“I see very little of the count. He is very busy. One day he is in Paris, the next in London, and so on; though he is kind enough to write me very often. Min is in the _bambinat_ all day. She is perfectly happy, and the whole _bambinat_ does her reverence as a distinguished visitor! She is learning French as only children can.” Clara constantly received letters from Susie; long, delightful letters, full of enthusiasm, and tenderness, and hope for the future; but the count was silent. He did not even mention her in his letters to the doctor, and although this pained her, there was a possible meaning in it, sweeter than all the conventional remembrances in the world. Once only he wrote: “I have not written to you, dear friend, from a motive you may regard as very boyish; but I should never attempt to express anything but the exact truth to one like you: the reason of my silence is simply, not knowing what to say. Would you believe me so much a child? I can only answer: you are responsible. You have thus affected me. When I am in your presence, I can talk of indifferent subjects. I cannot write of them. “There is a mystery in my life, or rather in my character—a riddle I am waiting for you to read. I am tempted to disclose it, and yet dare not; therefore I sit with the ink drying on my pen. “I believe in you in all ways. I trust your delicate insight to understand even this awkward attempt to approach you, as I trust your generosity to deal patiently with my weakness. You also have been silent, my friend, and sometimes I am vain enough to ascribe that silence to a like cause with mine; but I dare not be too bold. There are some hopes that must not be rashly cultivated; their disappointment would destroy my power to do the work which no other can do for me. In two weeks, if the gods are kind to me, I shall stand in your presence. “Believe me, with sincere devotion, “PAUL VON FRAUENSTEIN.”