eaven. They have no share in the world's cares and troubles.
And thus it often seemed to Irma as if she were withdrawing herself
from human sight, conversation and sympathy, into the one great idea in
which she was wholly absorbed.

She went into the hut, and with her pencil wrote these few words in her
journal:

"I desire my brother to give a marriage portion to Gundel and Franz,
after my death, so that they may establish a household of their own."

Thereupon she wrapped the journal in the bandage which she had worn on
her brow, and, placing her hand on it, vowed that she would not write
another word in it. She had recorded enough of her self-questionings
and of what her eyes had beheld, to reconcile her with the friend whom
she had so deeply injured, as well as with herself. The days that still
remained to her, she desired to spend completely, and with herself.

Franz had brought word that Walpurga would not come that day, as her
boy was unwell, but that she hoped to come without fail on the
following Sunday. Irma was almost pleased at the opportunity thus
afforded her to become accustomed to her present life, before being
obliged to converse with any one who knew her. She was now surrounded
by people to whom her past was unknown. They indulged her wish to be
alone, and only addressed her when she asked them a question.

The second and third Sundays passed by, but Walpurga did not come,
although she sent up some bread and salt. Irma scarcely cared to
conjecture the cause of her absence.

How scornfully Irma had once repelled the thought of "a life in which
nothing happens"; but now she realized it in herself, without the
slightest feeling, on her part, that it might have been otherwise. She
worked but little, and would lie for hours on her favorite spot on the
hillside.

Nature shed its kindly influence upon her. She greeted the dews of
early morn, and the dews of evening moistened her locks. Like
surrounding nature, she was calm and happy and without a wish. But in
the night, when she looked up at the starry skies which, from the
mountain height, were clearer and brighter, her soul soared into the
infinite. She gazed on the mountains, unchanged since the day of their
creation, peaks which no human foot had ever trod, which only the
clouds could touch and on which the eagle's eye had rested. Familiar as
she was with the life of plants and birds, she now scarcely regarded
them. They seemed part of herself, just