Tempting though such an offer may have been, I could not make up my mind to accept it, and so I returned with a sigh to my pots and pans. But in my heart of hearts I felt like the little boy in the story, who was for ever wishing that something might come along that would take him somewhere else. However, nothing came. One month passed after the other, and sometimes my feet felt very tired. By-and-by my heart grew weary too, and finally refused to tremble whenever the bell was rung; no longer did I fear, hope, and believe that he had come at last. But I was still waiting, waiting at the threshold of his soul, waiting for the wonderful moment when it would open, and he would step out to me with kindness on his lips and fulfilment in his eyes. Sometimes again there were hours when I almost regretted--hours when my most secret thoughts seemed to come to life and confront me with malicious-looking faces. "Why did you go away from him?" they would ask scornfully. Yes, why had I gone away from him? To get to know different people and different places? Of course, did not he himself wish it thus? Did not I myself want it thus? Want it thus? And after every drop of blood within me had set its "No" against that question, the scornful voices rose again: "And if you did not want to go away why, then, did you go?" And all at once I knew it, and my cheeks flushed with an unaccustomed glow, and my heart was filled with an unaccustomed sorrow. Thus disputing with myself, time passed on. It happened one night, when I could not go to sleep though I had worked hard all day long, that I lay awake in bed, and thought and thought until all good and evil spirits had gathered around me. Like so many hands they reached down into my thoughts, tugging, pulling, and tearing them about, and when they had gone, there were red letters floating about in the darkness of the room, forming themselves to a question at the end, and the question was: "May I come back again?" "Why not?" I said, shaking my fists towards the glowing signs; "is not our friendship so pure, so marvellously wonderful?" ... At that a wreath of flames encircled every letter, and when I read again I trembled. "That is just why," it said; and behind the letters there rose up a beautiful, transparent light. But I would neither see the light nor the writing, and closed my eyes like an obstinate child. Other nights followed similar to that one, and by-and-by all things seemed to enter into conspiracy against me. My own self seemed to hate and persecute me--seemed to wrestle from me the last faint hope, which I would not surrender. But in moments of greatest anguish he himself would come to my help. As if conjured up by some magic world he stood amongst the slanderous monsters, towering above them all. "Do you believe in me?" he asked, gazing at me with the apprehensive look and giving me his kindest smile.