e and I felt there
was no place on earth where I should find her again.

Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her every evening. We soon
realized that we were in truth old acquaintances and that we could only
call each other Thou. It seemed also as if we had lived near and with
one another always, for she manifested not an emotion that did not find
its counterpart in my soul, and there was no, thought which I uttered
to which she did not nod friendly assent, as much as to say: "I thought
so too." I had previously heard the greatest master of our time and
his sister extemporize on the piano, and scarcely comprehended how two
persons could understand and feel themselves so perfectly and yet
never, not even in a single note, disturb the harmony of their playing.
Now it became intelligible to me. Yes, now I understood for the first
time that my soul was not so poor and empty as it had seemed to me, and
that it had been only the sun that was lacking to open all its germs,
and buds to the light. And yet what a sad and brief spring-time it was
that our souls experienced! We forget in May that roses so soon
wither, but here every evening reminded us that one leaf after another
was falling to the ground. She felt it before I did, and alluded to it
apparently without pain, and our interviews grew more earnest and
solemn daily.

One evening, as I was about to leave, she said: "I did not think I
should grow so old. When I gave you the ring on my confirmation day I
thought I should have to take my departure from you all, very soon.
And yet I have lived so many years, and enjoyed so much beauty--and
suffered so very much! But one forgets that! Now, while I feel that
my departure is near, every hour, every minute, grows precious to me.
Good night! Do not come too late to-morrow."

One day as I went into her room, I met an Italian painter with her.
She spoke Italian with him, and although he was evidently more artisan
than artist, she addressed him with such amiability and modesty, with
such respect even, one could not avoid recognizing that nobility of
soul which is the true nobility of birth. When the painter had taken
his leave, she said to me: "I wish to show you a picture which will
please you. The original is in the gallery at Paris. I read a
description of it, and have had it copied by the Italian." She showed
me the painting, and waited my opinion. It was a picture of a man of
middle age, in the old Ger