The ground floor of the house where Edwin and Leah had lived four years, was arranged in the simplest manner; three little rooms and a chamber for the maid-servant, or, as Edwin said, no longer one tun but three small ones and a band-box. The room looking out upon the street, however, had two large windows; one was occupied by Edwin's desk, the other by the artist's table from the Venetian palace. The old furniture had also been brought to the little town, the book-case with the two busts, the green sofa on which Leah had rested when she gave Edwin her hand, over it the two engravings of Raphael's pictures, which had hung above the brothers' beds, and close by, on a pedestal, a cast of the bust of Leah's mother. The only new thing was a harmonium, a bridal present from Frau Valentin, who knew how Edwin loved music. As he cared less for master pieces and their perfect execution, than for the elementary magic of harmony, Leah's art was sufficient to conjure this spell from the full toned instrument.

The other art, of which she was mistress, she had eagerly cultivated. She had no lack of time, she said with a sorrowful smile. Edwin, even during his most arduous mental labor, liked to have her in the same room, quietly occupied with her painting, often for hours exchanging only a glance; or he stood behind her chair, looked silently at her work and gently smoothed her dark hair, as he used to stroke Balder's fair mane. Then she would glance smilingly up into his face, until he bent over her and kissed her lips. He said her presence helped him to think. Certain subtle psychological revelations would never have come to him, but for this quiet enlarging and supplementing of his nature through his other self. Frequently he was not even conscious of her presence in any other way than as his right hand while writing was aware that the left rested upon the paper. And yet the sheet would often become displaced, if both hands did not share in the work.

As she now returned to the cosy room, and after sending the maid-servant to-bed, sat down in her "inspiration corner," as Edwin called one end of the sofa (the little lamp burned brightly on the table before her, illuminating the profile of Demosthenes on the bookcase, the writing desk so long without a master, and all the other witnesses of their bright young happiness) for the first time she was overpowered by the consciousness that many things would soon be changed, that when the young life under her heart looked forth into the world with two bright eyes and gave utterance to its joys and sorrows, this room, where silent thoughts and lovely flowers peacefully unfolded side by side, could no longer be her one and all. She thought of the words with which Edwin had tried to console his childless wife, how he had said that two people in their situation lived in a state of perpetual betrothal, and that any third person, even were it their own child, at first came between them like a stranger. "No," she said to herself, "it's a part of ourselves too, it's only like a mirror, wherein we see both our faces melted into one. Besides, he didn't mean it seriously, it was only before he knew--"

She now became absorbed in thinking how everything would be, how she would manage to always remain near Edwin, without disturbing him by the little sprawling screaming creature, and whenever she thought with secret terror of the two unruly black haired twins, from whom no corner of her friend's large house was secure, she consoled herself with the memory of quiet, fair-haired little Riekchen, beside whom one might solve the most difficult mathematical problems undisturbed. It would have fair hair, she thought, smiling in blissful anticipation, it must resemble Edwin feature for feature, possess the same beautiful blue eyes, the same grave brow. Now her thoughts wandered from the little stranger to him whom she knew as well, nay better than herself, and as with all the powers of her soul she conjured up his image to the smallest detail, a passionate longing suddenly overpowered her, a painful sense of loneliness, mingled with such an enthusiastic admiration of the beloved, that she started up and paced to and fro in a sort of ecstacy, connecting his name with loving, tender words, such as she had never addressed to him in person. She suddenly thought it a sin that when he was with her, she had maintained such a strange reserve, and never allowed herself to frankly show him the inmost depths of her heart. "He doesn't know how I idolize him," she said to herself. "I know it very well, I knew it from the beginning, but I'm always afraid of myself--and of him too. His love did not exist like mine, from the first hour of our meeting, it has grown by degrees, perhaps I should have startled him, if I had shown how the flames were blazing in my soul. But it's wrong, he shall know of it when he comes back. There's always too much philosophy between us--love is folly--happy nonsense--laughing and weeping without sense or reason. That's the way I've always loved him, to the disappearance and forgetfulness of all reason, and he--he began differently, my few good traits, my little share of cleverness attracted him. It was enough at that time--he gave me what he had, and in my utter poverty it was an untold treasure. But when he comes back, then he shall see what a foolishly happy, loving wife he has in me--my beloved husband, my one and all, my Lord and my God, my life and my world--"

