It was, indeed, Eugen, who stood at some little distance from her. He, too, was pale and agitated, and his voice trembled as with cast down eyes, he asked, in a low tone-- "May I--may I approach?" "No!" was the firm, grave answer. In spite of the refusal he dared to advance a step. "Gertrud, do not be so unforgiving! I know you hate me, that I have made you unhappy--" With an expression of indescribable pride Gertrud lifted her head, her eyes met his, large, and full of disdain, and not the slightest trace of agitation trembled now in her voice, but there was a touch of compassionate scorn as she replied, quietly-- "You are mistaken, Herr von Reinert; I do not hate you, and have _not_ been made unhappy through you." "Well, then, _I_ am unhappy!" said Eugen, bluntly. "Since the moment when I left you, I have never known happiness. I could not forget the past, and now that I must meet you again, I am driven to despair!" With his old passion he threw himself down where she had just been sitting, and pressed his hand against his brow. Gertrud stood before him; who, that was witness of the mute, but powerful conflict, which, but a few minutes since, had agitated the girl's whole being, would have understood the calm collectedness with which she now looked down upon her former lover. "Eugen!" He sprang up, but she gravely motioned him back. "Do not misunderstand me. I address you now as the playfellow of my childish days, whom I have never called anything else. If what torments you is the thought of my presumed unhappiness--my loneliness, be calm, _such_ a reproach I can bear from you. If I have suffered from our separation, it was only through my pride, which rose at the humiliation of being forsaken, my _heart_ had no part in it, for I, Eugen--I have never loved you!" "Gertrud!" "Never!" repeated she, firmly. "You released me for the good of us both! perhaps, else, I should have had to confess to you that I could never be your wife." "Impossible!" cried Eugen, springing up. "If you did not love me, why--" "Why did I accept your offer, do you mean?" Her eyes sank to the ground, and a gentle shade passed over her face, whilst, with a low voice, the peculiarly painful tone of which pierced to his heart, she continued--"I was scarcely more than a child, I had learnt nothing beyond my mother's sick room, but care, sorrow, and many other things more difficult to bear. The first ray of sunshine which falls upon such a childhood is seldom denied entrance. You came back then from the capital in all the brilliance of your rising talent, admired by all in our little town. You told me of your love, and I--did, what every girl of sixteen does, whose heart is still free. I dreamed myself into the idea that I loved you, whilst I really only cherished an affection for my old playfellow. That this feeling was not _love_, I began to find out, when we separated, now--now I know it!"