The Captain must have known what the letter contained, as he stood close by Ella's side, apparently ready to support her, as in the theatre; but this time she betrayed no weakness. She looked silently down at the icy words of farewell with which her husband freed himself from wife and child. With what haste had he seized the excuse which her father's harshness and her own words offered him; with what relief had he shaken off the irksome bonds! This blow did not fall unexpectedly now. Since that last interview she knew her fate. "He is gone already?" asked she, without raising her eyes from the letter, which she still held in her hand. "An hour ago." "And with her?" Hugo was silent; he could not say "No" to this question. Ella rose, apparently calm, but she leaned heavily on the boy's bed. "I knew it. And now--leave me alone, I implore you!" The Captain hesitated. "I came, also, to bid you adieu," replied he. "My departure was decided without this, and now, in my brother's absence, nothing keeps me. I shall make no attempt to remove my uncle's absurd prejudice against me, but I should like to take a word of farewell from you, Ella, away with me. Will you refuse it me?" The young woman raised her eyes slowly; they met his, and as if following an involuntary impulse, held out both hands to him-- "I thank you, Hugo, farewell!" With a quick movement he caught her hands in his-- "I have ever only been able to bring you pain," he said softly. "By me came the first news which utterly destroyed your peace; it came too late, and to-day it was again my hand which brought you the last. But if I pained you, Ella, must pain you--my God, it has not been easy for me." His lips rested for a moment on her hand, then he let it fall, and left the room quickly; a few moments later he was in the open air. It was a raw, regular northern spring evening. The rain fell steadily; mist hung heavily and densely in the streets; even the lamp light only shone dimly red in the grey atmosphere. The rolling train bore Reinhold Almbach away in this fog to the south, where fame and love, where his future beckoned brightly to him; and in the same hour his young wife lay at home on her knees by her child's cradle, pressing her head in the pillow to smother the cry of despair, which now, that she knew herself to be alone, broke forth at last. He had not come once to say adieu; he had not one kind last word for her; not one farewell kiss for his child. They were both forsaken, given up--probably forgotten already. * * * * *