Thus her rapturous longing found utterance in low confused murmurs, while she wandered about the room, now taking in her hand the pen with which he had written, and then with a caressing gesture stroking the book that still lay open on his desk. Her temples throbbed feverishly, she opened a window and leaned out into the dark street, where every thing was asleep, except a kitten gliding over the stone door sill.

But who was approaching from the main street? Two men walking arm in arm, and carrying canes and traveling satchels? And now she distinctly heard the words: "You see, my boy, your little wife has not yet gone to rest--mock widows never retire early--you've horrible pavements, and the gas apparently relies upon receiving a little voluntary assistance from the light of cigars. Is it much farther?"

"Heinrich," replied another voice, which thrilled the heart of the listener at the window, "it would be better for us to go back and I'll spend the night with you at the hotel. It's so late--so unexpected--I know her--she won't close her eyes all night--and I--I am so utterly exhausted--"

"Edwin!" cried a joyous voice from the only lighted window in the dark street. The pedestrian involuntarily paused and grasped his friend's arm with a convulsive pressure. "She's awake," he said hastily in an undertone, "she has heard us, so it can't be helped! Not a word this evening, do you hear? Poor darling, it will come soon enough; is that you, Leah?" he now exclaimed, suddenly quickening his pace. "There, child, now you see what you've done with your promised surprise. I wanted to be generous, too, and as I could think of nothing else, decided that the best surprise would be myself. Good Evening, dearest!" and he took both hands, which she extended to him through the window, and pressed them in his cold trembling fingers; "I thank God for being here, where I belong! I have the honor of presenting to you an old acquaintance, Herr Heinrich Mohr, the father of his son, of whom I've already written to you. I couldn't induce him to satisfy himself with an improvised couch on the green sofa. He thinks he can find a bed at the Star, on which he can more comfortably stretch his six feet of length. Is all well, dearest? but come, open the door for us. We must at least have a glass of wine together--"

He had released her hands, but she did not move from the window. These shallow jesting words had fallen on her soul like a frost and had paralysed her. She did not speak; she addressed no word of welcome to the old friend, asked no question as to how her beloved husband had fared. This, then, was the meeting for which she had waited with such ardent longing.

"Don't be afraid, Frau Leah, that I shall make use of this thoughtless invitation and trouble you this, evening," said Mohr laughing. "Old friends are the most inconvenient articles in the world, when married people meet after a separation. To-morrow I'll take the liberty of knocking at your door to give you my wife's message and a photograph of the little Mohr, but now I shall wish you a good night's rest. No, my dear fellow, I need no guide. I looked carefully at your 'Star' as we passed by, and shall find it again in spite of my small share of astronomical knowledge. Good night, Frau Doctorin."

He raised his hat, pressed Edwin's hand, and walked back toward the main street.

Edwin still stood under the window.

"It seems like a dream to be at home again," said he. "This whole day, while we were marching like two lunatics, merely to get here, I have been constantly thinking of our old home, and how delightful it would be to clasp your hand again, and now I'm standing here, and the old stones are still firm, and I--but you're so silent; the surprise was too sudden; well, I hope yours--"

"I'll open the door for you," she said, making a mighty effort to repress her tears. "Oh! Edwin, is it really you?"

She left the window and took up the little lamp from the table; but suddenly replaced it again. Why should she let him read her feelings in her face? So she went through the dark entry, opened the door, and felt herself clasped in his arms; but passionate as was his embrace, she noticed that he did not seek to press his lips against hers, but rested his forehead on her shoulder, repeating her name over and over again.

