That was in the forenoon; Mieting had accepted an invitation for dinner, by way of exception, from a friend of her mother, after she had had her sitting. She would not return before evening. For the first time Else did not miss her friend; she was glad to be alone, silent, busy with her own thoughts. They were not cheerful--these thoughts; but she felt it her duty to work them out to the last particular, to become clear in her own mind, if it were possible. She thought that it would be possible, and felt, in consequence, a silent satisfaction, which, to be sure, as she said to herself, would be the sole compensation for all that she had secretly given up. And in this spirit of resignation she received with calm composure the news which Mieting brought to her when she came home, and which would have filled her with sadness under other circumstances--Mieting had to go away; she had found a letter from her Mama at the house of the lady from whom she came, in which her Mama so bitterly complained of her long absence that she could not do otherwise than leave at once--that is, early in the morning. How she felt about it she would not and could not say. It was a strange state of mind in any case; while she seemed one moment about to burst into tears, the next she broke into laughter which she tried in vain to suppress, until the laughter turned to tears again. And so she went on the rest of the evening. The next morning the feeling had reached such a height that Else was seriously concerned about the strange girl, and urged her to put off the journey until she should be quieted to some extent. But Mieting remained firm; she had decided, and Else would agree with her if she knew all, and she should know all--but by letter; she couldn't tell her verbally without laughing herself to death, and she mustn't die just now for reasons which she again could not give without laughing herself to death. And so she went on until she got into the carriage in which August was to take her to the station. She had declined all other company most positively--"for reasons, Else, you know, which--well! You will read it all in the letter, you know, which--Good-by, dear, sweet, my only Else!" With that Mieting drove off. In the evening August, not without some formality, handed Else a letter which Miss Mieting had given him at the last moment before her departure with the express direction that he should deliver it promptly at the stroke of nine in the evening, twelve hours later. It was a letter in Mieting's most confused hand, from which Else deciphered the following with some difficulty: Six o'clock in the afternoon. Dear Else!