's
shadow at my side; and when he speaks to me, his tone, his manner always
seem to say, 'You are not alone; he is with you.'" Sabine started, and
lovingly passed her hand over the beautiful flowers on the table before
her, as if to dispel a painful thought. She could not tell him that she
was free from that long-felt sorrow. Now, however, when he had lost a
friend whom he so much loved, she must show him that there were other
hearts that clung to him still. And again she walked up and down, trying
to devise a way of speaking to him alone.

Dinner was announced. Anton came with the rest, and took his place at
once. There was no opportunity of exchanging a word during the meal, but
he often met her sad and sympathizing eye. "He eats nothing at all
to-day," whispered her cousin; "not even any of the roast," she added,
reproachfully. Sabine was much perturbed. Mr. Jordan had already risen;
Anton would leave the room with the rest, and she should not see him
again the whole day through. So she called out, "The great Calla is
fully blown now. You were admiring the buds the other day; will you
remain a moment; I should like to show it you?" Anton bowed and staid
behind. A few more awkward moments, then her brother rose too; and,
hurrying to Anton, she took him to the room where the flowers were.

"You have had sorrowful tidings to-day," she began.

"The tidings themselves did not surprise me," replied Anton. "The doctor
gave no hope. But I lose much in him."

"I never saw him," said Sabine; "but I know from you that his life was
lonely--poor in affection and in enjoyment."

She moved an arm-chair toward Anton, and led him on to talk about his
friend. She listened to every word with warm sympathy, and well knew
what to ask and how to comfort. It was a relief to Anton to speak of the
departed one, to describe his quiet way of life, his erudition, his
poetical enthusiasm. After a pause, Sabine looked up frankly into his
face, and asked, "Have you any tidings of Herr von Fink?"

It was the first time since his departure that she had ever breathed his
name. Anton felt how touching her confidence was, given in this hour of
his sadness. In his emotion, he seized her hand, which she was slow in
withdrawing.

"He is not happy in his new life," he gravely replied. "There was a
savage humor in his last letter, from which I gather, even more than
from his actual words, that the business into which his uncle's death
has thrown him