One by one the objects of our affection depart from us. But our
affections remain, and like vines stretch forth their broken, wounded
tendrils for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it; and
there is none but the love of its kind,--none but the affection of a
human heart. Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming began to
lift themselves from the dust and cling around this new object. Days
and weeks passed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased to love,
because he began to adore. And with this adoration mingled the prayer,
that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise
are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, and the maiden, in her
day dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred
silence of her thoughts might whisper his name.
They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow,
under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the ruins. The
birds were singing, one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no
sin nor sorrow, in the world. So motionless was the bright air, that the
shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. The distant snow-peaks
sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square tower of the
old ruin above them.
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