V. W.
SEVER KKW.
ing us like a barrier, and that we should be feparated distresses me
more than anything else.
This afternoon I have strolled about in the wood, taking the
same path as we took this morning. A longing as for an infinitely
beloved one filled my soul. Late in the evening I passed her lodging,
after I had sought everywhere for her in vain. She was at the
window. I called up, "Aren’t you coming down?" She replied
coldly, it seemed to me, “I am tired. Goodnight,” and shut the
window.
I have two distinct images of Friederika in my mind. Generally
1 think of her as a pale, gentle woman sitting in the garden in a
ste morning gown acting like a mother to me, andÑroking my
cheeks in a motherly way. Had this been the Friederika whom I
have met here my peace of mind would certainly have not been
disturbed, and I might have continued to lie and dream away the
afternoons under the shade of the beaches, as in the early days
of my sojourn here.
But there is, too, a quite different Friederika in my thoughts,
whom I have only once seen, and that was in the memorable last
hour which I spent in the little country town. It was the day I had
received my final certificate. I had dined as usual with the professor
and his wife, and as I had no wish to be seen off at the station
I had said goodtye when we rose from the table. I was not in
the least affected. Only when I sat on the bed in my "empty
bedroom, with my boxes prcked andenepped at my feet, garing
out through the wide-open widow at the undblating foliage of the
garden and the whiteilouds which hung motionless over the hills,
did the sadness of (partiug s'teal gently, almost soothingly, over me.
Suddenly the door opened and Friederika came in. I stood up
luickly. She advanced nearer, leaned on the table, placing her
hands behind her for support, and regarded me earnestly. quite
softly she said, “So you are going away to-day?” I nodded, and
for the first time felt very acutely how sorry I was that I was
obliged to go. She placed at the floor, and was for a moment
silent. Then she raised her head, and came diser to me. She laid
both hands lightly on my hair, as she had constantly done before,
but at this moment I felt that it meant something more than
usual.ifext she'let her hands glide slowly over my cheek, and her
gazeebsted on me with intensity. She shook her head with an
expression of pain, as if there was something that puzzled her.
"Must you really go to-day?" she asked softly. “Yes,” I said.
“For good?” she explained. “No, ” I answered. ”Oh, yes, it’s for
good,” she said with themselves lips, as if on the point of erying,
"it's for ever. Even if you come back again in two or three years
to see us, you leave us to-day for ever.”
She untered these words with a tenderness that had nothing
maternal in it. They thrilled through me. And suddenly she kissed