shading her eyes as if she was looking for something definite, but just as quickly she forgot it, and either stroked the hair away from her forehead, or drummed upon the window frame.
I went quietly up to her and laid my arm round her shoulder.
"Has anything else troubled you, darling?"
"I have received a letter—from him, an answer to the one I sent off the other evening."
"Well?"
"It has given me pain, it was not at all what I had expected. He does not think of me as a good friend. It is as if he wanted to hurt me. I don't understand it."
"What has he written, Minna?"
"Well, you shall see for yourself."
She went back into the room and knelt down by the little handbag that stood open in the middle of the floor. Taking a letter from a blotter she gave it to me. It was written on very elegant notepaper and had only some unimportant lines as introduction to a poem by Heine, which I did not know. It read as follows:—
"Once more from that fond heart I'm driven
That I so dearly love, so madly;
Once more from that fond heart I'm driven—
Beside it would I linger gladly.
The chariot rolls, the bridge is quaking,
The stream beneath it flows so sadly;
Once more the joys am I forsaking
Of that fond heart I love so madly.
In heaven rush on the starry legions,
As though before my sorrow flying—
Sweet one, farewell! in distant regions
My heart for thee will still be sighing."
"Silly nonsense!" I exclaimed, and involuntarily crumpled the paper between my hands. But Minna, who had again been looking out of the window, turned quickly,
