"No, from the original! had become half a Catholic in Italy, and when I saw the lofty form in the Louvre in Paris, I said to myself, This, and no other, is your saint! Oh, you cannot imagine how beautiful she is! how beautiful and good! and this expression of heavenly goodness, which is not found in any other Venus, not, in fact, in any other antique head, but only in the Venus of Milo, touched me even more deeply than her heavenly beauty. When I saw that statue I felt for the first time in my life how it might be possible to _pray_, to pray sincerely, earnestly, before an image made by the hand of man. Why do you look so solemn and thoughtful? Here, take that pencil and write under the statue what you have just been thinking, for I saw you were making verses." Oswald took the pencil which Melitta offered him, half in earnest, half in jest, and wrote, with a trembling hand, while Melitta was looking over his shoulder: Away in Paris, in a lofty hall, Amid the forms of ancient gods untold Of fairest marble, and like marble cold, She thrones on her high pedestal. She, whom in secret, silent lawn, When dreamy mists were floating o'er the brook, Anchises in his mighty arms once took, Till she escaped from him at early dawn. The goddess died. They found the fair remains And bore the lovely corpse up to the fane, Where, altho' dead, she in her realm still reigns. But ah! the faithful pray to her in vain! No more her godlike face to bend she deigns, Prefers eternal calmness to maintain! Oswald put down the pencil and looked up at Melitta. His glance met hers. For a few moments their eyes rested upon each other as if they wished to read in each other's souls. Then old Baumann appeared in the door leading to the adjoining room, from which the clinking of plates and glasses had been heard for some time; he had a napkin on his arm, and said, as solemnly as the statue in Don Giovanni: "Ma'am, dinner is ready!" "Quick, come before our porridge is cold," called out Melitta. "Let me only look at these few leaves," said Oswald. "I see there are but a few more." "There is nothing worth looking at there," said Melitta, almost impatiently. "Why, here is the Park at Grenwitz," exclaimed Oswald, as he turned over the last leaf in the act of rising. "The lawn behind the château. Here the Flora, there Bruno in full career----" "And here are you!" "Where?" "There." "That misty outline?" said Oswald, pointing at a spot by the side of the Flora where the faint traces of a figure were still perceptible, which had been rubbed out.