she was torn from him,--that he had gained nothing save the fruits of his sins. Every morning he went to meet the postman, who brought the letters to his estate, and always in vain. Fourteen times since the election he had borne the tortures of renewed and disappointed hope, had rushed towards the postman in breathless haste only to return with empty hands. He had lain awake on his couch all through the long nights, and welcomed the first ray of light as a preserver from his feverish, agonizing impatience. One morning this restlessness drove him out even earlier than usual, for it was the anniversary of the day on which Cornelia had left him. Perhaps she would give herself to him again on this day; perhaps she had waited for it intentionally. One who has hoped and expected so long at last clings to every conceivable possibility. Thus Ottmar's feet were winged with double speed as he hurried through pleasure-grounds and woodlands, to obtain that for which he longed a half-hour earlier. Wearied with his haste, he emerged from the thicket upon the highway. A fresh autumn breeze was rustling through the tops of the poplars, bending their stiff boughs asunder like the fingers of menacing giant hands. The broad, level road, with its dazzling white sand, stretched before him, endless and empty,--the storm had swept it clean; nothing was to be seen on the wide plain, and Ottmar hurried restlessly onward. Just at that moment the dark figure of the postman appeared in the distance, and with a beating heart _Heinrich_ quickened his pace. At last he reached the man, who was already holding out his bag; but again he was disappointed,--it contained nothing but unimportant business letters. The last possibility of hope had now disappeared; now he could no longer doubt that Richard had written the truth, that Cornelia was in a convent.