"I thank you, Gretchen, for these words," said Hilsborn.
And the girl, in the self-abandonment of her grief, leaned her head upon Hilsborn's shoulder and wept silently.
Thus they walked slowly on for a time, without a word. The moon began to disappear behind the firs, and only gleamed through them when the night breeze stirred their boughs. A low whisper,--a soft suggestion of the resurrection,--trembled among the withered leaves and leafless branches. The little silver skiff glided quietly down the horizon, and misty vapours floated about the youthful pair like a bridal veil. Their innocent hearts mourned over scarcely-closed graves in the midst of nature, enlivened by no young blossoms, no nightingale's song, and yet a future spring was gently stirring around and within them, amid tears and autumn desolation.
"We must return," said Gretchen, suddenly rousing herself from her sad thoughts. "They will miss us." And she hastened on in advance of her friend. At the door of the sick-room he detained her for one moment. "Gretchen, you have done more than I can tell for me in this last half-hour, but yet not enough. You will give me just such another every evening, will you not?"
"With all my heart!"
"And, Gretchen, I shall pass this night watching here in this room. Come to the door now and then, and give me one look."
"Why?" she asked, with a blush.
"Because your face is the dearest sight in the world to me."
"Oh, I am glad of that!" she faltered.
"Remember sometimes to give me a smile,--will you not? I shall wait for it from minute to minute and from hour to hour."