It was the last day. Maren was somewhat in a grave mood. Otto must write in her album. “He would never come to Lemvig again,” said she. As children they had played with each other. Since he went to Copenhagen she had, many an evening, seated herself in the swing near the summer-house and thought of him. Who knows whether she must not have done so when she copied out of the secretary’s memorandum-book, the verses,—
“So fliessen nun zwei Wasser
Wohl zwischen mir and Dir?”
The sea certainly flows between Aarhuus and Copenhagen.
“Maren will perhaps go over for the winter,” said the mother; “but we dare not speak too much about it, for it is not yet quite settled. It will really make her gayer! lately she has been very much inclined to melancholy, although God knows that we have denied her no pleasure!”
There now arrived a quantity of letters from different acquaintance, and from their acquaintance: if Mr. Thostrup would have the goodness to take care of this to Viborg, these to Aarhuus, and the others as far as Copenhagen. It was a complete freight, such as one gets in little towns, just as though no post went through the country.
The carriage stopped before the door.
Rosalie melted into tears. “Write to me!” said she. “Thee I shall never see again! Greet my Switzerland when thou comest there!”
The others were merry. The lady sang,—
“O could I, like a cloud, but fly!”
The young lady from Holstebro bowed herself before him with an Album-leaf its her hand, upon which she must beg Mr. Thostrup to write her something. Maren gave him her hand, blushed and drew back: but as the carriage rolled away she waved her while handkerchief through the open window: “Farewell! Farewell!”