"Ah," she sighed, "the spring has come!"
He constantly wrote her letters full of chivalric fire and enthusiastic devotion. She never answered them. Then the war of 1859 broke out. One of her brothers informed her that Meineck had had himself transferred from the show-regiment--one but little adapted to service in the field--to which he had hitherto belonged to another which had been ordered to the front. A short time afterwards she received from the young hussar the following note:
"In spite of the horror with which the loss of life inseparable from every campaign inspires me, I rejoice in the war. I rejoice in the opportunity of proving to you at last that I am worth something in the world. Grant me one favour: send me a line or two, or only a curl of your hair, or some little trinket that you have worn,--anything belonging to you that I can take with me into action. I kiss your dear hands, and am, as ever, with profound esteem and intense devotion,
"Your F. Meineck."
She clasped her hands before her face and sobbed bitterly. And she, who all her life long had jeered at such sentimentality, cut off one of her curls, enclosed it in a small golden locket, and sent it to him with the following words:
"Dear Lad,--
"You burden me with a great responsibility. There was no need for you to plunge neck and heels into this campaign to prove to me that you were worth something. I send you herewith the trifle for which you ask: may it carry a blessing with it! God bring you safe home, is the earnest prayer of your faithful friend,
"Karoline Leskjewitsch."
June passed. The earth languished beneath the burning sun. Pale, feverish, and sleepless, Karoline Leskjewitsch dragged through the endless summer days, scraping lint,--she felt unfit for any other occupation,--and reading with hot, dry eyes the lists of the dead and wounded.