book down before him without a word.

"Don't give it back like that," he said.

She took a brown spray out of the tin case. "I will put your favourite
flower inside," she said, giving back the book into his hands.

At length came the last day of the vacation and the morning of his
departure. At her own request Elisabeth received permission from her
mother to accompany her friend to the stage-coach, which had its
station a few streets from their house.

When they passed out of the front door Reinhard gave her his arm, and
thus he walked in silence side by side with the slender maiden. The
nearer they came to their destination the more he felt as if he had
something he must say to her before he bade her a long farewell,
something on which all that was worthy and all that was sweet in his
future life depended, and yet he could not formulate the saving word.
In his anguish, he walked slower and slower.

"You'll be too late," she said; "it has already struck ten by St
Mary's clock."

But he did not quicken his pace for all that. At last he stammered
out:

"Elisabeth, you will not see me again for two whole years. Shall I be
as dear to you as ever when I come back?"

She nodded, and looked affectionately into his face.