ant their rest at last."

On the 23d of December--I will not say how few or how many years after
those doings and that violent agitation which my friend Graefin May has
striven to make coherent in the last chapter--I, with my great-coat on
my arm, stood waiting for the train which was to bear me ten miles away
from the sleepy old musical ducal Hauptstadt, in which I am Herzoglicher
Kapellmeister, to Rothenfels, where I was bidden to spend Christmas. I
had not long to wait. Having ascertained that my bag was safe, in which
reposed divers humble proofs of my affection for the friends of the
past, I looked leisurely out as the train came in for a second-class
carriage, and very soon found what I wanted. I shook hands with an
acquaintance, and leaned out of the window, talking to him till the
train started. Then for the first time I began to look at my
fellow-traveler; a lady, and most distinctly not one of my own
countrywomen, who, whatever else they may excel in, emphatically do not
know how to clothe themselves for traveling. Her veil was down, but her
face was turned toward me, and I thought I knew something of the grand
sweep of the splendid shoulders and majestic bearing of the stately
form. She soon raised her veil, and looking at me, said, with a grave
bow:

"Herr Helfen, how do you do?"

"Ah, pardon me, _gnaedige Frau_; for the moment I did not recognize you.
I hope you are well."

"Quite well, thank you," said she, with grave courtesy; but I saw that
her beautiful face was thin and worn, her pallor greater than ever.

She had never been a person much given to mirthfulness; but now she
looked as if all smiles had passed forever from her lips--a certain
secret sat upon them, and closed them in an outline, sweet, but utterly
impenetrable.

"You are going to Rothenfels, I presume?" she said.

"Yes. And you also?"

"I also--somewhat against my will; but I did not want to hurt my
sister's feelings. It is the first time I have left home since my
husband's death."

I bowed. Her face did not alter. Calm, sad, and staid--whatever storms
had once shaken that proud heart, they were lulled forever now.

Two years ago Adelaide von Francius had buried keen grief and sharp
anguish, together with vivid hope or great joy, with her noble husband,
whom we had mourned bitterly then, whom we yet mourn in our hearts, and
whom we shall continue to mourn as long as we live.

May's passionate conviction that he and she shou