"This time," replied Ragnar, "you greeted me with such strange news that I quite forgot all my usual habits. It grieves me to observe that Carl is upon the verge of the grave. True, he was ill last winter; but he soon recovered."
"He exerted himself too much during our troubles," said Magde, "then he has taken no care of himself, and then—yes, yes, there is something very strange about Carl."
"What do you mean by strange, Magde?" inquired her husband. "Do you think that he is really insane?"
"Oh no, I did not mean that; but—"
"Speak on, speak your mind."
"Now, do not laugh at my fancy—or be vexed with poor Carl. I think that—he loves me too much, and his passion has weighed heavily upon him, although he does not, himself, understand it."
"Your words are worthy of reflection, Magde; now I remember, his conduct did appear peculiar when he said he envied me the privilege of kissing you. Poor fellow, how could I be vexed with him? He, probably, never desired to vex either you or myself."
"Never. Frequently during the summer I have placed flowers in his room, and in them he took his greatest delight. Even now he loves to hear me sing to him, or to read a chapter in the Bible, above all other things."
"Such love," said Ragnar, "is a beautiful rose, the perfume of which cheers a drooping spirit. He may continue his love; it will sustain him in his last trial. Hereafter, I will not even take your hand in his presence."
"How kind you are, dear Ragnar. Now I can be to him as I was before your return." Magde wiped the tears from her long eyelashes, and before Ragnar could question her, she continued: "You may depend upon my fidelity. I only wish to afford him a slight ray of joy while he is still on earth. Without me he stands alone."