He turned white, and some time passed before he spoke; "You will not send me away without one ray of hope; may I never be any more to you?--Ah! do not say that this is your only answer!" "Indeed it must be. I should be very sorry to deceive myself, or you." "And is there nothing else to part us, save your own disinclination to change your present life?" "My present life is enough for me;"--and she reddened slightly. "And I find its duties sufficiently absorbing. Besides--but let us say no more; my reasons are my own, and you may be convinced that I should oppose no trifling ones. Give up this idea, I beg--indeed, it would not be for your happiness." She did not finish, for she saw that he did not listen; he bowed low, and turned away, and left her without another look. His whole manner had surprised and touched her; for worlds she would not have given this earnest man the reasons that she had used against her brother-in-law. She stood at the door awhile, and looked down the street, to see if Walter was not coming home. The night had quite closed in; a mild warm night like midsummer. She could scarcely say why she felt so strangely loath to go into the house. At last she went upstairs, without first going into the Meister's room to bid him good night, though she heard him hobbling about, in evident expectation of her coming in to give him an account of what had passed. But she longed to be alone; and the moment she reached her room, she drew the bolt after her, and lightened her bosom with a few deep drawn sighs. It was so dark, that she groped about some time before she could find her matchbox, which was not in its proper place. Altogether, she thought, some one must have been there, and disturbed the method of her usual arrangements. At last she found her lamp; but before she had lighted it, a musing mood came over her, to which she found the darkness most congenial. She went to the window, and leaning her brow against the cool glass, she tried to live over the last few hours. Here, on this very spot, she had poured forth her whole heart in a torrent of tears. Now she felt it aching still, but there was a sweetness in the pain. She now foresaw that from year to year she would become lonelier and more alone, and that at last she _would_ have to give up the only being she loved. But her affection for him--_that_ she felt, nothing ever could oblige her to give up. Even if he could be happy without her, she, at least, never could care for any happiness that severed them. On reflection, she became more composed; nay, cheerful. She began to long for his return, that they might have a quiet evening together like the last. All at once, she heard a sound quite close to her, she thought it might be he, and that she had overheard his step in the next room. "Is it you, night-rover that you are, Sir?"