A pause ensued.  Both felt anxious and embarrassed, and neither dared to break the silence.  It was the first time, since Bertram’s return from his grand tour, that she had found herself in his presence without witnesses, for she had carefully avoided being alone with him.  This had not escaped Bertram’s notice, and he had therefore determined to take advantage of the present opportunity to have his fate decided.  But yet he did not venture to speak, and the words died away on his lips as he remarked her silent, indifferent composure.  As he contemplated her, memories of former days rose up before him.  He saw her as, half child, half maiden, she clung trustingly and affectionately to his side, and with charming blushes listened to the teasing jokes of her father.  Then her whole soul lay open and clear before him; then she disclosed to him the entire treasure of her pure, full heart, and all the fanciful and dreamy thoughts of her young virgin soul were perceptible; then he had participated in her joys, her little sorrows, every feeling which agitated her breast.

And now, why was it all so different?

A deep, painful melancholy took possession of him, and made him overcome his fear of her decision.  He sat down resolutely at her side, and took her hand.

“Elise,” said he, “do you still remember what you said to me three years ago, as I took leave of you?”

She shook her head and turned her eyes toward him.  These eyes were full of tears, and her countenance was agitated with painful emotion.

Bertram continued:  “You then said to me, ’Farewell, and however far you may travel my heart goes with you, and when you return I will be to you the same loving, faithful sister that I now am.’  These were your words, Elise; you see that I have preserved them in my memory more faithfully than you, my sister.”

Elise shuddered slightly.  Then she said, with a painfully subdued voice, “You were so long absent, Bertram, and I was only a child when you left.”

“The young woman wishes, then, to recall the words spoken by the child?”

“No, Bertram, I will always love you as a sister.”

Bertram sighed.  “I understand you,” said he, sadly; “you wish to erect this sisterly love into an impassable barrier separating me from you, and to pour this cool and unsubstantial affection like a soothing balm upon my sufferings.  How little do you know of love, Elise; of that passion which desires every thing, which is satisfied with nothing less than extreme happiness, or, failing that, extreme wretchedness, and will accept no pitiful compromise, no miserable substitute!”

Elise looked at him firmly, with beaming eyes.  She too felt that the decisive hour had come, and that she owed the friend of her youth an open and unreserved explanation.

“You are mistaken, Bertram,” said she.  “I know this love of which you speak, and for that very reason, because I know it, I tell you I will always love you as a sister.  As a true sister I bid you welcome.”