"It is darker than I thought," said Oswald, when they had left the damp gate in the city wall, where the last lamp was burning, and had reached the ramparts; "had we better turn back?" "Not on my account; I like it quite well so." "At least, please wrap yourself up well in your cloak; the wind is blowing very keen from the sea, and the air is damp and cold." They went on for a few moments in silence. The dry leaves of the trees, with which the walk was covered, rustled under their feet; plaintive sounds were heard in the air; it sounded like the groaning and sighing of a shivering patient. "How must it look now in the Grenwitz park?" asked Oswald. "I was just thinking of it," replied Helen. "I wish I could be there at this moment!" "What would you do there?" "I would saunter through the familiar walks, between the yew-hedges in the garden below, and under the beech-trees on the wall above, and talk with the slender crescent of the moon, as it dances in the clouds, and with the night-wind as it blows through the branches and around the castle, of the blissful hours that are no more, and can return no more." "Then you like to think of Grenwitz." "Why should I not? Have I not spent the happiest days of all my joyless life there? What do I care now for all the bitter drops that fell into the cup of intoxicating sweetness? I know nothing more of them. I feel as if I had lived then for the first and last time of my life, and as if I had since died together with the flowers in the garden and with the sunlight that was playing in the morning on the dewy branches and scattering strange shadows on the paths. Happy he whose life really came to an end with that precious summer." "Happy indeed!" whispered Helen. "Yes, happy! He enjoyed for an hour the sight of what was most beautiful, most glorious to him, and then he passed away like the rosy breath of morning in the rays of the much-beloved sun. He was relieved of the burden of the oppressive heat and the stifling dust of noon. He needed not cover himself shuddering against the sharp evening wind; he did not see the beautiful, gay world sink into weird darkness. Pardon me, I pray, Miss Helen; this is the second time to-night I am carried away by the recollection of my departed darling. But I cannot tell you how strangely the sight of you and your presence recalls to me his memory. The scarred wounds bleed afresh, and the dry eyes begin to weep once more." "Is it not so with me too?" said Helen, and her voice trembled. "Then you loved him too? But no, I did not mean to ask you that. How could you help loving him--fair and brave, good and marvellously lovely as he was, and when he loved you so! loved you inexpressibly! Oh, Miss Helen, do you really know how dearly he loved you? Do you know that he loved you unto death--that he loved you more than his own life?" "I know it," said Helen, in a whisper.