"Later, we had our lessons together, sometimes from the school teacher, Mr. Kurd, and sometimes from my father. We began to read together and shared our heroes and heroines, whose experiences thrilled us so much that we lived them all through ourselves. Lili had great fire and temperament, and it was a constant joy to be with her. Her merry eyes sparkled and her curls were always flying. We lived in this happy companionship, perfectly unconscious that our blissful life could ever change."
"But just before we were twelve years old, my father said one day that Mr. Blank was going to leave the factory and return home. These words were such a blow, that I could hardly comprehend them at first. They made such an impression on me, that I remember the exact spot where my father told me. All I could understand was that Mr. Blank had been misinformed about the business in the beginning and was obliged to give it up after a severe loss. My father was much grieved, and said that a great wrong had been done to Lili's father by his dishonest agents. He had lost his whole fortune as a result."
"I was quite crushed by the thought of losing Lili, and by her changed circumstances besides. It made me so unhappy that I remember being melancholy for a long, long time after. The following day, Lili came to say goodbye, and we both cried bitterly, quite sure of not being able to endure the grief of our separation. We swore eternal friendship to each other, and decided to do everything in our power to meet as often as possible. Finally, we sat down to compose a poem together, something we had frequently done before. We cut the verses through in the middle—we had written it for that purpose—and each took a half. We promised to keep this half as a firm bond, and if we met again, to join it together as a sign of our friendship."
"Lili left, and we wrote to each other with great diligence and warm affection for many years. These letters proved the only consolation to me in my lonely, monotonous life in the country. When we were young girls of about sixteen or seventeen, Lili wrote to me that her father had decided to emigrate to America. She promised to write to me as soon as they got settled there, but from then on, I never heard another word. Whether the letters were lost, or Lili did not write because her family did not settle definitely anywhere, I cannot say. Possibly she thought our lives had drifted too far apart to keep up our intercourse. Perhaps Lili is dead. She may have died soon after her last letter—all this is possible. I mourned long years for my unforgettable and dearest friend to whom I owed so much. All my inquiries and my attempts to trace her were in vain. I never found out anything about her."
The mother was silent and a sad expression had spread over her features, while the children also were quite depressed by the melancholy end of the story.
One after the other said, sighing, "Oh, what a shame, what a shame!"
But little Hun, who had listened most attentively, had drawn tenderly near his mother and said comfortingly, "Don't be sad, mamma! As soon as I am big, I'll go to America and fetch Lili home to you."
Rolf and Willi had also joined the other listeners, and after thoughtfully gazing at a slip of paper in his hand, Rolf asked, "Mamma, did the poem you cut apart look like a Rebus, written on a narrow paper?"
"Perhaps, Rolf. It might have given that impression," replied the mother. "Why do you ask?"
"Look, mamma," said Rolf, holding out the yellowish slip of paper, "don't you think this might be your half?"