Victor had so much to say to her, and had so few minutes more left for it; and yet not so much joy as reverence made him dumb,--for sacred to the loving heart is the form that has said to it, I am thine. But think not he would make any such rude request to her, as that she would stay here on his account; only the _question_ whether he might visit her in _Maienthal_, only the _prayer_ that she would take thought of her recovery, can he venture upon. Clotilda had only one to make to him, which she could not sufficiently veil over, namely, that, for the sake of her jealous brother, he would not see her in Maienthal. During the lingerings of rapture, they hear the bells of the second sleigh. Haste necessitated courage. Victor transformed his _prayer_ into the _wish_ that spring might favor the design of her journey (restoration to health), and the _question_ into the _joyful thought_ how happy she would be in Maienthal by the side of Dahore, how blest he had once been there, and how little he had once dreamed that one could ever be still more so there. Clotilda answered (probably to his wish of following her thither): "I leave behind quite as much to you,--my _brother_ and your _friend_; forget not my former prayer." Not until the approaching parents reminded Clotilda to throw back her veil, and admonished her beloved to take his first leave of the heart which he had won,--not till then did they both look far into the great Eden which had opened around their life,--and the bright moment which now darted by in the stream of time projected into eternity the images of two heavenly forms,--one unveiled, pale-red, transfigured with tears, and one glorified by love, radiant with the reflection of hope. And now let no longer the hand sketch souls, which not even the great, glowing eye of love can portray.... When the parents came, he felt, but he forgave, all possible contrasts. He soon took his leave, that he might at home, in the silence of night, throw the first prayerful glance over the stream of his future life, which now glided on toward the grave in lines of beauty, and in which gay minutes played like goldfishes. In the stillness of night, not far from his wax-mummy, the happy one thought to fall down before the Infinite Genius and thank him, with new tears, for this night, for this friend, of whom he is the first love. But the thought of doing it is the deed, and O, how could our touched heart, which even before men is dumb, find any other words before the Infinite than tears and thoughts? And in this resigned frame, full of deep tranquillity, wherein I lay down the pen, mayst thou, dear reader, lay aside this book, and say with me, There may well be more sad days that will conclude like the Twenty-eighth Dog-Post-Day. * * * * * PREFACE TO PART III. (_Which in the first edition came on a dozen sheets earlier_.)