“Be composed, my darling, be composed,” said Trude, in soothing tones; “if you excite yourself so much, it will be injurious. Some one knocks again, and—”
“Trude, be merciful!” cried Marie. “Go and open the door. Do not let me wait; I believe I have but a little while longer to live, and I cannot wait! Go!”
Trude had hurried to the door, and opened it. She started, waved her hand, closed the door again, and turned to Marie, who stood erect, in breathless suspense.
“Marie,” said she, vainly endeavoring to speak with composure, “there certainly is some one at the door, who desires to speak with me, but it is no stranger; perhaps he wishes to order some flowers. I will go and ask him.”
She was about to open the door again, but Marie ran forward and held her back. “You are deceiving me, Trude. You well know who it is, and I know too. My heart tells me it is he! Philip! my Philip! Come to me, Philip!”
“Marie!” cried a loud, manly voice from the outside. The door was hastily thrown open; and he rushed in, with extended arms. “Marie! where are you, Marie!”
She uttered a loud, piercing cry of joy, and flew to her lover’s heart. “My Philip! My beloved! God bless you for having come!”
“My Marie, my darling!” murmured he, passionately. “God bless you for having called me!”