know that it is a farewell!"

"Give it me," said Frau Helena. "He asks you," she said, after a pause,
"whether you have any objection to his applying to me for my consent to
give you to him. He does this in writing because if you do not love
him, which he fears is but too likely, as you have always seemed so
cheerful and unconcerned--he would prefer not to see you again, but to
set out without any leave-taking, and take his unhappy heart as far as
possible from hence."

The girl did not answer, and her mother too was silent. Suddenly Frau
Helena felt her child's arms around her neck, her tears on her cheek,
while her soft little mouth whispered in her ear. "I should have died,
dearest mother, if he had not loved me." Then her mother took her upon
her knee as she had not done since she was a child, pressed her closely
to her heart, and said with trembling voice, "God bless you, my good
children: you have to make up to me for much."

That night no one closed an eye till morning, when they snatched an
hour or two, and the daughter, who woke first, glad as she was that her
mother should have more rest, could yet hardly wait patiently until she
rose and went to return an answer to the young lover's letter.

When Frau Helena went upstairs, she found her guest--who had like
herself only closed his eyes a short time before--fast asleep, and so
she sat by his bedside contemplating the good innocent countenance that
beamed with hope and happiness even in its sleep. But as still he did
not wake, she called him by his name. At that he started, and in his
confusion could find no words, especially as he did not know what she
would say to his letter. But though her face remained grave, her words
at once gave him comfort and confidence. "Dear son," said she, "you
must not remain here any longer. After what you have written to my
child, it would not be fitting that I should persuade you to go on
accepting our well-meant though poor hospitality. As soon as you are
ready to set out we must part, and Valentin will let you out at the
garden door, from whence you must make your way to the 'Stork,' and
there get your horse, explaining your long absence in the most credible
way you can. And further I must insist that you do not before your
departure say a word to my daughter that might not be spoken to a
stranger. She loves you dearly, and I may truly say that I could wish
nothing more than to have so worthy a son, since my own son," and he