Walda, leaning on the window-sill, looked out upon the quiet village that had been so long her home. One by one the lights in the stone houses on the winding street went out. The footsteps of chance passers-by became less frequent. The noises in the inn were hushed. At last every door was closed against her. When the tall clock struck eleven, Everett entered the room. The solitary candle had burned out, and Walda was sitting in the darkness. “Can you see to find your cloak?” he asked. “It is time for us to start.” Walda caught up the wrap from its place on the sofa, and followed Everett out on the porch of the _gasthaus_. There was not a sign of life anywhere. “The carriage will be waiting for us on the other side of the square beneath the old oak-tree,” said Everett. “Don’t you want to say good-bye to Piepmatz, or would you like to take him with you?” “Nay, Stephen; Piepmatz is like the others that dwell in Zanah. He would not feel at home in the great world,” Walda answered, going to the cage where the chaffinch, with his head beneath his wing, slumbered in happy unconsciousness of the influence of love-songs. On the bridge appeared a lantern. It came towards the inn, and when it was a few feet away the form of the bearer, Gerson Brandt, was discerned. By his side walked Hans Peter. “I was afraid I should not have the chance to say good-bye to thee, Gerson Brandt,” Walda exclaimed, going down the steps to meet him. Everett drew the simple one away, with the excuse that they would go to see whether the carriage had come. “Nay, at any cost, I meant to send thee out into the world with my blessing,” Gerson Brandt answered. He set down his lantern and put his hands behind him lest he should be tempted to touch her. “It seemeth selfish of me to be so happy when thou art sad, Gerson Brandt.” Walda put her hand upon his arm, and they looked into each other’s faces with something of the old frankness in their glance. “In this hour of parting it is good to know that thou leavest Zanah with a light heart.” Gerson Brandt spoke bravely, but his lips quivered. “Farewell, Walda. If I never behold thy face again, remember thine image is ever treasured in the memory of a man of Zanah. To him thou wilt never grow old. Here in my thoughts thou shalt dwell always in thy youth and beauty.” He trusted himself to let one hand reach out above her head. “Peace go with thee. The Lord bless and keep thee,” he said, softly, lifting his face to heaven, because he could no longer depend upon his human strength. They stood silent for a moment. Everett and Hans Peter returned to the inn to say that the carriage was waiting. “Thou shalt have Piepmatz, if thou art willing to be burdened with the care of the chaffinch,” said Walda, speaking to the simple one. “Nay, give him to both of us,” pleaded Gerson Brandt so earnestly that she bestowed the bird upon him and Hans Peter, with the injunction that they must not disagree over the partnership.