth, and as on earth so also in me.”  Then it grows bright in and about thee.  The daybreak disappears with its cold mists, and a new warmth streams through shivering nature.  Thou hast found a hand which never again leaves thee, which holds thee when the mountains tremble and moons are extinguished.  Wherever thou may’st be, thou art with Him, and He with thee.  He is the eternally near, and His is the world with its flowers and thorns, His is man with his joys and sorrows.  “The least important thing does not happen except as God wills it.”

With such thoughts I went on my way.  At one time, all was well with me; at another, troubled; for even when we have found rest and peace in the lowest depths of the soul, it is still hard to remain undisturbed in this holy solitude.  Yes, many forget it after they find it and scarcely know the way which leads back to it.

Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had reached me from her.  “Perhaps she is dead and lies in quiet rest,” was another song forever on my tongue, and always returning as often as I drove it from me.  It was not impossible, for the Hofrath had told me she suffered with heart troubles, and that he expected to find her no more among the living every morning he visited her.  Could I ever forgive myself if she had left this world and I had not taken farewell of her, nor told her at the last moment how I loved her?  Must I not follow until I found