Helena laid aside her hat and assisted Miss von Wendenstein in the final arrangements of the tea-table. The lieutenant joined the young ladies.
"Now, Miss Helena," he said, "I am quite in earnest, you really must give me your good wishes, for, perhaps, I shall soon have need of them. Will you not," he cried warmly, as he looked into her eyes, "will you not sometimes think of me, if we actually march, and send your good wishes after me?"
She looked at him for a moment, and then cast down her eyes, as she said in a voice that trembled slightly,--
"Certainly, I will think of you, and I will pray to God to take care of you."
He looked at her with emotion: the words were so simple, and so natural, and yet they touched for the first time something in his heart, which seemed to tell him that if he really did march as he so greatly desired to this merry war, he must leave much that he loved behind him.
"I remember very well," he said, after a moment's silence, "the dark cloud we saw the evening before my father's birthday, and how it was driven farther and farther from the light of the moon. I think of it now, that I shall not be here for a long while, perhaps, indeed, this is the last time I shall ever be at home. You see, Miss Helena," he continued, lightly and jestingly, as if he wished to conceal his feelings, "I learn from you--I have got on,--I remember your beautiful thoughts; another step, and I may have ideas of my own."
She answered neither his earnest words nor his jest, but looked up at him in silence.
"Tea is ready, dear mamma," said Miss von Wendenstein, as she gave a last scrutinizing glance at the large round table, which, contrary to custom, was brought into the drawing-room, and bore an improvised supper.
Madame von Wendenstein rose, and approached the table with the pastor, her husband and the candidate followed.
"You will sit by me, will you not?" half whispered the lieutenant to Helena, "for the sake of old times."