“Oh, father,” cried Marie, leaning upon the venerable old man, “explain to him that I am still the wife of that hated man!”
“She is right, Philip; do not urge her further. She must first be legally separated, and this weary heart must have time to recover its wonted calm. Go to Italy, and confide your future and happiness to my care. Marie has lost a mother, but she shall find a father in me. I will watch over her until your return.”
Just then the door opened, and Trude entered. “Every thing is ready; all the things which used to stand in the little garret-room are packed and sent to the manufactory. Shall we go, too, dear child?”
“Yes,” she cried, embracing the faithful old woman. “Farewell, Philip—Italy calls you!”
“I will go, but when I return will you not be my wife?”
Marie gazed at Moritz, radiant with happiness, saying: “The answer is engraven upon my heart. Return, and then I will joyfully respond to your love before God and man!”