affairs--you for the sake of appearances, and I in good earnest.
Good-night, then, Charles Henry."

"Will you not kiss me on this our last night, Anna Sophia?" said he,
sadly.

"A soldier kisses no man," said she, with a weary smile. "He might
embrace a friend, as his life ebbed out upon the battle-field, but
none other, Charles Henry. Good-night."

She entered and bolted the door after her, then lighting a candle
she hastened to her attic-room. Seating herself at her father's
table, she spread a large sheet of foolscap before her and commenced
writing. She was making her will with a firm, unshaken hand. She
began by taking leave of the villagers, and implored them to forgive
her for causing them sorrow; but that life in the old hut, without
her parents, had become burdensome to her, and as her betrothed was
now going away, she could endure it no longer. She then divided her
few possessions, leaving to every friend some slight remembrance,
such as ribbons, a prayer-book, or a handkerchief. Her clothes she
divided among the village wives. But her house, with all its
contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the request that he
would live in it, at least in summer.

When she had finished, she threw herself upon her bed to rest from
the many fatigues and heart-aches of the day. In her dreams her
parents appeared to her--they beckoned, kissed, and blessed her.
Strengthened by this dream, she sprang joyfully at daybreak from her
couch. She felt now assured that what she was about to do was right,
for otherwise her parents would not have appeared to her. She now