"How fondly I love you, dear Ernestine! There, now, it is said—my secret is out. Will you pardon it—can you love me in return?"
After many a long and painful pause, which pen and paper cannot shew, the secret had burst from me; but Ernestine, who, with all her artlessness, expected some such avowal, made no reply, and continued to pluck the leaves of a Gueldre rose.
"You know not—you never can know, how deep this passion is, how long it has endured—since first we met at Luneburg, Ernestine!"
Leaf by leaf she still plucked on.
"Ernestine, dearest—do you hear me? that I love you. Oh! you know not how fondly—how well!"
The leaves still floated away on the wind.
I felt that the citadel was about to capitulate; that she trembled, for my hands had ventured to touch, and then encircle her waist. My whole heart seemed to vibrate.
"Ernestine—my own Ernestine!"
The last leaf fell to the ground.
She was pale as death, and her very eyelids were trembling; for in her breast love struggled with her provoking pride, but the plump little god soon bore all before him bravely.