t midday. I felt some
secret foreboding that it would, one day, be to me the scene of some
happiness or misery.

I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of
going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to
meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached
the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We
conversed on many subjects, and, without perceiving it, approached the
gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself
beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to remain
long seated. I got up, and stood before her, then walked backward and
forward, and sat down again. I was restless and miserable. Charlotte
drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the moonlight, which threw
a silver hue over the terrace in front of us, beyond the beech trees.
It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more striking by the darkness
which surrounded the spot where we were. We remained for some time
silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, it
brings to my remembrance all my beloved and departed friends, and I
am filled with thoughts of death and futurity. We shall live again,
Werther!" she continued, with a firm but feeling voice; "but shall we
know one another again what do you think? what do you say?"

"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled with
tears, "we shall see each other again--here and hereafter we shall meet
again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question
to me, just at the moment when the fear of our cruel separation filled
my heart?

"And oh! do those departed ones know how we are employed here? do they
know when we are well and happy? do they know when we recall their
memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade
of my mother hovers around me; when seated in the midst of my children,
I see them assembled near me, as they used to assemble near her; and
then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down
upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last
moments, to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then
exclaim, 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately
supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and,
still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet
saint! the peace and ha