I lied. I had immense compassion in my heart, and the tearful love of a brother; but the old feeling had flown away, as a bird flies, without leaving a trace.
I went to the garden; and in that same hop arbor where the first confession had taken place between Selim and Hania, I cried, as after the death of some dear one. In truth, the former Hania had died for me, or rather, my love had died; and in my heart there remained merely emptiness and pain, as if from an incurable wound, and a memory that presses tears from the eyes.
I sat long and long. The quiet autumn evening began to flush in the twilight on the tree-tops. They looked for me in the house; at last my father entered the hop arbor. He looked at me and respected my sorrow.
"Poor boy!" said he, "God has visited thee grievously; trust in Him. He knows always what He does."
I rested my head on my father's breast, and for some time we were both silent.
"Thou wert greatly attached to her," said my father, after a while. "So tell me, if I were to say to thee, Give her thy hand for a lifetime, what wouldst thou answer?"
"Father," replied I, "love may fly from me, but honor never. I am ready."
My father kissed me heartily, and said,—
"May God bless thee! I recognize thee, but it is not thy duty, not thy obligation; it is Selim's."
"Will he come here?"