and the beautiful flowers at Dover and her gladness at the prospect of
their having this new associate and friend. Then the handwriting again.
The second stroke of the N in her name had a little notch at the
top--German fashion. It looked a pretty name, as she wrote it.

Then he went to the window, and leaned on the brass bar, and looked out
on the dark and sleeping world, with its countless golden points of
fire. He remained there a long time, thinking--of the past, in which he
had fancied his life was buried; of the present, with its bewildering
uncertainties; of the future, with its fascinating dreams. There might
be a future for him, then, after all; and hope; and the joy of
companionship? Surely that letter meant at least so much.

But then the boundlessness, the eager impatience, of human wishes!
Farther and farther, as he leaned and looked out, without seeing much of
the wonderful spectacle before him, went his thoughts and eager hopes
and desires. Companionship; but with whom? And might not the spring-time
of life come back again, as it was now coming back to the world in the
sweet new air that had begun to blow from the South? And what message
did the soft night-wind bring him but the name of Natalie? And Natalie
was written in the clear and shining heavens, in letters of fire and
joy; and the river spoke of Natalie; and the darkness murmured Natalie.

But his heart, whispering to him--there, in the silence of the night, in
the time when dreams abound, and visions of what may be--his heart,
whispering to him, said--"Natalushka!"