She shook her head. "Farewell," she said. Reinhard climbed up into the
coach and the horses started. As the coach rumbled round the corner of
the street he saw her dear form once more as she slowly wended her way
home.

* * * * *




A LETTER



Nearly two years later Reinhard was sitting by lamplight with his
books and papers around him, expecting a friend with whom he used to
study in common. Some one came upstairs. "Come in." It was the
landlady. "A letter for you, Herr Werner," and she went away.

Reinhard had never written to Elisabeth since his visit home, and he
had received no letter from her. Nor was this one from her; it was in
his mother's handwriting.

Reinhard broke the seal and read, and ere long he came to this
paragraph:

"At your time of life, my dear boy, nearly every year still brings its
own peculiar experience; for youth is apt to turn everything to the
best account. At home, too, things have changed very much, and all