ariful eagerness to be
near me, she sat by my chair, holding my hand, and sometimes looking
into my eyes to find the life reflecting hers as in a sunken well that
has once been a spring. My books and poor bachelor comforts caught her
attention between-whiles. We talked of the day of storm by the lake; we
read the unsigned letter. With her hand in mine I slept some minutes,
and awoke grasping it, doubting and terrified, so great a wave of life
lifted me up.

'No! you are not gone,' I sighed.

'Only come,' said she.

The nature of the step she had taken began to dawn on me.

'But when they miss you at the palace? Prince Ernest?'

'Hush! they have missed me already. It is done.' She said it smiling.

'Ottilia, will he take you away?'

'Us, dear, us.'

'Can you meet his anger?'

'Our aunt will be the executioner. We have a day of sweet hours before
she can arrive.'

'May I see her first?'

'We will both see her as we are now.'

'We must have prompt answers for the margravine.'

'None, Harry. I do not defend myself ever.'

Distant hills, and folds of receding clouds and skies beyond them, were
visible from my window, and beyond the skies I felt her soul.

'Ottilia, you were going to Italy?'

'Yes: or whither they please, for as long as they please. I wished once
to go, I have told you why. One of the series' (she touched the letter
lying on a reading-table beside her) 'turned the channel of all wishes
and intentions. My friends left me to fall at the mercy of this one.
I consented to the injunction that I should neither write nor receive
letters. Do I argue ill in saying that a trust was implied? Surely it
was a breach of the trust to keep me ignorant of the danger of him I
love! Now they know it. I dared not consult them--not my dear father!
about any design of mine when I had read this odd copybook writing,
all in brief sentences, each beginning "he" and "he." It struck me like
thrusts of a sword; it illuminated me like lightning. That "he" was the
heart within my heart. The writer must be some clever woman or simple
friend, who feels for us very strongly. My lover assassinated, where
could I be but with him?'

Her little Ann coming in with chocolate and strips of fine white bread
to dip in it stopped my efforts to explain the distinction between an
assassination and a duel. I noticed then the likeness of Aennchen to
Lieschen.

'She has a sister here,' said Ottilia; 'and let her bring Lieschen to
v