that lightens the parting, it is this: We can now think of
each other without sorrow and anger. You will not forget us, and--you
know that the remembrance of you will be cherished here by old and
young--in the hearts of all--"

"And in yours also, Maria?"

"In mine also."

"Hold it firmly. And when the storm has blown out of your path the poor
dust, which to-day lives and breathes, loves and despairs, grant it a
place in your memory."

Maria shuddered, for deep despair looked forth with a sullen glow from
the eyes that met hers. Seized with an anxious foreboding, she exclaimed:
"What are you thinking of, Georg? for Christ's sake! tell me what is in
your mind."

"Nothing wrong, Maria, nothing wrong. We birds now sing differently.
Whoever can saunter, with lukewarm blood and lukewarm pleasures, from one
decade to another in peace and honor, is fortunate. My blood flows in a
swifter course, and what my eager soul has once clasped with its polyp
arms, it will never release until the death-hour comes. I am going, never
to return; but I shall take you and my love with me to battle, to the
grave.--I go, I go--"

"Not so, Georg, you must not part from me thus." Then cry: 'Stay!' Then
say: 'I am here and pity you!' But don't expect the miserable wretch,
whom you have blinded, to open his eyes, behold and enjoy the beauties of
the world. "Here you stand, trembling and shaking, without a word for him
who loves you, for him--him--"

The youth's voice faltered with emotion and sighing heavily, he pressed
his hand to his brow. Then he seemed to recollect himself and continued
in a low, sad tone: "Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the
state of my heart. You should hear sweet words, but grief and pain will
pour bitter drops into everything I say. I have uttered in the language
of poetry, when my heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses
no power of expression. Read these pages, Maria, and if they wake an echo
in your soul, oh! treasure it. The honeysuckle in your garden needs a
support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be
the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine its
tendrils and cling lovingly. Read, oh! read, and then say once more: 'You
are dear to me,' or send me from you."

"Give it to me," said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.

He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes
followed hers while she was reading.