he garden entrance, through which the odor of sweet
flowers and the song of birds was wafted with every gentle zephyr, stood
Goethe, looking at the woman whom he had so passionately loved for three
years, so absorbingly, that to her were consecrated all his thoughts.

He could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself
at her feet. "Oh, Charlotte, I love you, only you, and once more I am by
your side!"

A shriek! was it a cry of surprise or delight? Who let the guitar fall
to the floor, he or she? Who embraced the other in affectionate haste,
he or she? Who pressed the lips so lovingly to the other lips, he or
she? And who said, "I love you? What bliss to again repose in your
affection, I would fain die now. In this moment a whole life has been
consecrated, for love has revealed to us our other self."

She sat upon the tabouret, and Goethe still knelt before her,
clasping her feet and pressing them to his bosom. His eyes beamed with
inexpressible delight as he regarded the face, usually so calm and
indifferent--today glowing as sunrise.

"Oh, tell me, Charlotte, have you thought of me? But rather speak to me
with your eyes, and may they be more than the cruel lips which refuse to
confess. Oh, shade not those loved orbs, which are my stars shining upon
me, whithersoever I wander. They are my light, my spring-time, and my
love. They will never cease to beam upon me, as light and love never
grow old. Let me read eternal youth in those eyes, and the secrets which
rest as pearls in the depths of your heart. Only tell me, is the pearl
of love to be found there, and is it mine?"

"It would be a misfortune if it were there," she whispered, with a sweet
smile. "Pearls are the result of a malady, and my heart would be ill if
the pearl of love were found there. No, no, rise, Wolf, dear Wolf,
we have given away at the first moment of meeting; let us now be
reasonable, and speak in a dignified manner with each other, as it
becomes a married woman and her friend."

"Friend?" repeated Goethe, impetuously; "forever must I listen to this
hated, hypocritical word, which, like a priest's robe, shall cover the
sacred glow in my heart? I have told you, Charlotte, that I am not
your friend, and I never shall be. There is not the least spark of this
still, calm fire of the earthly moderation in me, by which one could
cook his potatoes, or his daily vegetables, but by which one could never
prepare food for the gods, o