In the hope of again seeing my beauty, I immediately set to work, and thought of every thing that would be in the highest degree pleasing if Gretchen were writing it to me.  I thought I had composed every thing so completely according to her form, her nature, her manner, and her mind, that I could not refrain from wishing that it were so in reality, and lost myself in rapture at the mere thought that something similar could be sent from her to me.  Thus I mystified myself, while I intended to impose upon another; and much joy and much trouble was yet to arise out of the affair.  When I was once more summoned, I had finished, promised to come, and did not fail at the appointed hour.  There was only one of the young people at home; Gretchen sat at the window spinning; the mother was going to and fro.  The young man desired that I should read it over to him:  I did so, and read, not without emotion, as I glanced over the paper at the beautiful girl; and when I fancied that I remarked a certain uneasiness in her deportment, and a gentle flush on her cheeks, I uttered better and with more animation that which I wished to hear from herself.  The lover, who had often interrupted me with commendations, at last entreated me to make some alterations.  These affected some passages which indeed were rather suited to the condition of Gretchen than to that of the lady, who was of a good family, wealthy, and known and respected in the city.  After the young man had designated the desired changes, and had brought me an inkstand, but had taken leave for a short time on account of some business, I remained sitting on the bench against the wall, behind the large table, and essayed the alterations that were to be made, on the large slate, which almost covered the whole table, with a pencil that always lay in the window; because upon this slate reckonings were often made, and various memoranda noted down, and those coming in or going out even communicated with each other.

I had for a while written different things and rubbed them out again, when I exclaimed impatiently, “It will not do!”—­“So much the better,” said the dear girl in a grave tone:  “I wished that it might not do!  You should not meddle in such matters.”  She arose from the distaff, and, stepping towards the table, gave me a severe lecture, with a great deal of good sense and kindliness.  “The thing seems an innocent jest:  it is a jest, but it is not innocent.  I have already lived to see several cases, in which our young people, for the sake of such mere mischief, have brought themselves into great difficulty.”—­“But what shall I do?” I asked:  “the letter is written, and they rely upon me to alter it.”—­ “Trust me,” she replied, “and do not alter it; nay, take it back, put it in your pocket, go away, and try to make the matter straight through your friend.  I will also put in a word; for look you, though I am a poor girl, and dependent upon these relations,—­who indeed do nothing bad, though