As soon as I was alone in my little room--my pupils were waiting for their lessons in the school-room--I went to the mirror and carefully scrutinized my face. Even now I could find in it nothing that seemed calculated to disturb the peace of a young girl's heart. The conversations with the dear child, which I could remember also contained nothing captivating, and, as I had again and again said that I should probably remain a bachelor all my life, I could not help acquitting myself of all blame in the sweet girl's unfortunate passion. Yet the sudden discovery so agitated me that I felt unable to give my Latin lesson. I dictated a written exercise to the lads, and, while they were at work upon it, sat down by the window with the last newspaper, which had just been brought in, not to read, but to have some pretext for pursuing my idle and fruitless thoughts. But, as my eyes wandered absently over the columns of the paper, they were abruptly arrested by a name which glared in large letters amid the small type of the advertisement. _Konstantin Spielberg_. How long a time had passed since I had either heard or read that name! In Berlin, where ever and anon--always blushing as if I were betraying my secret--I had inquired about this object of my silent hate, no one seemed to know whether he was alive or dead. He appeared to have won no special repute as an artist, and, since his withdrawal to the provinces, his former colleagues, several of whom I knew, had heard nothing about him. As such wandering stars only diffuse their light in their immediate vicinity, the small local sheets that came to us made as little mention of him as the large journals of the capital. Now, in his erratic course, he had come so near us that I could not avoid suddenly discerning him with the naked eye. There stood the notice. "Konstantin Spielberg, with his renowned dramatic company, has arrived in St. ----," the nearest Pomeranian capital to us, "and intends, during the next six weeks, to give performances to which respected citizens, the nobility, and the art-loving public are invited." At any other time this intelligence would undoubtedly have agitated me, but without stimulating me to any decision. In the strange situation in which I found myself since my last interview with my friend's daughter, this shadow from former days seemed to me like a sign from Heaven. I instantly resolved to repress all the emotions contending in my soul and convince myself, with my own eyes, how this man's wife fared, and whether she needed any assistance from the friend whose confidence she had certainly sorely betrayed. I went at once to my employer and requested him to give me a week's vacation. Both physically and mentally I was in a strangely upset condition, which perhaps was only due to stagnation of the blood, and would be relieved by a short pedestrian excursion.