, which now were
standing about at convenient places along the walls.

The parts which she knew so well now meeting her as an unfamiliar whole,
delighted Ottilie. She stood still, walked up and down, looked and
looked again; at last she seated herself in one of the chairs, and it
seemed, as she gazed up and down, as if she was, and yet was not--as if
she felt and did not feel--as if all this would vanish from before her,
and she would vanish from herself; and it was only when the sun left the
window, on which before it had been shining full, that she awoke to
possession of herself and hastened back to the castle.

She did not hide from herself the strange epoch at which this surprise
had occurred to her. It was the evening of Edward's birthday. Very
differently she had hoped to keep it. How was not every thing to be
dressed out for this festival and now all the splendor of the autumn
flowers remained ungathered! Those sunflowers still turned their faces
to the sky; those asters still looked out with quiet, modest eye; and
whatever of them all had been wound into wreaths had served as patterns
for the decorating a spot which, if it was not to remain a mere
artist's fancy, was only adapted as a general mausoleum.

And then she had to remember the impetuous eagerness with which Edward
had kept her birthday-feast. She. thought of the newly erected lodge,
under the roof of which they had promised themselves so much enjoyment.
The fireworks flashed and hissed again before her eyes and ears; the
more lonely she was, the more keenly her imagination brought it all
before her. But she felt herself only the more alone. She no longer
leant upon his arm, and she had no hope ever any more to rest herself
upon it.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"I have been struck with an observation of the young architect.

"In the case of the creative artist, as in that of the artisan, it is
clear that man is least permitted to appropriate to himself what is most
entirely his own. His works forsake him as the birds forsake the nest in
which they were hatched.

"The fate of the Architect is the strangest of all in this way. How
often he expends his whole soul, his whole heart and passion, to produce
buildings into which he himself may never enter. The halls of kings owe
their magnificence to him; but he has no enjoyment of them in their
splendor. In the temple he draws a partition line between himself and
the Holy of Holies; he may never more set his