There was, however, no outward , deep and though that struggle may have been. It is true that we met each other almost every day, but nearly always in the company of the children, and if it happened that we arranged to meet alone, we had never more time to spare than perhaps half an hour. By this time his attitude towards me had changed. The touch of scorn and that had confused and irritated me at the beginning of our acquaintance had turned into gravity and thoughtfulness. I on my part displayed much pride and coolness, since his politeness and reserve made me afraid to betray my feelings, which, after all, were not . What he really thought of me I never knew. He was always so kind, so concerned, and yet was unmercifully stern and strict whenever my revolted against his will.  
One day I was with the children on the balcony, and my mistress had also come out for a moment. I sat busy with some mending, when all at once I felt somebody else was present. Without looking up I recognized the voice that I knew so well, and my heart beat faster. I thought that he would come and speak to me. He, however, did not do so, but to my mistress. At that the blood mounted to my cheeks. "The coward," I said to myself; "he does not even dare to speak to me." I trembled with shame and rage, and nothing on earth could have induced me to look up. Their conversation was short and meaningless, and after a little while he prepared to go. He departed with a polite phrase from my mistress, and with a joke from the children; then I heard a door bang, and knew that he had gone.
 
I felt like crying with anger and sadness. Could it be that such a man was my friend? As soon as I had put the children to bed, I wrote a note asking him to return all my poems and letters, since I wished to discontinue our friendship, which I had only now found out had never been real friendship. I thought he would do at once as I wished, and was surprised not to hear from him. The days passed by, and after a whole week had passed the porter at last handed me a note.
 
"I should like to speak to you. Pray decide on time and place."
 
At first I was to send no reply whatever, and kept silent for two days; then I could stand it no longer, and wrote saying "when and where."
 
"What's the meaning of that?" he asked, producing my letter from his pocket; whereupon I began bitterly to reproach him. He did not interrupt me with a single , and so I spoke on and on until I could say no more. "You are a child," he said at last, looking at me half sadly, half amused. His apparent angered me anew.
 
 
"Pray," I said with great dignity, "when will you return my letters?"
 
His eyes blazed all of a sudden and his lips closed tightly.
 
"Never!"
 
"But they are my own letters."
 
"You are mistaken. The letters belong to me."
 
He had stopped in front of me, and his face wore the grave, decisive look that I knew so well. All my anger melted, and with a little I clung to him. He suffered it for a second only, then pulled himself together, and looked at his watch.
 
"It is time that you should go."
 
He spoke as coolly and politely as ever, but the look he gave me was a look, and when I went home, as it were, my heart pondered on a new revelation, half sweetness and half sorrow.
 
Later on, I also made the acquaintance of his mother. She was such a gentle and ladylike woman that I should have adored her even if she had not been the mother of the man I loved. She spoke to me with great kindness whenever I met her, and told me one day that she had come across a lovely book, which she would be pleased to let me have if I cared for it. A little timid, but all the more determined, I pressed the button at her door next day. A smart-looking parlourmaid me into the drawing-room. There the arrangement of the furniture and other things showed much taste and , and I thought involuntarily of our own poor at home, of the one room, wherein they all ate, slept, and wept together. The sound of footsteps made me forget that doleful picture. My lady smiled at me, asked a few simple questions, and soon we began to talk.
 
"I am rather ashamed," she said, pulling open a drawer, and taking out some pieces of paper, yellow from age, "but I can't help it. There are lots of things dating even from my girlhood, and I cannot make up my mind to throw them away."
 
After that she showed me newspaper cuttings of poems, dried flowers, and many other things, which she stroked softly while pointing out to me their value and meaning. When at length I prepared to go, she handed me the book which I had come for; it was a volume of poems by Mirza Schaffy.
 
That visit did not remain the only one. Many and many a time I sat with her in the black-furnished drawing-room, and when she gazed at me with that singular, ambiguous look of hers, I often felt like burying my head in the dark silk robe on her lap and to her all my sorrow and grief.
 
One day I received a letter from home, telling me that they were unable to find the money for the rent which fell due on January 1 (that was in a few days), and that all their things would be put out in the street. The letter worried me terribly; I had sent home small and large sums of money during the two years I had been at my post, but just then I did not possess any money worth mentioning. In my imagination I my parents, sisters, and brothers, shelterless, in a dirty, stormy street, and so great was my despair that I cried all night.
 
In the morning an idea occurred to me that at first I found horrible and . But it came again and again, grew stronger and stronger, and when it was time to take the children to school I hoped most to see my friend. Nor did I hope in vain.
 
"I must speak to you," I said, as soon as I caught sight of him.
 
He looked at me .
 
"I am at your disposal."
 
"Not now," I answered, glancing at the children; "I must speak to you alone. Can you spare time on Sunday?"
 
"If there is anything the matter. Why not earlier?"
 
I felt immensely relieved.
 
"Then to-day?" I asked.
 
"Of course, whenever you like."
 
After that we appointed the time and place, and parted. But scarcely had he gone than I began to regret what I was about to do. The whole thing seemed to me almost madness.
 
What right had I to ask him for money? I felt so tortured, so , and when the time of our appointment drew near, I not to go. Nor did I. Instead, I read that fatal letter over and over again. It was written by my father, and there was one passage that ran: "Mother is worn out with crying and , and is not feeling well of late. What we are to do if we really have to move out into the street, I do not know. They would never take us into the alms-house, because we do not belong to Langenau at all."
 
I put my face on the table and wept bitterly. All at once I decided to do what I had meant to do, and............