The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife’s opinion.  “What do you think, Lizzie?” he said.  “Franz came to me to-day and asked if Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars.  I told him Clarke gave me two thousand about the time we were married.”

“‘Say loaned, Louis,’ he answered, ’to oblige me.  Here is two thousand and the interest for six years.  Go and pay it to Christine; she must need money.’  So I went.”

“Is she settled comfortably?”

“Oh, very.  Go and see her often.  Franz is sure to marry her, and he is growing richer every day.”

It seemed as if Louis’s prediction would come true.  Franz began to drive out every afternoon to Ryebeach.  At first he contented himself with just passing Christine’s gate.  But he soon began to stop for the children, and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea.

For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others noticed:  he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left him weary and breathless.  She knew in her heart that it was, the last summer he would be with her.  Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first one!  It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into her face.

One day his physician met Louis on Broadway.  “Mr. Curtin,” he said, “your friend Mueller is very ill.  I consider his life measured by days, perhaps hours.  He has long had organic disease of the heart.  It is near the last.”

“Does he know it?”

“Yes, he has known it long.  Better see him at once.”

So Louis went at once.  He found Franz calmly making his last preparations for the great event.  “I am glad you are come, Louis,” he said; “I was going to send for you.  See this cabinet full of letters.  I have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when—­when I am gone.

“This small packet is Christine’s dear little notes:  bury them with me:  there are ten of them, every one ten years old.”

“Is that all, dear Franz?”

“Yes; my will has long been made.  Except a legacy to yourself, all goes to Christine—­dear, dear Christine!”

“You love her yet, then, Franz?”

“What do you mean?  I have loved her for ages.  I shall love her forever.  She is the other half of my soul.  In some lives I have missed her altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one.”

“Do you know what you are saying, Franz?”

“Very clearly, Louis.  I have always believed with the oldest philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permitted them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to meet and comfort each other.  Do you think I saw Christine for the first time in your uncle’s parlor?  Louis, I have fairer and grander memories of her than any linked to this life.  I must leave her now for a little.  God knows when and where we meet again; but He does know; that is my hope and consolation.”