shake hands for the last time and bid each other farewell.

"Let me go a little bit of the way with you, Anna Sophia," said Charles
Henry; "it is so dark, so still, and soon you will go through the woods.
It is best I should be with you, for it is so fearfully gloomy. Let me
accompany you, Anna Sophia."

"I have no fear of the woods," said she, gently: "the stars above will
watch over and guard me, the moon will shed her light upon my path, it
will not be dark. I must go my way through life alone--I must have no
fear of any thing, not even of death. Leave me now, and be careful that
you are seen by no one during the whole of tomorrow in my house. No one
will go there tomorrow, for I have left word in the village that I am
going on a visit to my aunt at Cleve. I have prepared your meals for
you; the table is set, and above, in my room, you will find books
to read. You can stand it for one day, tomorrow evening you will be
released. Farewell, Charles Henry!"

"Do not go, Anna Sophia," said he, weeping and trembling; "I will go. I
will force my heart to be courageous! You must stay here."

"It is too late," said Anna: "nor could you do it, Charles Henry.
You are afraid of the dark woods, and what comes beyond is much more
fearful. We have taken leave of each other, the worst is past. Kiss your
father for me, and when at times you are sitting upon the old bench,
remind him of Anna Sophia."

"I will obey you," whispered he.

But Anna was not listening to him; she had turned from him, and was
hastening down the road.

The moon saw it all! She saw the tears steal slowly from Anna Sophia's
eyes, and fall unknown to herself upon her cheek, as she turned her back
upon her old home and hastened forward to a life of danger, privation,
and want. She saw Charles Henry leaning upon the door of the old
school-house, staring after Anna with a trembling heart until the
last glimpse of her was lost in the distant woods. He then entered the
school-house and fastened the door behind him. His heart was heavy and
sorrowful, he was ashamed of himself; he was sorry for what he had done,
but had not the strength to change it; and as he went over Anna Sophia's
departure, he was inwardly rejoiced that he himself was to remain at
home.

On the morning of the second day after Anna's departure, there was a
great stir in the village, there were two astounding reports to excite
the community. Charles Henry Buschman had returned from Cleve; th