"You must, Wolff. Let time pass over it if you will, but in the end you must yield. You dare not trample on your own happiness, on Nora's, on Hildegarde's—yes, Hildegarde's," she repeated emphatically. "In the end she will find happiness in her own renunciation. She loves you both, and the first bitterness is already past. And why wait? There may be struggles enough before you both, though I shall do my best to help you. Go to Nora and make her happy. Believe me, lieber Junge, the heart-ache has not been all on your side."
He had taken her hands now and was kissing them with a passionate, shame-faced gratitude.
"You make me feel the lowest, meanest thing on earth," he said. "And Hildegarde is an angel—far too good for me."
"Yes; that is the best way to put it," she said. "Hildegarde is too good for you. And now perhaps it would be wise for you to go in search of the woman who is your equal."
"Not now," he said. "I could not. I must be alone a little. It has all happened so suddenly. My whole life and future has changed in a minute."
"Do as you think best, dear Wolff. But do not wait long."
He pressed her hand again in farewell.
"You love Nora?" he asked.
"Yes; otherwise I would not have let things drift. There are many barriers between you—race and language are not the least—and we had thought of a match—since Hildegarde's illness—more, perhaps, in accordance with our family traditions. But Nora is a dear, sweet child, and, I believe, will make you a good wife. At any rate, I shall do all I can to smooth your path, and Hildegarde and I will be happy to welcome her as one of us."
He smiled, half in gratitude, half in doubt.