change in her mind, and hardened
the gentle, tender feelings of the young girl. Grief had steeled her
soul, benumbed her heart, and she had risen from her couch as one born
anew to grief and torture. Her present situation and lost happiness had
changed the young, loving, tenderly-sensitive maiden to the
courageous, energetic, and defiant woman, who recognized a future of
self-renunciation, combat, and resignation.

Trude observed these changes with disquietude and care. She wished Marie
would only once complain, or burst into tears. After the first storm of
despair had passed, the tears refused to flow, and her eyes were bright
and undimmed. Only once had profound emotion been awakened, as Trude
asked her if she had forgotten her unhappy lover, and cared no more to
learn his fate. It had the desired effect.

A deathly paleness overspread her delicate, transparent cheek. "I know
how he is," she said, turning away her face, "I realize his sufferings
by my own. We are miserable, lost--and no hope but in death. Ere this
comes, there is a desert to traverse in heat, and dust, and storm, and
frost, alone, without consolation or support. Hush, Trude! do not seek
to revive miserable hopes. I know my fate, and I will endure it. Tell me
what you know about him? Where is he? Have they accused him? Speak! do
not fear to tell me every thing!" But fearing herself, she threw her
handkerchief quickly over her face, and sat with it covered whilst Trude
spoke.

"I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to
his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his
effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least
suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet,
regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded,
as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and
Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having
left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But,"
continued Trude, in a lower tone, "Herr Gedicke looked very sad and
grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. 'He has disappeared,' he
sighed, 'and I know not if we shall ever see him again.' 'Oh, Jemima!' I
screamed, 'you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!' 'No,'
said the director, 'not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others
have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.' It was in vain to
ask further