"I do not defend it, dear Louise," said Henrik, gently smiling at the zeal of his sister, "but I can understand it, and in certain cases I can excuse it. Life is often felt to be so heavy, and the moments of inspiration give a fulness to existence; they are like lightning flashes out of the eternal life!"
"And so they certainly are," said Leonore, who had listened attentively to her brother, and whose mild eyes had become moist by his words; "and life will certainly," continued she, "feel thus clear, thus full, when we shall have become ever entirely freed from the chrysalis; not from the bonds of the body only, but of the soul also. Perhaps these moments are given to us here on earth to allure us up to the Father's house, and to let us feel its air."
"A beautiful thought, Leonore," said her brother. "Thus these gleams of light are truly revelations of our inward, actual, here-yet-enslaved life. Good God! how glorious that—But ah! the long, long moments of darkness, what are they?"
"Trials of patience, times of preparation," replied Leonore, tenderly smiling. "Besides, the bright moments come again and gladden us with their light, and that so much the more frequently the further one advances in perfection. But one must, at the same time, learn to have patience with oneself, Henrik, and here, in this life, to wait for oneself."
"You have spoken a true word, sister. I must kiss your hand for it," said Henrik. "Ah, yes, if——"
"Be now a little less sensible and æsthetic," exclaimed "our eldest," "and come here and drink a cup of tea! See here, Henrik, a cup of strong warm tea, which will do your head good. But this evening and to-morrow morning you must take a table-spoonful of my elixir!"
"From that defend us all, ye good—Vi ringrazia carissima sorella!" said Henrik. "But—but charming Gabriele! a drop of port wine in the tea would make it more powerful, without turning me into one of those miserable beings of whom Louise is so afraid! Thanks, sister dear! Fermez les yeux, O Mahomet!" and with an obeisance before Louise, Henrik conveyed the cup to his lips.
Later in the evening Henrik stood in one of the library windows looking out into the moonlight. Leonore went up to him and looked into his face with that mild, humbly questioning glance to which the heart so willingly opened itself, and which was peculiar to her.
"You are so pale, Henrik," said she, disquieted.
"It is extraordinary," said he, half laughing at himself; "do you see, Leonore, how the tops of the fir-trees there in the churchyard bow themselves in the wind and beckon? I cannot conceive why, but this nodding and beckoning distresses me wonderfully; I feel it in my very heart."