"My dear count," said Veronica, with her simple frankness, "that is not truthfully and sincerely spoken; for our great interest in you could not have escaped your notice. You would have needed no other pretext for sending a letter than the consciousness that by doing so you would give us pleasure. Yet Heaven forbid that this should seem like a reproach; we have not the smallest right to make one. We must even be grateful that when here you bestow many an hour upon us. I, at least, make no claim to occupy a place in your memory." "_You_ do not? But, Fräulein, Cornelia?" asked _Heinrich_, watchfully. "Nor does Cornelia; yet she took your silence less calmly than I. In such matters youth is more unreasonable than age." _Heinrich_ no longer controlled himself. "Tell me, where is she?" "Who? Cornelia? She has gone out." "Gone out!" exclaimed _Heinrich_. "Gone out, and I set out again at ten o'clock to-night to remain absent for weeks! For months I have longed for her society, and now shall not see her! I hear she is angry with me, and shall not be able to defend myself! I have caused her pain, and cannot make amends! Oh, tell me where she is, the sweet, lovely creature!" "Alas, my dear count, I cannot," replied Veronica, while a shadow stole over her face. "Why not? Do you not know?" "I know, but----" "Then tell me, my dear, kind, motherly friend. You are weeping: what is the matter with Cornelia? I must know!" "You are completely beside yourself," exclaimed Veronica. "Well, I cannot help it; I must tell you. She is in the churchyard." "In the churchyard?" asked _Heinrich_, in amazement. "Cornelia goes there every day and mourns over the grave of a friend. Go, my dear count, go to her; I see you feel more affection for her than we supposed. Ah, I hope your presence may exert a favorable influence upon the poor child." "What is the matter with her?" asked _Heinrich_. "She was once betrothed----" "I know it," he interrupted. "But her lover died under very painful circumstances." "That I know also." "She seemed to have long since ceased to grieve over the unfortunate affair; but some time ago the old affection and sorrow broke forth afresh. She has become silent and sad; goes to his grave every day, and at night it often seems to me as if she were weeping gently." _Heinrich_ heard all this with strange emotion. "You have an influence over Cornelia," continued Veronica, amid her tears; "if you could cheer my child, remove the black shadow from our once sunny life, under what infinite obligations you would place me!" "I will!" cried _Heinrich_, pressing Veronica's hand to his lips. "Is she in St. Stephen's churchyard, where the revolutionists are buried?" "Yes," replied Veronica. "Farewell till we meet again." And he hurried out of the house.