She could not say more, as Wilhelm, who had come near her, looked at her with wide-open, far-seeing eyes, and suddenly threw his arms round her.  She cried out softly, and sank on his breast.  “Loulou,” “Wilhelm,” was all they said.  It had happened so quickly, so unconsciously, that they both felt as if they were awaking from a dream, as Loulou a minute later freed herself from his burning lips and encircling arms, and Wilhelm, confused and hardly master of his senses, stood before her.  They turned silently homeward.  She trembled all over and did not dare to take his arm.  He inwardly reproached himself, yet he felt very happy in spite of it.  Then, before they had reached the summit of the castle hill, he gathered all his courage together and said anxiously: 

“Can you forgive me, Loulou?  I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Wilhelm,” she answered, and stretched out her hand to him.

“Dare I speak to your mother, my own Loulou?” whispered he into her ear.

“Not here, Wilhelm,” she said quickly, “not here.  You do not know my parents well enough yet.  Wait till we are in Berlin.”

“I will do as you like,” sighed he, and took leave of her with an eloquent glance, as they reached the hotel.

On this evening a quantity of curious things happened, which Wilhelm so far had not observed in spite of his studies in natural science.  He could not touch his dinner, and Herr and Frau Ellrich’s voices, against all the laws of acoustics, seemed to come from the far distance, and several minutes elapsed before the sounds reached his ears, although he sat close to the speakers.  The waiters and hotel guests looked odd, and seemed to swim in a kind of rosy twilight.  In the sky there seemed to be three times as many stars as usual.  When the Ellrichs had withdrawn he went toward midnight alone into the fir woods, and heard unknown birds sing, caught strange and magic harmonies in the rustling of the branches, and felt as if he walked on air.  He went to bed in the gray of early dawn, after writing from his overflowing heart the following letter to his friend Haber in Berlin: 

“My dearest Paul:  I am happy as I never thought of being happy.  I love an unspeakably beautiful sweet brown maiden, and I really think she loves me too.  Do not ask me to describe her.  No words or brush could do it.  You will see her and worship her.  Oh, Paul, I could shout and jump or cry like a child.  It is too foolish, and yet so unspeakably splendid, I can hardly understand how the dull, stupid people in this house can sleep so indifferently while she is under the same roof.  If only you were here!  I can hardly bear my happiness alone.  I write this in great haste.  Always your

“WlLHELM.”

Four days later the post brought this answer from his friend: