at you say, you have in your
heart completely cut yourself off from the Lord's mercy and our faith,
and therefore it is better that things should be as they are, for you
must not play the hypocrite--anything is preferable to that. You would
destroy yourself and be of no benefit to us." She laid her hand gently
on Carmen's head, and added: "Go now, dear Sister, and tread the new
path you have chosen for yourself; and Heaven grant it may not lead to
misery! If, however, happiness deserts you, and your heart yearns
after us, like the thirsty wayfarer in the desert, then return to the
people of the Lord, that we may help you to return to Him."

She tenderly kissed the maiden's brow, pressed her to her bosom again
and again, and let her go. She followed Carmen's lovely form with her
eyes as she passed through the doorway and left the room; then, folding
her hands in prayer, she said: "Lord, forgive the child. A soul which
was entrusted to me by Thee, which I knew not how to guide aright, has
been taken from me. If she goes astray, let mine be the blame, for it
was my fault; but if she seeks Thee in another path of life, then give
her Thy peace. Ah, how much I have still to correct in myself! Yet I
would fain do my utmost for the souls Thou hast committed to my charge.
I praise Thee, and would not think of my trials, if only I am counted
worthy to suffer for Thy sake."

So Carmen was freed from the fetters she had unwillingly worn for so
long. Alexander had arranged with her and her father that she should
go to his mother at Wollmershain; but the separation from her father
was a severe trial to her loving heart. Fate had scarcely united them,
and already they must part and, knowing what misery it was to the old
man, it seemed almost more than she could bear. And yet it must be.
She promised to visit her father twice every week, and would be quick
and diligent in her home duties, so as to make her visits longer.

The days were now very lonely without the bright, cheerful presence of
his daughter; and when winter came, his own dwelling was ready to be
occupied, but all the zest and pleasure of moving into his new abode
seemed to have vanished. He took Sister Ursula, an aged widow, as his
servant and housekeeper. How he loved to sit by the window in his
room, from whence he could look out on the hill where the cemetery was
laid out! "The Brothers will soon carry me along that path," he
thought, "and it will be we