“Happy for that foolish girl that she does not dare! Happy for her. She little knows what she would be taking upon herself; little as I knew, nor the name that would be given me, and that I first heard myself christened in scorn and derision, ‘Idealist!’ Be one! Struggle against the mighty element; waste your strength in useless warfare! Wrench yourself free from all the fresh, joyous pursuits of your equals, your associates--once your brethren, now your adversaries, whose interest you oppose, whose convictions you belie, and--to whom you yet cling with every fiber of your heart!” He was silent. And I did not venture to break the silence. Still ever louder, more distinct, there arose within me: Foolish girl! Yes, twice foolish; to have thought it enough to follow him at a distance. With him is your place. All my other duties suddenly seemed to me unimportant in comparison. My dread of my beloved father, childish. I believe that it was then that in a very low, yet decided, voice, I said: “Were it not better, in such a fight, to have a companion at one’s side?” “A companion?” “One equally minded with one’s self; but who, hitherto, has not so plainly stated her views, because she could not trust herself, did not so clearly see----” I came to a standstill; I did not dare to look up at him. But I felt that his eyes were resting upon me as he asked gently, and with a ring of deep affection in his voice: “Has it really only just become clear to her?” “Yes, she knows that she, like you, is an idealist.” “Miracle of miracles!” he said, in oh, so playful a voice, and with such repressed rapture. “Am I really to meet with so rare a being as an idealist in your circle? Nowadays? Impossible!” “Convince yourself.” “Shall I? Dare I? Would the idealist you speak of be able to endure to cast her lot with one so obscure, so unknown as I?” “Of course. And I only wish, with all my heart that you may remain obscure and unknown, that I may the better prove to you----” I got no further; for, rejoicing, he interrupted me: “You! You! You then are willing to be that faithful, devoted companion? And to me is to be granted that rare fortune--highest of all earthly joys--to find in the wife of my soul the sharer of my views, the confidante of all, even my boldest aims; my counselor in doubt, sweetest consoler in sorrow, closest sympathizer in success? You will be to me all that? All--despite everybody?” “It will not need to be despite everybody,” I made answer, confused by the passionate delight with which he pressed me to him. “I will entreat my dear father----” “Your father!” he cried. And springing back, he struck his forehead like one possessed. And I, to my great amazement, looking up, saw my father and Bernhard standing there. “Well!” said papa; “kept your word?” “Do not ask me. Do not ask me!” cried Schwarzburg, beside himself. With a loud laugh, Bernhard cried: