With sudden determination he rose and walked back to the farmhouse, nothing definite in his mind. The gate was ajar and there was no light in the house, the pallor of the moon falling upon the window-panes. The window to the left was her window, a few feet away from her bed. Here he stood, gazing lovingly upward. He rose on his tip-toes and his face was on a level with the bottom pane. He gently tapped on the glass but no one stirred within. “Eugenie,” he murmured, “Eugenie!” No one appeared at the window, no one but the moonlight over his shoulder. He removed his diamond ring—his mother’s heirloom—and scratched on the pane before him, “_Moi je n’existe que pour vous aimer_.” He paused, a sad smile on his face, and turned to the road. A peasant was driving by. Albert asked for a lift. “Hop in,” said the peasant hospitably, “I am going all the way to the city.” An hour later Albert was on the Jungfernstieg. The lane was crowded with promenaders, the moon seemed to shine more cheerily here, the stars twinkled brighter. With his head lifted there was abandon in his gait. Girls walked past him with luring glances but he only smiled and walked on. Presently he was in front of the Apollo Hall, ablaze with a thousand candles, astir with a thousand voices. The Apollo was a gay place. The blowing of trumpets reached his ears, the rattling of drums, the sounds that stir the blood of youth. His steps halted. “Do come in for old times’ sake!” Some one had arrested his arm. And from the Apollo came the blowing of trumpets, the rattling of drums, the sounds that stir the blood of youth . . . V. Winter had come and gone. A bleak day in March. Wind, sleet, a drab sky.