and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the
parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea.

For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others
noticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left
him weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the last
summer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first
one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago
with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only
strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into
her face.

One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin," he said,
"your friend Müller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days,
perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is near
the last."

"Does he know it?"

"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once."

So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his last
preparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis," he
said; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. I
have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when--when I am
gone.

"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me:
there are ten of them, every one ten years old."