Good Madame Steinberger had evidently heard something of what had occurred at the professor’s house. She had been very kind to me, and was kind still; but her reverence for Professor Haas somewhat jostled with her regard for her young lodger. I would sit for hours in the evening, dreaming of the past, thinking of Louise, dwelling upon happy hours that were never to return. And then Madame Steinberger would come and attempt to comfort me, saying, that it was mere boy and girl’s love, and would soon pass away: that I and the young lady would both soon forget, and that she doubted not to see us both happy parents. If she had taken up a red-hot skewer, and thrust it into my heart, she would not have produced more wretchedness than she did by her mode of consolation. No consolation—no thought—no philosophy was of any avail. It was a period of intense bitterness, filled with many varied emotions, but all of them most painful. Had my love been more ardent, more vehement than it was, my condition would probably have been less sad. I should have striven—I should have resisted—but a dark and gloomy feeling took possession of my mind, that all who loved me, all who felt an interest in me were destined to be lost to me, almost as soon as I felt the blessing of their sympathy and kindness. I was more miserable than I can describe: there was nothing to stimulate: to spur on endeavor: to rouse up dormant energy. It was all dull, blank, monotonous, melancholy inactivity. Three weeks had passed in this manner, when one evening, as I was sitting in the larger room, where good Frau Steinberger had kindled a fire, with my feet upon the andirons, my head leaning on my hand, and a book which I had vainly endeavored to read, fallen on the floor by my side, there was a step in the passage and the door opened. I took no notice: I cared for nothing: I was without hope or expectation: I was once more cast upon the world—the fragment of a wreck upon the wide ocean. Suddenly a voice sounded near me, which I knew right well. “Louis,” it said. “Louis, can you forgive me? Louis, will you save me—will you save my child?” I started up, and gazed upon the figure before me. I could hardly believe it was my old friend the professor, so pale, so worn, so sorrow-stricken was his look. I instantly clasped his extended hand in mine. “My dear, good friend,” I said, “what have I to forgive? I never sought to bring sorrow or discomfort to your door—I would rather have died. That is all I have to say. Tell me what I have to do—tell me what you would wish, and I am ready to do it.” “Come to Louise,” he said, wringing my hand hard. “Come to Louise—I have been a fool—a madman—a mercenary wretch. You only can save her—Come to her—come to her at once!” I trembled violently, but I snatched up my hat, exclaiming, “let us go,” and rushed out of the house before him.