The summer which followed brought nothing but grief and care to Meyerhofer’s house. The former owner wished to have the mortgage paid off, and there was no prospect of any one lending the necessary sum.

Meyerhofer drove to the town three or four times weekly, and returned home late at night dead drunk. Sometimes he stayed away for the whole night.

Frau Elsbeth meanwhile sat upright in her bed and stared into the darkness. Paul often woke when he heard her low sobs; then for a while he would lie as quiet as a mouse, because he did not want her to know that he was awake, but at last he would begin to cry, too.

Then his mother became quiet; and if he could not stop crying she got up, kissed him, and stroked his cheek; or she said,

“Come to me, my boy.”

Then he sprang up, slipped into her bed, and went to sleep on her shoulder again.

His father often beat him—he seldom knew why; but he took the blows for granted.

One day he heard his father scolding his mother.

“Do not cry, you blubbering fool,” he said; “you are only here to make my misery worse.”

“But, Max,” she answered, softly, “will you prevent your family from bearing your misfortune with you? Must we not keep closer together when we are so unhappy?”

Then he was moved, said she was his brave wife, and called himself bad names.

Frau Elsbeth tried to pacify him, bade him confide in her, and be brave.

“Yes, be brave—be brave!” he cried, getting angry again. “It is all very fine for you women to speak so; you sit at home, and spread your apron out, waiting humbly for fortune or misfortune to fall into your laps, just as kind Fate may send it. But we men must go forth into hostile life; we must struggle and strive and fight with all sorts of rogues. Away with your warnings! Be brave; yes, indeed, be brave!”

Then he walked out of the room with heavy steps, and ordered the trap to be got ready, in order to set off on his usual pilgrimage.

When he came back, and had slept off his intoxication, he said:

“There, now my last hope is gone. The d—d Jew, who wanted to advance the money at twenty-five per cent., declares he will have nothing more to do with me. Well, let him do the other thing. I don’t care a straw for him. And at Michaelmas we may really go a-begging, for this time nothing remains to us but what we stand up in. But this I tell you: this time I shall not survive the blow. An honorable man must set some value on himself, and if one fine morning you see me swinging from the rafters, don’t be astonished.”

The mother uttered a piercing cry, and clung with both arms round his neck.

“Well, well, well!” he calmed her; “it was not meant so seriously. You women-folk are all the same deplorable creatures, a mere word upsets you.”

The mother started and stepped back from him, but when he had gone out she seated herself at the window, and looked after him anxiously, as if she feared he might already be thinking of doing himself a mischief. From time to time a shudder ran through her frame, as if she were cold.

In the following night, Paul, waking, observed that she got up, put on a petticoat, and went to the window from which the White House could be seen. It was bright moonlight—perhaps she really gazed at it. For wellnigh two hours she sat there, looking out fixedly. Paul did not stir, and when, with the approach of dawn, she came back from the window and stepped to her children’s bedsides, he closed his eyes firmly and feigned to sleep. She first kissed the twins, who were sleeping with their arms entwined; then she came to him, and as she bent down over him he heard her whisper, “God give me strength. It must be.” Then he guessed that something extraordinary was in preparation.

When, the following afternoon, he came home from school, he saw his mother sitting in the arbor in her hat and cloak and Sunday clothes; her cheeks were paler than usual; her hands, which lay in her lap, trembled.

She seemed to have been waiting for him, for when she saw him she breathed more freely.

“Are you going out, mamma?” he asked, wonderingly.

“Yes, my boy,” she answered, “and you shall go with me.”

“To the village, mamma?”

“No, my boy”—her voice quivered—“not to the village. You must put on your Sunday clothes; the velvet coat, of course, is spoiled, but I have taken the stains out of your gray jacket—it will still do; and you must polish your boots quickly.”

“Where are we going, then, mamma?”

Then she laid her arms round him, and said, softly,

“To the White House.”

He felt a sudden fever of excitement. The exultant joy which welled up from his heart nearly choked him; he jumped on his mother’s lap and kissed her impetuously.

“But you must tell nobody,” she whispered—“nobody; do you understand?”

He nodded, full of importance. He was such a clever fellow. He knew what it was all about.

“And now dress yourself quickly.”

Paul flew up-stairs to the room where his clothes were kept, and suddenly—he never clearly knew on which step it was—a long-drawn shrill sound escaped his mouth; there was no doubt any more—he could whistle! he tried for the second, the third time—it went splendidly.

When he came back to his mother in all his finery he shouted, jubilantly, “Mamma, I can whistle!” and was astonished that she showed so little interest in his art. She only pulled his collar straight and said, “You happy children!”

Then she took his hand, and their pilgrimage began. When they reached the dark fir-wood in which the wolves and goblins lived he had just finished his studies for “Kommt in Vogel geflogen” (A Bird Comes A-flying), and when they came out again into the open field he could be sure that “Heil Dir im Siegerkranz” (God Save the Queen) went without a flaw.

