This was satisfactory to her on one hand, while on the other she had the pleasure of sharing her secret sorrows and hopes of future joy with Herminia, with whom she had now a double link and bond of sympathy. They led but a dull life now in the old Schloss. Baron Rhineberg, 'a beer-bloated Teuton' of the first class, came occasionally to talk politics with the Count, over a pipe and flask of Rhine wine; the two daughters of the Justiz-rath, and a few other visitors, dropped in, but Ernestine found it weary work to talk commonplaces with these people, not one of whom had any vital or particular interest, beyond a national one, in the army now in the field; and to chat of music and books, of Berlin wools and soup for the poor, when, perhaps, _at that very moment of time_, the bullets might be whistling about him she loved; or when he might be stretched wounded, dying or dead, upon the bloody sod--to talk, we say, of aught that was frivolous, with such fears in her heart, was impossible. Strong, yet tender, was thus the bond of sympathy between the cousins; for those whom they loved--the one openly, the other secretly--and to whom they were affianced, were facing side by side the foes of Germany, and risking the same perils and toils. Once only did she rouse herself thoroughly and feel startled when the portly Baron Rhineberg, taking his vast pipe out from his bushy moustaches, asked her abruptly if she 'ever visited the church of Burtscheid.' 'Sometimes,' said she, colouring deeply for a moment, and then becoming pale as before; 'but why do you ask, Herr Baron?' 'Because Herr Pastor Puffenvortz is preaching a series of stirring sermons there just now.' Poor Ernestine, who had begun to fear that her interview there with Charlie had been overheard or overseen by some eavesdropper unknown, felt greatly relieved by the Baron's simple reply; but her sudden change of colour was not unnoticed by the Countess, who drew certain conclusions therefrom, though she could scarcely give them any form. The sudden and blunt reference to the church at Burtscheid, the scene of her last and farewell interview with Charlie, gave her so sudden a shock--her sensibility had become so delicate now--that she had to retire to her room. Burtscheid! All the scene then came again before her--when words were spoken that were known to Heaven and themselves alone! He was gone--torn from her, the first and only man she had ever loved, so the girl pined in her heart. So now she sat, as she had been wont to sit for hours, listlessly, as if without consciousness of thought; yet her mind was keenly active and full of images of the absent one.