last volume, I got such a desire to try if I could grasp Ueber das Erhabene. The Professor is afraid that this kind of reading may prove trying to me, and recommends historical works. I also began to read Schiller's Thirty Years' War, but it wearied me dreadfully. I cannot help it; it was already like that in my schooldays, everything historical bored me.
"Good-night, Harald!"
The reading of this journal had created so deep and solemn an impression upon me that I had been unable to find relief in tears; I had not yet wept since her death.
But as I finally clutched for the remaining contents of the parcel, and got a strangely crumpled and curled letter in my hand, that letter from me which she had carried on her breast, then I pressed it to my lips and sobbed like a child.
I have read again the first of these leaves. How could I write those foolish words—
"And have I ever regretted it? Even to this very day, it is now five years ago, I am unable to answer this question."
As if I, for any prize in the world, would give up our love, give up the remembrance of Minna! As if any happiness could be to me so precious as my grief!
I arbitrarily undertook to look after the funeral. To my joy—yes, it really was a joy to me!—I secured a grave on "Der weite Kirchhof," quite close to the resting-place of Hertz and his wife, under one of the giant poplars.
On the tomb I ordered a broken column of the most beautiful Saxonian Serpentine to be placed, without any other inscription than the name:
MINNA
