"And should I not do right to think, to feel so?" cried Cecilia, while the tears streamed down her burning cheeks; "could I ever forgive myself for having become the wife of this man? An inexperienced girl of sixteen, do you say? I was not so very inexperienced; I was worldly--wise enough to understand that life in the beautiful castle and shady park of Dahlitz would be more brilliant than in a gloomy country parsonage. And so I trod the poor student's heart under foot, although a voice which, since that hour, has never been silenced, whispered, he is the better man. Should I forgive myself for that, and for letting him go away with an almost broken heart, without a word of sympathy, of consolation, glad that his honest eyes no longer rested upon me, no longer read my vain soul? And now, when my arrogant dream has produced its natural result, now that I am as utterly wretched as I deserve to be, and he returns and stands before me, a pure, noble man, who can look with just pride upon his honest, industrious past, and with joyful composure towards his future, which must develop still more gloriously--is he now to stay his victorious step to raise one so deeply fallen;--nay, what am I saying? Is she to chain him to herself for all the future, bind the strong industrious hands, constrain the proud mind, which ought always to be occupied with the highest things, to perpetual consideration, daily, hourly sympathy for a wretched, self-marred fate? Did you say pride prevented my doing that? Be it so! But it was pride for you, in you! Ah! Gotthold, I do not feel this pride to-day for the first time. I was proud of you when, with sparkling eyes, you could talk so brilliantly of gods and heroes, and say the heroic man might boldly compare himself with the gods themselves; and when I heard, years after, you had forced your way through obstacles, by which others would have been crushed a thousand times, and, with a speed that seemed wonderful to those who did not know your strength and talent, raised yourself to the highest rank in your art, and the name of the young painter was mentioned only among the best artists--yes, Gotthold, I was proud then, so proud and thankful--for I thought, now I can bear everything easier, since my crime was not visited on you, since I alone had to atone for the sin I alone had committed." They had left the fields, over which scattered threads of gossamer floated in the red light of the setting sun, and entered the dark, silent forest. No sound was heard except the rustling of the withered leaves at their feet, and, as Cecilia paused, the mournful song of a solitary bird. But Gotthold heard no interruption; it seemed to him as if the piteous notes of the bird only prolonged the wail of the human voice.