"I'm with you once more, my dearest, we have each other again. It seems as if we'd been parted for years--Leah, my faithful darling--"

"Come into the room," she murmured. "You're exhausted, and your forehead is wet with perspiration. Why did you hurry so recklessly?"

"Yes, yea, scold me, dear Wisdom. It's hard to keep within bounds. But I'm here again, all is well now. What's the matter?" he continued, as he entered the room and saw how his pale face, now fully revealed by the lamp-light, startled her. "I'm perfectly well--that is, I have suffered a few days from a nervous attack, similar to my old ones, but the famous household medicine--so-called because it can only be used out of the house--air and exercise,--has done wonders. And now--I'm as delighted as a child to see the green sofa again,--all our furniture; it can hardly be called princely, we must admit, but it's pretty, very pretty; and my dear little wife--I'll wager you have painted a whole table service while I was away, and the famous surprise is that the roses on your cheeks have been transplanted to the china. Well, I repeat again as I see--"

While uttering these hasty words he had sunk down on the sofa and closed his eyes, evidently in the greatest exhaustion. A strange smile, that cut her to the heart, rested on his lips. When he again looked up, she was kneeling beside him, clasping his hands and gazing with an expression of the most loving anxiety into his face, to seek for some consoling glance that would explain all this as only the consequences of over fatigue.

"Dear wife," said he, "if you could give me a mouthful to eat, or no, only a sip of the Spanish wine mamma sent us--and then--then we'll go to rest."

She instantly started up and hurried out of the room, soon returning bringing with her wine, bread and cold meat. Edwin nodded smilingly. "Little housewife!" he exclaimed, drawing her down beside him on the sofa. But he only touched her forehead with his lips, and did not appear to notice the glass of wine she poured out for him. "I'm so happy, so happy!" he repeated again and again. "I drink to peace and rest and--love!"

He tried to draw her toward him, but with a feeling of secret horror she gently repelled him. "Edwin," said she, "what has happened? You can't deceive me for I knew it at the first word you uttered, though you strove to conceal it; you've experienced something that has greatly excited, agitated, or saddened you. Won't you tell me about it? We've always told each other everything."

"Yes, indeed, dearest," he said with a weary nod, while he gently patted her on the cheek. "You're my strong-hearted little girl, my trusty comrade, my dear left hand, that always knows what the right hand is doing. But it's late, my eyes are closing with sleep and there will be plenty of time to-morrow--to-morrow, and the day after, and during our whole lives. What have I experienced? Nothing dangerous. We've passed through a storm, the thunderbolt struck close beside us, and we have been drenched to the skin, that's all. The warmth here will soon dry us again. Come, dearest. What says old Catullus?

"Do you want to sit up any longer, child?"

While repeating the verse, he had risen from the sofa with evident effort and approached the door of the bed room. There, leaning against it, he looked back at her. "Good Heavens, you're weeping!" he exclaimed, suddenly shaking off all fatigue. "What in the world is the matter?"

"Oh! Edwin," she said, gently repelling his passionate embrace, "forgive me, it's wrong. I ought not to be so childish. But my feelings overpowered me. Sleep! How can I think of sleeping, when I see you return so changed, with a burden on your heart which, for the first time, I'm not allowed to share! And yet this is wrong, you're so tired and ought above all to find rest here, and not a weeping wife. To-morrow--will you not? to-morrow, when you've slept--"

"No, not to-morrow!" he murmured bending over her and stroking her hair caressingly with both hands. "This very day, dearest, though it should cost us all sleep. This was the object for which I longed, the reason I could not wait, and walked without ceasing ten miles in six hours. And now I am here, I'm so cowardly that I want to sneak off to bed, instead of first confessing everything to my brave other self and begging absolution! Come, let me sit down beside you again; and be comforted, you see it has not cost me my life, I am here, holding your dear hands, and I feel more deeply than ever before, that we two are one, and that no power of Heaven or Hell can separate us."

