"HERR DOCTOR: Forgive me for not having written sooner to tell you that I had made a mistake. I find that I do not love you. I had mistaken friendship for love. I soon found out that this was the case, but was afraid to write to you sooner. That is why I only write now, the week before I am married to Chaim. Perhaps you may think that I am forced to marry him by my father, but that is not the case--I do it willingly. Forgive me, Herr Doctor--it was a mistake. "RACHEL." "It was a mistake!" cried Adolf in despair, and then sank fainting on the floor. * * * * * One spring morning, more than four years after that gloomy winter day when Adolf received the news of Rachel's treachery, I was seated in a large dull house in Vienna bending over a manuscript. My servant came into the room and gave me a card, saying that the gentleman was waiting to see whether I could receive him. I looked at the card, and on seeing the name of Dr. Adolf Leiblinger, rushed to the outer door and opened it. I had not seen my friend for two years. We had never met since the day when he came to me and said very quietly and unconcernedly: "I have accepted a medical appointment under the Dutch Government, and am to start for Batavia immediately. Good-by!" He was very little changed. His pale face, with its unalterable expression of calm defiance, had only grown browner and darker in the tropical climate where he had lived during the last year or two. "So you've come back to Europe!" I exclaimed joyfully. "I am so glad. You remember how earnestly I tried to dissuade you from carrying out your project. Going to that murderous climate was neither more nor less than a sort of suicide on your part." "Yes, it was so," he answered, calmly, "you're quite right." "You'll remain here now that you've come back, won't you?" "Yes. My life is not a happy one even now, but it is no longer miserable. I am, and always shall be, indifferent to death; but so long as I live it shall be my endeavor to make my life as useful as possible. I shall settle down either here or in some other university town, as assistant professor." "I am very glad to hear it," I said. "I never lost hope that time would bring you healing." "If you call this healing, it was not time that brought it, but--a letter." "A letter!" "Yes--from Barnow--from _her_. As soon as I got it I set out for Europe--and went straight to Barnow. I think that I traveled quicker than any one ever did before,--and yet I arrived too late." "She is dead?" I asked in a low voice. "Yes; she died four weeks ago." "She called you to visit her on her deathbed then?" "As you know the whole story, I will let you read her letter." He put it in my hand. It was written in trembling and scarcely legible characters, and ran as follows: