“I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet, regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded, as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But,” continued Trude, in a lower tone, “Herr Gedicke looked very sad and grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. ‘He has disappeared,’ he sighed, ‘and I know not if we shall ever see him again.’ ‘Oh, Jemima!’ I screamed, ‘you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!’ ‘No,’ said the director, ‘not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.’ It was in vain to ask further; he knew not or he would not say any thing. I believe your family know where poor Moritz is, for your mother speaks of him as one in the penitentiary, and quite triumphantly she told me yesterday that the king, in his new book of laws, had expressly condemned the person who elopes with a minor to be sent to the house of correction for ten years, and then she laughed so cruelly, that I trembled to hear her.” As Trude related this, she searchingly glanced at Marie to observe the effect of her words, hoping to see her weep or complain and that, at last, grief would melt the icy crust around her heart. But Marie sat motionless and without uttering a sound--not a sigh or a moan escaped her. After a long silence, when her grief was too deep for tears, she drew the handkerchief from her face, the pallor and rigidity of which startled Trude. She sprang forward, folding her in her arms. “Marie, child of my heart, do weep, do complain! I know that he loved you dearly, and deserves that you should mourn for him. Have you no more confidence, though, in your old Trude? Is she no longer worthy to share your grief?” Marie laid her languid head upon the bosom of her faithful nurse; a long-drawn, piercing cry of anguish was her response, she trembled violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks. Trude raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring, “I thank thee, O Lord! Her heart is not dead! It lives, for it suffers!” “It suffers,” groaned Marie, “the anguish of death.” This passionate outburst of feeling was of but short duration. Her tears were dried, and her quivering face assumed its usually calm expression.