“Trude,” said she, gently, continuing to repose upon her bosom, “I am so wretched that words cannot express it or tears soothe it. If I should give myself up to sorrow and mourning I should die, and that cannot be, for I must live to wait for him--to rescue him. How I know not yet; my thoughts and resolutions are so confused that they flicker like the ignes fatui. I will force my mind to be calm, and these wandering lights shall unite in one glowing flame to destroy the walls and obstructions which confine him. He is a prisoner; I feel it in my heart, and I must live to free him. This is my task, and I will accomplish it; therefore I would be composed, and strong in myself. Wonder not that I weep or complain no more, and do not refer to my misfortune. I should die if I did not suppress this anguish, and I would become strong and active. Seek not to enfeeble me, but aid me to harden myself; refrain from complaint, that I may be silent. I think only of him, and I ask nothing further than to yield my life to free him. Let us never speak of it again, for I feel that all the firmness which I had gained has been swept from me in this giving way, and that I must begin anew.” From this hour she commenced to build, and rose upon her grief as on a column which projects toward heaven; leaned upon it, and received, as Brisaeus from the earth, the power of life and action. She had already so conquered herself as to be able to leave her own quiet room, and descend to that of her parents. There she would sit calmly for hours, listening attentively to the conversation, hoping to catch some word that might give her a clew. They avoided every exciting topic, and were milder and more thoughtful for her. Even her mother made no reproaches, and never alluded to the past, because she feared to delay her recovery, and remove the longed-for goal in hindering the marriage with Ebenstreit. The latter carefully avoided troubling her by his presence; when he heard Marie’s step in the anteroom, who descended at a certain hour every day, he withdrew by the other entrance. “Who goes out every time I come in?” asked Marie, one day as she appeared in the sitting-room. The general coughed with embarrassment, and glanced anxiously at his wife, whose eyes rested upon her daughter with a cold, searching expression. Their eyes met, and were riveted upon each other. A cold, cruel smile played around the thin, bloodless lips of the mother as she recognized the defiance and firmness in her child, and felt that she had recovered. “It is your betrothed,” she answered, “our dear Ebenstreit--a good, generous, and self-sacrificing son, for whom we thank God every day, who wishes to spare you the annoyance of seeing him.” “He need not inconvenience himself on my account. Nothing excites or wounds my feelings now. It would be a pity for your heartless, thankless daughter to deprive you of the society of your dear son. Let him remain; it is not necessary for us to notice one another.”