When you speak of me, see if he--if he looks as if he still loved me." But then she broke off, crying, "But don't tell him I said that.

He'd be grieved if I doubted his love.

I don't doubt it; I don't, indeed; but still tell me how he looks when you speak of me, won't you, Fritz?
See, here's the letter." Taking it from her bosom, she kissed it before she gave it to me.

Then she added a thousand cautions, how I was to carry her letter, how I was to go and how return, and how I was to run no danger, because my wife Helga loved me as well as she would have loved her husband had Heaven been kinder.

"At least, almost as I should, Fritz," she said, now between smiles and tears.