He now sat down beside her and began to quietly relate everything that had occurred, from the time he finished his letter to her and Marquard entered his room, till he met Mohr in the forest, where after the long superhuman strain of all the powers of his soul and senses, he had lost consciousness for a moment. Nothing was concealed or palliated. It was evidently a relief to recall to mind all his tortures, his weaknesses, and his honest struggle, now that he knew himself to be safe, where the friends who had followed at his heels could not pursue him into the sacred abode of his peace. The longer he spoke, the calmer became his voice, the clearer his glance. "It is over," he concluded, pressing her hand to his cheek. "I hope you'll praise me, dearest, for having done so well. To be sure, I've not the strong nerves essential to rude courage, and when I do anything heroic, feel long afterwards by the miserable trembling of my heart, what the exertion of moral courage has cost me. But be calm, child, this was the last attack. It will haunt me for a time; if you had seen her--even without being affected as I was by the old fate that binds me to this mysterious creature--you could not have helped feeling the deepest compassion. What a life is before her with nothing but the vague hope of some change that may release her and give her some reason for loving existence! My beloved reason, that helps me over unsolved questions, that sits incarnate beside me, and that all my future care--"

"You've not yet shown me her letter," she interrupted in an expressionless tone. They were the first words she had spoken for half an hour.

"The letter, child? Why do you wish to read it? It's as incoherent a collection of sentences as was ever scrawled by a poor tortured soul. I assure you I've not read it a second time myself."

"If I'm to know her thoroughly, to feel any real compassion for her, I must read it, Edwin. Give it to me. You see I am calm. I have told myself often enough, that this must come some day. It's a misfortune, like any other, only far more sad than every day sorrow. But with honest purpose, and--time--"

"Oh! child," he exclaimed, drawing her tenderly toward him, "have patience with me, leave it to time, do not doubt my honest purpose. I was sure of it--one hour with you, and the enchantment would be powerless, the magic spell shamed by your dear presence. I thank you for having insisted upon knowing everything to-day. Now for the first time I can hope to sleep. The last two nights, in spite of Heinrich's company and all the fatigues of traveling, I could not obtain anything worthy of the name of repose. I had dreams which I should pity a condemned man for having. Now if I can hold your hand--"

"Please go first," she said without looking at him. "I'll come directly---as soon as I've read the letter."

"You might wait until to-morrow--"

"This very day! Do me this favor; then to-morrow all will be over."

He took out his pocket book and looked for the fatal letter. "There it is," said he. "I scarcely know myself what she really wrote, except that it excited and grieved me inexpressibly. Oh! if we could find some way to help her endure life! Think of the matter, my beloved Wisdom. I've racked my brains in vain. Perhaps you will have some advice to offer."

She nodded, apparently with the most perfect composure, and while he remained in the room held the letter in her hand, without opening it. But he had scarcely entered the adjoining room with the little lamp he had just lighted, when with trembling hands and cheeks suffused by a sudden flush, she opened the envelope and with restless eyes devoured the lines.

When the maid-servant entered the room early the next morning, she was startled to find her mistress lying asleep on the green sofa, with the lamp, whose oil had now burned out, on the table beside her. Her astonishment increased, when she looked through the half open door of the chamber and saw her master, whose late return she had not heard, quietly sleeping in his bed. The noise she made in her attempt to leave the room again, roused the young wife; she glanced around in her bewilderment and evidently could not remember how she happened to be on this unusual couch. The fatal letter still lay on the table before her, and she suddenly recollected all. She motioned to the servant to keep quiet, and crept on tip-toe to the threshold of the adjoining room, where she paused and listened to Edwin's regular breathing. The next instant she had removed her clothes, noiselessly lain down beside him, and gazing at the twilight with wide open eyes, awaited the unclosing of his.