Hours passed in this way. When they reached the lonely inn that lies at the parting of the ways where the Eifel dweller leaves the valley of the Moselle to climb up into his mountains, they stopped for a rest. They had been walking since noon. Margret bit with huge enjoyment great pieces out of a hearty sandwich and drank long drafts from the glass her companion held for her. How good it did taste! The fiery country wine rolled warming through her veins and sank her into a state of mild delight. Then when they had rested for an hour, they started off again. The rain had stopped. The full glow of the moon shone out behind the torn clouds. The path became stony and difficult; the streams of water had torn great ridges in the soft earth. The foot could scarce find a hold, and more than once the man’s strong arm caught the stumbling girl and held her up. Margret was very tired, her chattering ceased; she nestled close to her strong companion like a weary little bird. He led her as if she had been a child, raising her over the pools and the stones, and saying now and then comfortingly: “We’ll be home soon.” But the “soon” stretched out to quite a long time; at the last he almost had to carry her. Margret went on as if in a dream. Her eyes were tight shut in blissful confidence; she thought it would go on this way forever. She started up almost in a fright as the youth halted suddenly and pointed out with his hand to where dark shapes grew up in the gray mist with twinkling lights here and there--“Kyllburg!” They took the narrow path that led straight up the mountain; Margret was quite awake again. This was the path that led up to the lonely hut on the bare hill-top, then she would be at home again, she would be herself again--and the dream would be over. She hurried on now ahead of her companion, for here she knew every stock and stone of the road. In her heart joy and regret mingled and tossed--regret for the parting with her companion, joy at seeing her mother again. She had not known that these feelings could be so mingled before. Now they halted again. There was the hut, dark and silent, with a little patch of grass in front of it, and the tall sunflowers. There was the pump and the little lean-to for the goat, and over all the silver light of the moon. “I thank you many thousand times,” said Margret softly, and caught at her companion’s hand. He had suddenly grown very silent; then he said hesitatingly: “H’m--Say--H’m--The gentleman down in Trier--you didn’t want to give him a kiss--But would you kiss me?--What do you say about it, Margret?” Half laughing, half in entreaty, he bowed down over her face. And Margret, timid little Margret, put up both arms around his neck and gave him a hearty kiss right on the mouth. Then she tore herself away and ran in through the door of her hut. The youth stood still on the wet grass and waited until he saw a tiny glimmer of light coming from the hut. Then he said aloud, and with firm decision: