eve.

So they came down to the bridge, which abuts on an island and
accommodates the tram passing from the Ostbahnhof to the Marien Platz.
The Isarthor rose up grimly between the city lights and their view.
Above was the golden moon. Behind, the black outlines of the suburb
which they had just quitted.

"Let us stop here," he proposed, pausing by the bridge rail, and she
stayed her steps in obedience.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the passers-by were few. They had the
bridge quite to themselves; the water running beneath murmured gently,
but did not interrupt even their unvoiced thoughts.

The man took out his _etui_ and lit another cigarette, sinking his
sombre gaze meanwhile deep into the stream below. His companion leaned
upon the stone parapet.

And then he sighed most heavily.

"It is the autumn," he said; "all the summer is over. _Tout est fini!_"
There was a profound melancholy in his voice which threw a band of iron
about her throat and choked all power of speech out of her. "How little
I know last May of what this summer brings," he continued; "I have
believe that all summers were to come alike to me."

A tram approached and crossed behind them with a mighty rumble. When all
was still he spoke again, and the tone of his voice was childishly
wistful.

"I did not know, there in Lucerne, before you came, how happy I might
be. You are not so wonderful, but to me you are now a need, like air
which I must breathe to live."

There was an anguish underlying his words which set her heart to aching
intolerably.

"Oh," she gasped helplessly, "let us walk on! Let us go home! I cannot
bear to hear all that again."

She turned to go, but he caught her hand in his.

"I must speak," he said forcefully, though in the lowest possible tones;
"it is perhaps the tenth time, but it is certainly the last time. Will
you not think once more again of it all, and say here now that you love
me?"

He held her hand so tightly that it was impossible for her to withdraw
it. She looked up in his face, and the moon showed each the unfeigned
feeling of the other.

"You don't know about marriage," she told him with white lips and
laboring breath. "One may be very unhappy alone, and there is always the
strength to bear, but when you are married and unhappiness comes, there
is always that other unhappiness chained to you like a clog, shutting
out all joy in the present, all hope in the future; and nothing can help
you, and yo