It was sunset.  The glowing reflection of the sun fell upon Nanna’s pale neck and face, illumining them with a golden blush.

“I am sorry,” said Gottlieb, at length, throwing aside the blade of grass, and assuming a serious cast of countenance, “I am sorry that our lessons must have an end; but all is for the best, for, my child, you know enough already.”

“More than enough,” replied Nanna, softly.

“Especially for a school teacher,” said Gottlieb.

“Yes, especially for a school teacher,” repeated Nanna.

“But you speak so abstractedly.  You are not so lively as usual.”

“I did not know it; but if Gottlieb says so, it must be true.  When one has been so glad as I have been to-day, and then as sorrowful, it takes much courage to meet the change indifferently.”

“But, dear Nanna, you were aware that I should be forced to go away soon.”

“I did not know that you were going so soon as to-morrow morning.”

“Neither did I, myself, when I saw you yesterday; but when I determined to go by the steamboat, you perceive that—­”

“Yes, yes.”

“And then again what difference will a day or two more or less make, when we part—­”

“Never again to meet,” interrupted Nanna.

“You will do right in the meantime not to hope too much.”

Nanna glanced inquiringly towards Gottlieb.

“Do you not think it strange, Nanna, that we who have been acquainted but so short a season, should think so much of each other?”

“It is perfectly natural that we should.  Persons in fashionable society cannot become so well acquainted with each other as we could in one hour.  At first we met each other every evening, then every morning and evening, and at length—­”

“And at length morning, noon and night!” interrupted Gottlieb, with a smile.  “In truth, Nanna, you are right, for if our every meeting was so divided that we should be together but once each week, our acquaintance would have been prolonged for an entire year.”

“O, much longer than that even,” said Nanna, joining in Gottlieb’s laugh.

“And as we have remained by our agreement not to fall in love with each other, we part as friends, and not in despair, and what is still better, not with reproaches, which, had the case been different, we would have been obliged to make and listen to.”

“Yes, it is fortunate, very fortunate, that—­that—­” stammered Nanna, unable to finish the sentence.

“We need not conceal from ourselves that in making that arrangement we ran a great risk.  For my part, I am not too proud to say that it has been very difficult for me to keep it.”

“But Gottlieb,” replied Nanna, “as you have kept it, it is better as it is.”

“Certainly; but then it is not so good as I wish to have it.”

“How do you wish it to be then?” inquired Nanna innocently.