I was about seventeen, I received a letter which told me that her father
had decided to go to America. She promised to write again as soon as they
were settled in their new life. I never heard from her again. Whether her
letters were lost, or whether the family never staid long enough in one
place for her to be able to give me an address, or whether Lili thought
that our lives were now so irrevocably separated that we could never hope
to resume our intimacy--these are questions that I have often asked
myself, but that of course I have had no means of deciding. Perhaps Lili
is no longer living; she may have died soon after that very time--I cannot
tell. I have mourned her as an irreparable loss, for she was my first, my
only intimate girl-friend, and nothing can efface from my mind the memory
of her friendship, and of the vast goodness and affection which her family
showered upon me. I have inquired for them in every direction, but have
never discovered any clue to their existence far or near."

The mother was silent; a very sad expression rested upon her face. The
children sympathized with her and said one after the other, sorrowfully,
"What a pity, what a pity!" Little Hunne, however, who had listened very
attentively to his mother's story, put his arms lovingly around her, and
said,

"Don't be so sad, mamma dear! I will go to America as soon as I am big
enough, and bring your Lili back with me; that I will!"

Rolf and Wili had drawn near, to hear the story, and presently Rolf said,
looking thoughtfully at a strip of paper which he held in his hand,

"Did your piece of paper with the poem look like a rebus, after you had
cut it in two, Mamma?"