to be true, and always to love me. Though many years may
pass, Anna Sophia, before we meet again, I will never cease to love you,
never cease to think of you."

"This will I also do, Charles Henry," said Anna, solemnly. "My thoughts
will be with you daily, hourly; your name will be constantly upon my
lips!"

Charles Henry turned pale. He understood the ambiguous meaning of this
oath, and it cut him to the heart.

"And now, good-night, Anna Sophia," said the old shepherd; "to-morrow
evening, when your work is done, I will await you here. We will have to
love and console each other. Good-night once more!"

"Good-night, dear father," whispered she, in a voice choked with tears,
as she pressed a burning kiss on his brow.

The old man took her in his arms and embraced her tenderly, then
whispered:

"To-morrow we will weep together, Anna Sophia."

Anna tore herself from his arms.

"Good-night, father!"--and then turning to Charles Henry, she said:
"When do you leave for Cleve?"

"To-night, at ten," said he; "I prefer going at night; it is much hotter
in the day, and I must be at Cleve at eight in the morning. I will be at
your door to night, to take a last look at you."

"It is all right," said she, dryly, turning from him and hastening home.

Night had come; the village night-watch had announced the tenth hour; no
light gleamed through the windows--the busy noise and bustle of day had
given place to deep quiet. The whole village was at rest, every eye was
closed. No one saw Charles Henry as he passed, with a bundle under his
arm, and took the path leading to the old school-house--no one but
the moon, that was gleaming brightly above, and was illuminating the
solitary wanderer's path.

For the first time he found Anna Sophia's door open--he had no need to
knock. He entered undisturbed with his bundle, which contained the suit
of clothes Anna had desired.

Half an hour later the door was opened, and two tall, slenderly built
young men left the house. The moon saw it all; she saw that the man with
the hat on, and with the bundle on his back, was none other than Anna
Sophia Detzloff, daughter of the old school-teacher. She saw that the
one who was following her, whose countenance was so ghastly pale--not
because the moon was shining upon it, but because he was so sad, so
truly wretched--that this other was Charles Henry Buschman, who was
coward enough to let his bride go to battle in his stead! The moon saw
them