Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain long, but took his leave with regret.  There was something impressive in the scene he had witnessed;—­this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer morning,—­the labor of life accomplished, the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet,—­thinking it was angel’s music, when he heard the church-bells ring; himself too old to go.  As he walked back to his chamber, he thought within himself, whether he likewise might not accomplish something, which should live after him;—­might not bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence.  He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, but must sit at home and read the bible in large print.  His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret, that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamed only.  Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-menots.  It is only after mid-summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear.  Then, the heat of the day brings forward the harvest, and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.  Much meditating upon these things, Paul Flemming reached his hotel.  At that moment a person clad in green came down the church-steps, and crossed the street.  It was the German student, of Interlachen.  Flemming started as if a green snake had suddenly crossed his path.  He took refuge in his chamber.

That night as he was sitting alone in his chamber, having made his preparation to depart the following morning, his attention was arrested by the sound of a female voice in the next room.  A thin partition, with a door, separated it from his own.  He had not before observed that the room was occupied.  But, in the stillness of the night, the tones of that voice struck his ear.  He listened.  It was a lady, reading the prayers of the English Church.  The tones were familiar; and awakened at once a thousand painfully sweet recollections.  It was the voice of Mary Ashburton!  His heart could not be deceived; and all its wounds began to bleed afresh, like those of a murdered man, when the murderer approaches.  His first impulse was of affection only, boundless, irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of Interlachen.  He waited for the voice to cease; that he might go to her, and behold her face once more.  And then his pride rose up within him, and rebuked this weakness.  He remembered his firm resolve; and blushed to find himself so feeble.  And the voice ceased; and yet he did not go.  Pride had so far gained the mastery over affection.  He lay down upon his bed, like a child as he was.  All about him was silence, and the silence was holy, for she was near; so near that he could almost hear the beating of her heart.  He knew now for the first time how weak he was, and how strong his passion for that woman.  His heart was like the altar of the Israelites of old; and, though drenched with tears, as with rain, it was kindled at once by the holy fire from heaven!