A good thought speedily occurred to me, that I could live both these days with her, notwithstanding fate.  For a long time I had intended to write down the dear words she had said, and the many beautiful thoughts she had confided to me; and so the days passed away in memory of the many charming hours spent, together, and in the hope of a still more beautiful future, and I was by her and with her, and lived in her, and felt the nearness of her spirit and her love more than I had ever felt them when I held her hand in mine.

How dear to me now are these leaves!  How often have I read and re-read them—­not that I had forgotten one word she said, but they were the witnesses of my happiness, and something looked out of them upon me like the gaze of a friend, whose silence speaks more than words.  The memory of a past happiness, the memory of a past sorrow, the silent meditation upon the past, when everything disappears that surrounds and restrains us, when the soul throws itself down, like a mother upon the green grave-mound of her child who has slept under it many long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sadness which only those know who have loved and suffered much.  Ask the mother what she feels when she ties upon the head of her daughter the veil she once wore as a bride, and thinks of the husband no longer with her!  Ask a man what he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, and the world has torn from him, sends him after death the dried rose which he gave her in youth!  They may both weep, but their tears are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself to the Divine, and with faith in God’s love and wisdom, looks upon the dearest he has passing away from him.

Still let us go back in memory, back in the living presence of the past.  The two days flew so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness of seeing her again drew nearer and nearer.  As the carriages and horsemen arrived on the first day from the city, I saw that the castle was alive with gaily-dressed visitors.  Banners fluttered from the roof, music sounded through the castle-yard.  In the evening, the lake swarmed with pleasure-boats.  The moennerchors sounded over the waves, and I could not but listen, for I fancied she also listened to these songs from the window.  Everything was stirring, also, on the second day, and early in the afternoon the guests prepared for departure.  Late in the evening I saw the Hofrath’s carriage also going back alone to the city.  I could not restrain myself any longer, I knew she was alone.  I knew she thought of me, and longed for me.  Should I allow one night to pass without at least pressing her hand, without saying to her that the separation was over, that the next morning would waken us to new rapture.  I still saw a light in her window—­why should she be alone?  Why should I not, for one