little sure after all, that he is ill of anxiety every time he expects you and every time you leave him.' Marie, my blessed one, in a few moments you will enter my door, and my foolish heart will hide all its trouble. I give you many beautiful words and many true kisses, but all the anxiety in my heart I cannot confess. If only I could! How sweet it would be just once to set free all that is pent up in my heart. How sweet to tear open my bosom and without any reservation let all my longing, all my trouble, stream forth like rippling blood. I cannot do it, Marie! I am a cynic at the bottom of my heart. A vain fool! I cannot do it, I dare not do it.
The great door bangs. I start up listening. No, it is a heavy dragging footstep, not Marie's light tread.
And again I wait. But I have lost the thread of my thoughts, and now I have only one thought: Why does she not come?
If you have a lover, young maidens, take my advice, let him wait once for you in vain, but if you love him truly, don't do it more than once. If he stands this severe test, you may be sure he loves you very dearly. But if you twice make him endure the hell of waiting in vain, then he will know that you are not worthy of his love.
I am waiting, while the minutes fly like seconds. Oh, that I were able to stop the flight of time! But never has he gone so fast as now, when every passing minute robs me of hope. My heart is
