manda, with unconscious gladness
in the air.

Pilgrim wished to become rich, to be a great artist, and thus one
day to aspire to Amanda. He came home poor, and in tatters. Many
received him with unfeeling derision, but Amanda said--she was grown
taller and less slender, but her brown eyes still sparkled with
kindness:--"Pilgrim, be thankful that you have not lost your health,
and don't be downhearted, but keep up your spirits."

And he did keep up his spirits. From that time he accustomed himself to
love her, and to admire her, in the same way that he did the stately
old limetree in his neighbour's garden, or the stars in heaven. No one
ever heard a word, or saw the slightest indication of his love, not
even Amanda herself; and, like the legend of certain precious gems
which shine in the night like the sun, so did his secret passion for
Amanda, light up the life of Pilgrim. Often he did not see her for
weeks, and when he did see her, his manner was as calm as if he had met
a stranger. One thought, however, constantly occupied him; that of
whose home she was to brighten. He wished to leave the world without
her ever having divined what she had been to him; but he hoped to see
her happy. Lenz was the only man to whom he could willingly give her
up, for they were worthy of each other, and he wished to nurse their
children, and to amuse them by his whole stock of jests. Now this hope
was gone for ever, and Pilgrim firmly believed that Lenz stood on the
brink of an abyss.

So he sat absorbed in a painful reverie, shaking his head from time to
time mournfully, till he put out the lamp, saying:--"I never was of use
to myself, so what chance have I to be of use to others?"

In the meanwhile Lenz was on his way homewards. He walked slowly. He
was so weary, that he was forced to rest on a heap of stones beside the
road. When he reached the "Lion" inn all was dark, and no star was
shining, for the sky was covered with heavy clouds. Lenz stood still,
and he felt as if the house must fall on him and crush him.

He went home: Franzl was asleep: he awoke her; he must positively have
one human being to rejoice with him; Pilgrim seemed to have strewed
ashes on all his glad hopes.

Franzl was delighted with the news she heard, and Lenz could not help
smiling when Franzl, as a proof that she knew what love was,--alas! she
knew it only too well!--related, for the hundredth time at least, her
"unhappy love," as she always called it.