loving woman!--rather death by my own hand!

The wind put out the fire, filling the room with smoke. Lenz opened the
window and gazed out. No light now in the blacksmith's house; he is
buried in the dark ground. Would I too were at rest from my many
sorrows!

The air was warm, unnaturally warm. The water dripped from the roof;
from the bare mountain-top to the valley below, the wind was rushing
and roaring as if one gust were driving hard upon another. There was a
rattling and rumbling on the heights behind the house. The tempest, in
rage at the loss of its playground in the forest, seemed to be wreaking
its vengeance on the chestnut and pines in the garden, twisting them
till they creaked and groaned. It was well that his house was firm in
its stout oaken beams, else the wind might sweep it away with all in
it. "That would be gay travelling," laughed Lenz, bitterly, starting at
the same time and casting a frightened look behind him, as the old
timbers cracked in ghostly sympathy with the misery within the
dwelling. Such words were never heard within these walls before, nor
did ever dweller here live through such a night in such a mood; neither
father, nor grandfather, nor great-grandfather.

He turned to get his writing materials, and, as he passed the mirror,
stopped involuntarily and gazed at the figure whose swollen and
bloodshot eyes were reflected there. At last he sat down and began to
Write, pausing often and pressing his hand to his eyes, then dashing
his pen along the paper again. He rubbed his eyes, but no tears fell
from them. "You have lost the power to weep," he said, hoarsely; "best
so; you have wept too much already for a man."

He wrote:--

"DEAREST FRIEND AND BROTHER: My heart is breaking as I write, but I
must talk with you once more. I think of the days and the many summer
nights I have spent in happy walk's with you, my one ever-loving
friend. It could not have been I; it was some one else. God is my
witness, and so is my mother in heaven, that I never wilfully wronged a
fellow-being. If I ever wronged or grieved you, dear brother, forgive
me. I did it not intentionally, and humbly beg your forgiveness. I am
not fit to live.

"Here is my confession; I see no escape but death. I know that to kill
myself is a sin, but to live is a greater. Every day I am a murderer. I
can bear it no longer. I spend my nights in weeping, and all the time
despise myself for it. I might have been a quiet, honest