His mother looked down at him with a sad smile; each shrill note made her start, but she said nothing. The White House now stood close before them. He no longer thought of his new art. All his faculties were absorbed in what he saw.

First there came a high red-brick wall with a gate in it, on the posts of which stood two stone heads; then farther on a large grass-grown court; whole rows of wagons stood in it, and it was flanked by low gray farm buildings, forming a big square. In the middle lay a sort of pool, surrounded by a low hedge of may, in which a troop of quacking ducks were making merry.

“And where is the White House, mamma?” asked Paul, whom this did not please at all.

“Behind the garden,” replied his mother. Her voice had a strange, husky sound, and her hand clasped his so firmly that he almost screamed with pain.

Now they turned the corner of the garden fence, and before Paul’s eyes lay a simple two-storied house, closely shaded by lime-trees, and having little or nothing remarkable about it. It did not look nearly as white, either, as from the distance.

“Is this it?” asked Paul, drawling out the words.

“Yes; this is it,” answered his mother.

“And where are the glass balls and the sundial?” he asked.

A desire to cry came over him suddenly. He had imagined everything a thousand times more beautiful; if they had cheated him regarding the glass balls and the sundial as well, he would not have been surprised.

At this moment two Newfoundland dogs, as black as coal, came rushing up to them with suppressed barks. He took refuge behind his mother’s dress and began to scream.

“Caro! Nero!” called a sweet childish voice from the house door, and the two monsters, howling joyfully, rushed off in the direction whence the voice came.

A little girl, smaller still than Paul, in a pink-flowered frock, round which a kind of Scotch sash was tied, appeared before the house. She had long, golden curls, which were drawn back from her forehead by a round comb, and a small, delicate little nose, which she carried rather high.

“Do you wish to speak to mamma?” she asked in her gentle, soft voice, and smiled at the same time.

“Are you called Elsbeth, my child?” inquired his mother, in return.

“Yes; I am called Elsbeth.”

His mother made a movement as if she wanted to clasp the strange child in her arms, but she mastered herself, and said,

“Will you lead us to your mother?”

“Mamma is in the garden; she is just drinking coffee,” said the little girl, with much importance. “I would rather lead you round the front of the house, because if we open the door on the sunny side so many flies come in directly.”

His mother smiled. Paul wondered that this had never struck him at home.

“She is much cleverer than you are,” he thought.

Now they entered the garden. It was much larger and more beautiful than the one at Mussainen, but there was nothing to be seen of a sundial. Paul had formed a vague idea of it as a great golden tower, on which a round, sparkling disk of the sun formed the dial-plate.

“Where is the sundial, mamma?” he asked.

“I will show it to you afterwards,” said the little girl, eagerly.

From the arbor came a tall, slender lady, with a pale, delicate face, on which shone an inexpressibly sweet smile.

His mother gave a cry, and threw herself on her breast, sobbing loudly.

“Thank God that I have you with me once again!” said the stranger, and kissed his mother on her brow and cheeks.

“Believe me, all will now be well; you will tell me what weighs upon your mind, and it will be strange if I cannot help you.”

His mother dried her eyes and smiled.

“Oh, this is pure joy,” she said; “I feel already so relieved and happy because I am near you. I have longed for you so much.”

“And could you really not come?”

His mother shook her head sadly.

“Poor woman!” said the lady, and both looked for a long time into each other’s eyes.

“And this, I suppose, is my godchild?” the lady exclaimed, pointing towards Paul, who clung to his mother’s dress and sucked his thumb.

“Oh, fie! take your finger from your mouth,” said his mother. And the beautiful, kind lady took him on her lap, gave him a teaspoonful of honey—“as a sort of foretaste,” she said—and asked him after his little sisters, about school, and all sorts of other things which it was not at all difficult to answer, so that at last he almost felt comfortable on her lap.

“And what things do you know already, you little man?” she asked him at last.

“I can whistle,” he answered, proudly.

The kind woman laughed heartily, and said, “Well, then, whistle us something.”

He pointed his lips and tried to whistle, but the sound would not come; he had forgotten it again.

Then they laughed—the kind lady, the little girl, and even his mother; but tears rose to his eyes with shame; he struggled and kicked, so that the lady had to let him glide down from her lap, and his mother said, reproachfully,

“You are naughty, Paul.”

But he went behind the arbor and cried, until the little girl came to him and said:

“Oh dear, you must not cry. God does not like naughty children.” Then he was ashamed again, and rubbed his eyes with his hands till they were dry.

“And now I will show you the sundial,” continued the child.

“Oh yes, and the glass balls,” he said.

“They were broken a long time ago,” she replied; “a stone I threw flew by accident into one of them, and the other was blown down by a storm.” And then she showed him the spots where they had stood.

“And this is the sundial,” she went on.

“Where?” he asked, looking round, wonderingly.

They were standing before a gray, unpretending post, on which was fastened a sort of wooden plate. The child laughed, and said that this was the sundial.

