g! the larks sing, the jonquils fill the air
with odour; the bird's cherry-tree waves in the morning breeze; the
cherry blossoms open themselves to the bees which hum about in their
bosom. The sun shines on all its children.

Louise is walking in the middle alley, Father Noah's sermon in her hand,
but with her eyes fixed on the little poem appended to it, which by no
means had anything to do with Father Noah. The Candidate comes towards
her from a cross walk, with a gloomy air, and with a black pansy in his
hand.

The two meet, and salute each other silently.

Jacobi. Might I speak one moment with you? I will not detain you long.

Louise bows her head, is silent, and blushes.

Jacobi. In an hour's time I shall take my departure, but I must beseech
of you to answer me one question before I say farewell to you!

Louise. You going! Where? Why?

Jacobi. Where, is indifferent to me, so that I leave this place; why,
because I cannot bear the unkindness of one person who is dear to me,
and who, I once thought, cherished a friendship for me! For fourteen
days you have behaved in such a way to me as has embittered my life; and
why? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you, or to excite your
displeasure? Why then delay explaining the cause to me? Is it right to
sentence any one unheard, and that one a friend--a friend from
childhood? Is it right--pardon me, Louise--is it Christian, to be so
severe, so immovable? In the sermons which you are so fond of rending,
do you find nothing said of kindness and reconciliation!

Jacobi spoke with a fervour, and with such an almost severe seriousness,
as was quite foreign to his gentle and cheerful spirit.

"I have done wrong," replied Louise, with a deep emotion, "very wrong,
but I have been misled; at some future time, perhaps, I may tell you
how. Since last evening, I know how deceived I have been, how I have
deceived myself; and now God be thanked and praised, I know that nobody
is to blame in this affair but myself. I have much, very much, to
reproach myself with, on account of my reserve towards my own family,
and towards you also. Forgive me, best Jacobi," continued she, offering
her hand with almost humility; "forgive me, I have been very unkind to
you; but believe me," added she, "neither have I been happy either!"

"Thanks! thanks, Louise!" exclaimed Jacobi, grasping her hand, and
pressing it to his breast and to his lips; "oh, how happy this kindness
makes me! Now I c