heart might there not be beating under the folds of that shawl!
But, too, all this preciousness might belong to another.

Alas! yes, there were certainly many amiable ones down there!--and
if destiny should lead him to one of them, who was free, lovely,
well-bred, of good family, could any one vouch that for her sake
he was not giving up HER, the beau-ideal, the expected, whose
portrait had shown itself between the tinted clouds? or, in any
event, who can vouch for one's success in not missing the right
one?

"Oh! life is a lottery, a cruel lottery; for to everybody there is
but one drawing, and the whole man is at stake. Woe to the loser!"

After the expiration of some time, Fritz, under the influence of
these meditations, had become melancholy, and all bright, smiling,
and sure as life had recently appeared to him, so misty,
uncertain, and painful it now appeared. For the second time he
stroked his forehead, shook these thoughts from him, seeking more
practical ones, and for the second time it terminated in going to
the window and gazing out.

A whirlwind filled the street, slamming gates and doors, shaking
windows and carrying dust with it up to his attic chamber. He was
in the act of drawing back, when he saw a little piece of paper
whirled in the dust cloud coming closely near him. He shut his
eyes to keep out the dust, grasping at random for the paper, which
he caught. At the same moment the whirlwind ceased, and the sky
was again clear. This appeared to him ominous; the scrap of paper
had certainly a meaning to him, a meaning for him; the unknown