“Oh, fie!” he retorted, angrily; “you are mocking me.”

“Why should I want to mock you?” she asked; “you have never done me any harm.” And then she repeated her assertion that this was the sundial, and nothing else, and she also pointed out to him the hand, a miserable rusty piece of metal, which stuck out from the middle of the dial and threw its shadow just on number six, which was written there among other figures.

“Oh, this is too stupid,” he said, and turned away. The sundial in the garden of the White House was the first great disappointment of his life.

When he returned to the arbor with his new friend, he found a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with bushy whiskers there, who wore a gray shooting-coat, and whose eyes seemed to twinkle merrily.

“Who is that?” asked Paul, timidly, hiding behind his friend.

She laughed and said, “That is my papa; you need not be afraid of him.”

And, shouting with joy, she jumped on the strange man’s knee.

Then he thought to himself, would he ever dare to jump on his papa’s knee, and from this he concluded that all fathers were not alike.

But the man in the shooting-coat caressed his child, kissed her on both cheeks, and let her ride on his knees.

“See! Elsbeth has got a playfellow,” said the kind, strange lady, pointing towards Paul, who, hidden by the foliage, glanced shyly towards the arbor.

“Just come here, my boy,” the man called out merrily and snapped his fingers.

“Come—here, on the other knee; there is room enough for you,” called out the child; and when, with a questioning glance at his mother, he crept timidly nearer, the strange man seized him, put him on his other knee, and then they had a merry race.

He had lost all fear, and when freshly-baked cakes were put on the table, he fell to bravely. His mother stroked his hair and warned him not to eat too much. She spoke very softly, and kept looking down upon the ground before her. And then the children were allowed to go to the bushes and pick gooseberries for themselves.

“Are you really called Elsbeth?” he asked his friend, and as she said “Yes,” he expressed his astonishment that she had the same name as his mother.

“But I have been christened after her,” said the child; “she is my godmother.”

“Why didn’t she kiss you, then?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Elsbeth, sadly, “perhaps she does not like me.”

But that she had not had the courage to do it never occurred to either of them.

It already began to grow dark when the children were called back.

“We must go home,” said his mother.

He was very sorry, because he had just now begun to like it. His mother pulled his collar straight, and said: “There, now kiss the lady’s hand and thank her.”

He did as he was ordered, the kind lady kissed his forehead, and the man in the shooting-coat lifted him high up into the air, so that he thought he could fly.

And now his mother took Elsbeth in her arms, and kissed her several times on her mouth and cheeks, and said: “May Heaven some day reward you, my child, for what your parents have done for your godmother.”

A heavy burden seemed to be taken from her soul; she breathed more freely and her eyes shone.

Elsbeth and her parents went with the two as far as the gate, when his mother took leave of them there over again, and stammered all sorts of things about compensation and divine blessings. The man interrupted her laughingly, and said the whole affair was not worth mentioning and did not require any thanks at all. And the kind woman kissed her warmly, and asked her to come again very soon, or at least to send the children.

The mother smiled sadly and was silent. Elsbeth was allowed to go a few steps farther; then she took leave with a little courtesy. Paul’s heart was heavy; he felt there was still something he had to tell her, so he ran after her, and, when he had caught up to her, whispered into her ear,

“You know—I can whistle all the same!”

When, mother and son entered the wood, night was closing in. It was pitch-dark all round, but he was not afraid in the least. If a wolf had come in their way now he would soon have shown him who had the best of it.

His mother did not speak; the hand which clasped his so firmly burned feverishly, and her breath came from her breast like a sigh.

And when they both stepped out onto the heath the moon rose pale and majestic on the horizon. A blue veil spread over the distance. Thyme and juniper sent forth their perfume, here and there a little bird twittered on the ground.

The mother sat down at the edge of the ditch, and looked across at their sad home to which all her care was devoted. The outlines of the buildings stood out clearly against the evening sky. One lonely light twinkled from the kitchen.

Suddenly she spread out her arms, and called out over the silent heath, “Oh, I am happy!”

Paul clung to her side almost anxiously, for never yet had he heard a similar cry from her. He was so much accustomed to her tears and her sorrow that this exultant joy seemed to him quite uncanny.

And then it occurred to him: “What will father say when he hears of this walk? Will he not scold mother and be even more angry with her than usual?” A sullen defiance took possession of him; he set his teeth, then he stroked his mother’s hand consolingly, kissed her, and whispered,

“He shall not harm you!”

“Who?” she asked, with a shudder.

“Father,” he said, softly and hesitatingly.

She sighed deeply but answered nothing, and silently and sadly they went on.

The gray woman had flitted across their path and spoiled the moment of joy, and it was the only one that Fate had still in store for Frau Elsbeth.

Next day there was a bad hour between herself and her husband. He called her undutiful and dishonorable. By her begging she had added disgrace to poverty.

However, he took the money.