letter I read the news of my husband’s death. Through our children we

had much in common, and saw each other almost daily, and, in spite of many differences in our nature, we were real friends. Our two boys were the same age, and her little daughter Beatrix, ten months old, we had playfully destined should be some day the Countess Rudolf Dotzky. The conversation ran on dress, our children and acquaintances, the latest English novel, and the like.

As we chatted, I ventured to ask if she knew what the gossips had said about Tilling and the princess.

“Everybody knows there is nothing to it. Why, have you any interest in Tilling? Dear Martha, you are blushing. It is no use shaking your head. Come, confess. How happy I would be to see you in love once more. But Tilling is no match for you. He has nothing, and is too old. Ah, shall we ever forget that sad hour when you read my letter? War is a cruel business for some, and others find it excellent. My husband wishes for nothing more ardently than that he may distinguish himself.”

“Or be crippled or shot dead.”

“Oh, that only happens when it is one’s destiny. Your destiny, my dear, was to be a young widow.”

“And the war with Italy had to be to bring it about,” I added.

“And I hope it may be my destiny to be the wife of a brilliant young general,” said Lori, laughingly.

“So another war must break out that your husband may be quickly promoted, as though that were the simple and only purpose of the government of the world.”

The conversation changed to pure gossip, of Cousin Conrad Althaus and his devotion to Lilli; of the latest marriage; the last new English novel, _Jane Eyre_; of the misdeeds of Lori’s French nurse; of the trouble of changing servants, and all the usual chatter of idle ladies.

“Now, my dear,” I broke in, “I must really go, for I have other calls which I cannot put off.” At another time I could have been entertained for hours with the tittle-tattle. But to-day my mind was elsewhere. Once more in my carriage, I realised that again there was a change in me, for even the wheels took up the refrain: Ah, Tilling, Frederick Tilling!

When should I see him again? was my one thought, for in vain I went nightly to the theatre, and from there to parties with the one hope. My reception day failed to bring him. Had I offended him? What would I do? I was all on fire to see him again. Oh, for another hour’s talk with him! How I would make amends for my rudeness! The delight of such a conversation would be increased a hundred fold, for I was now willing to confess what was becoming more than plain to me, that I loved him.

The following Saturday brought Tilling’s cousin for a call, and her appearance made my heart beat. Would she tell me of him who so constantly filled my thought? I could not ask her directly. To speak his name would betray me, for I even flushed at the thought. We talked of indifferent things, even the weather, and the one name that lay most at my heart I would not mention.

At last, without warning, she said, “Oh, Martha, I have a message for you. My cousin Frederick went away day before yesterday, and begs to be remembered to you.”

The blood left my face, and I gasped: “Went away? Where? Is his regiment moved?”

“No; he has hurried to Berlin to his mother’s death-bed. He adores her, poor fellow, and I pity him.”

Two days afterwards I received a letter from Berlin in an unknown hand. Without reading it I knew it was from him:—

BERLIN, WILHELM ST., 8. _March 30, 1863._ Midnight.

MY DEAR COUNTESS—I must tell my sorrow to some one, yet ask myself why do I turn to you? I have no right to do so, but do so by irresistible impulse. You will feel with me, I am sure of that.

Had you known my mother, how you would have loved her! And now this tender heart, this fine mind, and charming disposition, must we put it into the grave—for there is no ray of hope. Day and night I am at her bed—and this is her last night. Such suffering, though now she is quiet, poor darling mother. Her senses are numb and her heartbeat is almost finished. Her sister and the physician are here with me.

How terrible is death and separation! It comes, but how we resist it when it would snatch a loved one away. What my mother means to me I can never tell you. She knows she is dying.

This morning she received me with an exclamation of joy when I arrived: “Is it you? Do I see once more my own Fritz? I feared you would be too late.”

“You will get well again, mother,” I cried.

“No, no, there is no hope for that, my dear son. Let us not waste our last hours in meaningless words. Let this be our good-bye visit.” I fell at her side sobbing. “You are crying, my son, I will not tell you to stop, for it should grieve you to part with your best friend, and I am sure I shall never be forgotten by you. Remember, also, that you have made my life very happy. Except your small childish sickness, or the dread that I might lose you during the time of war, you have given me nothing but the keenest happiness; you have shared all my burdens with me, and for this I bless you, my darling son.”

Another attack came on, and her groans of pain almost crushed my heart. Oh, this last frightful enemy, death! I remembered the sights of agonized sufferers on the battle-field and in hospitals! When I reflect that we soldiers sometimes joyously drive others on to death, that we urge full-blooded eager young men on to sacrifice themselves willingly to this terrible enemy, against whom even the weak and broken-down old people fight so bitterly—is it not revolting?

This night is frightfully long. If only sleep might quiet her. But there she lies, with her lids parted, suffering. Every half-hour I bend over her motionless, then I come away to write a few more lines to you, and then I go to her again. It strikes four, and one shivers at the unfeeling strides of time as it unrelentingly presses on to eternity, and at this very moment for this one passionately loved mother time must cease—for all eternity. But as the cold, outer world turns dull to our pain, so much the more longingly do we seek to fly to another human heart which we trust and hope may feel some unison of feeling. And so this white sheet attracted me, and therefore I wrote this letter to you.

Seven o’clock in the morning. It is over. Her last words were, “Farewell, my dear boy.” Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep soundly, darling mother. In grief I kiss your dear hands.—Yours in deepest sorrow,

FREDERICK TILLING.

I have this letter still. Frayed and faded the pages are now. For twenty-five years it has withstood my kisses and tears. It was sent “in deepest sorrow”; I received it “shouting with joy,” for though there was not a single word of love in it, yet where was a plainer proof that the writer loved me than that he should turn to me at his mother’s death-bed, to pour out his grief? In answer I sent a wreath of a hundred white camellias enfolding a single half-blown red rose—the scentless white flowers for the departed, and the glowing blossom—that was for him.