Two days later Dietrich followed his mother to her last resting place.  There was no need to avoid meeting people now, for every one knew that the true thief had been discovered.  But no hope was left to him in his home.  When he returned from the funeral, and went into the house, he knew that he had no right there, for it no longer belonged to him.  He went to his room, strapped on his heavy knap-sack, and came down stairs.  Veronica was alone in the sitting-room.  She stood leaning against the window, her eyes fixed on the church-yard beyond, where the mother lay sleeping.

He entered the room.  “Veronica, give me your hand once more.  I am going,” he said, coming towards her.

“Where are you going, Dietrich?” she asked in a voice that was wholly without feeling; and the cold tone seemed to stab the young man’s heart as with a knife.  “It is all one to her;” he thought.

“I am going out into the world.  I am going to work to pay my debts.  I have no home; and as there is no one on earth who cares for me, I can bear my burden better anywhere than here.”

“Then go, in God’s name,” said Veronica, and she held out her hand to him.  This was too much for Dietrich.  He made one struggle for self-control and then broke down completely.

“Can you let me go so coolly, Veronica? not one kindly word for me?  If I might stay here with you, I would work day and night like the meanest servant; I would do anything and everything for you.  But no!  I must go!  I could not bear it!  How could I stay and see you give yourself to some one else—­I who have lost you,—­lost you forever!”

The young man threw himself into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and cried like a child.

Veronica was as white as snow.  She went to his side, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

“Dietrich,” she said softly, “if you feel in this way, why don’t you ask me how I feel, when I think of living on here alone when you have gone; when you have left me perhaps forever?”

Dietrich raised his eyes to hers.  A look lay there, a look such as he had dreamed of in his banishment.  He sprang to his feet, and seized her hand.

“Veronica, can you love me? can you trust me?”

She did not withdraw her hand, and looked him full in the eyes.

“I have always loved you, Dietrich,” she said, “and if I know that you can pray again to God, and promise to live a life acceptable to Him, I can trust you too.”

The young man pressed her to his heart.  “Is it true, is it possible?” he cried.  “Oh Veronica, can it be true?”

But suddenly he started back, and said in a frightened tone,

“No, I dare not.  I cannot.  Who am I?  I am nothing; I have nothing, less than nothing; and I know what you are and how far above me.  Jost wrote me that there was no hope for me.  I wanted to make you so happy—­I meant to get money and provide all sorts of beautiful things for you and to make you the happiest woman in the world.  And now! now I am a beggar, and a miserable creature into the bargain.”