worthy of execration, I will atone for it; I
will atone for it with my life!"

While Georg was pacing up and down the room, Adrian gathered his books
together, saying: "B-r-r-r, Junker, how you look to-day! One might be
afraid of you. Mother is in there already. The tinder-box is rattling;
she is probably lighting the lamp."

"Are you busy?" asked Georg. "I've finished."

"Then run over to Wilhelm Corneliussohn and tell him it is settled:
we'll meet at nine, punctually at nine."

"At Aquarius's tavern?" asked the boy.

"No, no, he knows; make haste, my lad."

Adrian was going, but Georg beckoned to him, and said in a low tone:
"Can you be silent?"

"As a fried sole."

"I shall slip out of the city to-day, and perhaps may never return."

"You, Junker? To-day?" asked the boy.

"Yes, dear lad. Come here, give me a farewell kiss. You must keep this
little ring to remember me." The boy submitted to the kiss, put the ring
on his finger, and said with tearful eyes: "Are you in earnest? Yes,
the famine! God knows I'd run after you, if it were not for Bessie and
mother. When will you come back again?"

"Who knows, my lad! Remember me kindly, do you hear? Kindly! And now
run."

Adrian rushed down the stairs, and a few minutes after the Junker was
standing in Peter's study, face to face with Maria. The shutters were
closed, and the sconce on the table had two lighted candles.

"Thanks, a thousand thanks for coming," said Georg. "You pronounced my
sentence yesterday, and to-day--"

"I know what brings you to me," she answered gently. "Henrica has bidden
me farewell, and I must not keep her. She doesn't wish to have you
accompany her, but Meister Wilhelm betrayed the secret to me. You have
come to say farewell."

"Yes, Maria, farewell forever."

"If it is God's will, we shall see each other again. I know what is
driving you away from here. You are good and noble, Georg, and if there
is one thing that lightens the parting, it is this: We can now think of
each other without sorrow and anger. You will not forget us, and--you
know that the remembrance of you will be cherished here by old and
young--in the hearts of all--"

"And in yours also, Maria?"

"In mine also."

"Hold it firmly. And when the storm has blown out of your path the poor
dust, which to-day lives and breathes, loves and despairs, grant it a
place in your memory."

Maria shuddered, for deep despair looked forth with a sullen glow
from the eyes