Henry, for I shall
bear your name."

"From now on, throughout your whole life, you shall bear it, Anna. For
when you return, you will remember your promise, and marry me. You will
not forget me when far away?"

"How do I know I shall return?" said she. "A soldier's life is in
constant danger. There can be no talk of marriage until this war is
over. But it is now time we were asleep, Charles Henry. You and I have
many things to do to-morrow; we must arrange our household affairs--you
for the sake of appearances, and I in good earnest. Good-night, then,
Charles Henry."

"Will you not kiss me on this our last night, Anna Sophia?" said he,
sadly.

"A soldier kisses no man," said she, with a weary smile. "He might
embrace a friend, as his life ebbed out upon the battle-field, but none
other, Charles Henry. Good-night."

She entered and bolted the door after her, then lighting a candle she
hastened to her attic-room. Seating herself at her father's table, she
spread a large sheet of foolscap before her and commenced writing. She
was making her will with a firm, unshaken hand. She began by taking
leave of the villagers, and implored them to forgive her for causing
them sorrow; but that life in the old hut, without her parents, had
become burdensome to her, and as her betrothed was now going away, she
could endure it no longer. She then divided her few possessions, leaving
to every friend some slight remembrance, such as ribbons, a prayer-book,
or a handkerchief. Her clothes she divided among the village wives. But
her house, with all its contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the
request that he would live in it, at least in summer.

When she had finished, she threw herself upon her bed to rest from the
many fatigues and heart-aches of the day. In her dreams her parents
appeared to her--they beckoned, kissed, and blessed her. Strengthened by
this dream, she sprang joyfully at daybreak from her couch. She felt
now assured that what she was about to do was right, for otherwise
her parents would not have appeared to her. She now continued the
preparations for her journey cheerfully. She packed all her linen
clothes into a small bundle, and then scoured and dusted her little
house carefully. Dressing herself with more than her usual care, and
putting her testament in her pocket, she left the house.

Anna took the road leading to the parsonage; she wished to go to
confession to her old pastor for the last time. He ha