more that night to supper, and was never afterwards seen, was Ludibert Wendelstern. On the ensuing morning I found a paper lying in my daughter Agnes’ chamber, but she was gone—gone for ever.”
The old man here rose, and unlocking a small cupboard, took out two letters which he handed to the Professor, who recognizing the hand of his beloved Agnes, began to read, though almost blinded by the tears that came into his eyes.
“A happy destiny calls me away from you, my dear father; but I know you would never have yielded me your consent. Farewell, then, and take comfort; for I feel quite assured we shall soon meet again, when you will congratulate me a thousand, thousand times on the happiness which will soon be mine.”
“That,” said the old master, “was indeed a poor prophecy,” and he drew his hand across his eyes, as if in pain: “she was far too confident, and that ever brings failure and disappointment along with it, for wretched mortals such as we are. There is only one thing certain, but that is quite certain; wherefore the Lord be praised.”
He took his cap from his reverend white head, held it between his folded hands, and prayed within himself. Afterwards he continued, with more cheerful resignation:—“During four years I could learn nothing regarding her; but at the expiration of that period, one fine morning, an infant of about four years
