told me she had for several days remarked
my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question,
saying that my approaching departure was the cause.

"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you
like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you
were unhappy."

"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am
a prey to!"

"Why, what has happened?"

"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like
a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must
quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."

"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"

"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."

"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as
that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you
are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added
she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.

I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my
feelings in time.

"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a
few years this affection will continue?"

"Why should it not?"

"Because you will be probably married; you will have other
duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."

This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at
these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the
changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she
was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her
face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked
for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess
d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.

The same evening I received a second letter from my father,
urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand
duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make
my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of
assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence,
nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at
Gerolstein.

Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined
to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now
that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

Just as I finished this letter, my