“But people are to blame if they lose each other,” she continued; and her voice, which seemed always to accompany her words, like music, involuntarily modulated into a tenderer key.

“Yes, that is true,” I replied; “but first tell me, are you well, and can I talk with you?”

“My dear friend,” said she, smiling, “you know I am always sick, and if I say that I feel well, I do so for the sake of my old Hofrath; for he is firmly convinced that my entire life since my first year is due to him and his skill.  Before I left the Court-residence I caused him much anxiety, for one evening my heart suddenly ceased beating, and I experienced such distress that I thought it would never beat again.  But that is past, and why should we recall it?  Only one thing troubles me, I have hitherto believed I should some time close my eyes in perfect repose, but now I feel that my sufferings will disturb and embitter my departure from life.”  Then she placed her hand upon her heart, and said:  “But tell me, where have you been, and why have I not heard from you all this time?  The old Hofrath has given me so many reasons for your sudden departure, that I was finally compelled to tell him I did not believe him—­and at last he gave me the most incredible of all reasons, and counselled—­what do you suppose?”

“He might seem untruthful,” I interrupted, so that she should not explain the reason, “and yet, perhaps he was only too truthful.  But this also is past, and why should we recall it?”

“No, no, my friend,” said she, “why call it past?  I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the last reason for your sudden departure, that I understood neither him nor you.  I am a poor sick, forsaken being, and my earthly existence is only a slow death.  Now if Heaven sends me a few souls who understand me, or love me, as the Hofrath calls it, why then should it disturb their joy or mine?  I had been reading my favorite poet, the old Wordsworth, when the Hofrath made his acknowledgment, and I said:  ’My dear Hofrath, we have so many thoughts and so few words that we must express many thoughts in every word.  Now if one who does not know us understood that our young friend loved me, or I him, in such manner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet and Juliet Romeo, you would be entirely right in saying it should not be so.  But is it not true that you love me also, my old Hofrath, and that I love you, and have loved you for many years?  And has it not sometimes occurred to you that I have neither been past remedy nor unhappy on that account?  Yes, my dear Hofrath, I will tell you still more—­I believe you have an unfortunate love for me, and are jealous of our young friend.  Do you not come every morning and inquire how I am, even when you know I am very well?  Do you not bring me the finest flowers from your garden?  Did you not oblige me to send you my portrait, and—­perhaps I ought not to disclose it—­did you not come to my room last Sunday and think I was asleep?