His grandfather started as though a voice from the other world had spoken to him.
“Why, how do you know that? No one but myself knows that I carry her miniature about me.”
“May I see it?” asked his grandson, not a little alarmed at the excited manner of the sick man.
“Yes,—that is if no one knows it,—not even Laura. Mind, Berthold, your grandmother knows nothing of this,—not a word.”
Berthold's word was sacred, and the old man drew from his pocket an oval case of blue velvet, ornamented with pearls.
“Here, look, and be quick; I fear some one may come; and if, if I should die, Berthold, take this and keep it forever.”
“I will,” said the faithful boy, as he unclasped the case.
Was he dreaming? There, before him, was the same; yes, the very same fair face he saw in the mist. He could not take his eyes from the picture, so strange was the spell.
“I have seen this face to-night, grandfather,” said Berthold, going close to him, and laying his hand upon his brow.
“Seen what! seen her? Sibyl! O, God, she must have died.”