"Then you have been in Italy?"
"Two years ago, with my cousin Barnewitz and his wife. I wish you had been with us; first, on your account, for you deserve to see Italy, and then, on my account, because I should then not have been condemned to wander through the most beautiful landscapes and the richest collections alone, or in company with figures of wax. I used to tell then, as I always do, everything to my album, which received patiently what no one else cared to listen to."
Melitta had risen and placed herself by Oswald's side, who wanted to get up in order to give her a chair. But, in order to prevent that, she laid her hand lightly on his arm and let it rest there an instant--an instant only, and yet it was long enough to make Oswald's hand tremble and his voice shake when he said, turning over the leaves:
"These sketches must have been made before the journey to Italy. Here is the mysterious pond, at the edge of which I slept and dreamt this afternoon."
"You have not told me yet what you dreamt?"
"Yes, I told you all sorts of sweet foolish things."
"Of course about a lady?"
"Yes."
"Ah, then I must not ask for more?"
"Ah, how charming!" exclaimed Oswald, as he turned over a leaf. "How snugly ensconced this cottage lies in the forest. The old pine-trees stand around like gigantic guardians. The beech-tree spreads its mighty branches over it like a protecting deity. And here the creepers, climbing up and waving before the low windows, as if they were whispering: You are ours. And how dreamily that brook creeps along between reeds and ferns and down the deep green meadow in the foreground! That is a beautiful idea," said Oswald, looking up to Melitta from the book.