The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Werther had written the last-mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening to Charlotte’s house, and found her alone.  She was busy preparing some little gifts for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed to them on Christmas Day.  He began talking of the delight of the children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats, and lighted up with wax candles, causes such transports of joy.  “You shall have a gift too, if you behave well,” said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under sweet smile.  “And what do you call behaving well?  What should I do, what can I do, my dear Charlotte?” said he.  “Thursday night,” she answered, “is Christmas Eve.  The children are all to be here, and my father too:  there is a present for each; do you come likewise, but do not come before that time.”  Werther started.  “I desire you will not:  it must be so,” she continued.  “I ask it of you as a favour, for my own peace and tranquillity.  We cannot go on in this manner any longer.”  He turned away his face walked hastily up and down the room, muttering indistinctly, “We cannot go on in this manner any longer!” Charlotte, seeing the violent agitation into which these words had thrown him, endeavoured to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain.  “No, Charlotte!” he exclaimed; “I will never see you any more!” “And why so?” she answered.  “We may —­ we must see each other again; only let it be with more discretion.  Oh! why were you born with that excessive, that ungovernable passion for everything that is dear to you?” Then, taking his hand, she said, “I entreat of you to be more calm:  your talents, your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a thousand resources.  Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment toward a creature who can do nothing but pity you.”  He bit his lips, and looked at her with a gloomy countenance.  She continued to hold his hand.  “Grant me but a moment’s patience, Werther,” she said.  “Do you not see that you are deceiving yourself, that you are seeking your own destruction?  Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another?  I fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of possessing me which makes your desire for me so strong.”  He drew back his hand, whilst he surveyed her with a wild and angry look. “’Tis well!” he exclaimed, “’tis very well!  Did not Albert furnish you with this reflection?  It is profound, a very profound remark.”  “A reflection that any one might easily make,” she answered; “and is there not a woman in the whole world who is at liberty, and has the power to make you happy?  Conquer yourself:  look for such a being, and believe me when I say that you will certainly find her.  I have long felt for you, and for us all:  you have confined yourself too long within the limits of too narrow a circle.  Conquer yourself; make an effort:  a short journey will be of service to you.  Seek and find an object worthy of your love; then return hither, and let us enjoy together all the happiness of the most perfect friendship.”