When he awoke next morning he found his mother sitting near his bed.

“You up already?” he asked, wonderingly.

“I have not been able to sleep,” she said, in her low voice, which always sounded as if she were asking pardon for what she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

She did not answer, but stroked his hair and smiled at him sadly. Then he knew that the twins had been telling tales, and that it was grief for him which did not let her rest.

“It was not so bad, mother,” he said, consolingly; “they made fun of me a little, nothing more.”

“Elsbeth, too?” she asked, with big, anxious eyes.

“No, not she,” he replied, “but—” he was silent and turned to the wall.

“But what?” asked his mother.

“I don’t know,” he answered, “but there is a ‘but’ in it—”

“You wrong her, perhaps,” said his mother, “and look, she sent you this by the girls.” She drew from her pocket a long object which was carefully wrapped in tissue-paper.

In it was a flute, made of black ebony, with sparkling silver keys.

Paul blushed with shame and joy; but his joy soon vanished, and after he had looked at the instrument for a while he said, softly, “What must I do with it now?”

“You must learn to play it,” answered his mother, with a touch of pride.

“It is too late,” he replied, shaking his head sadly; “there are other things for me to do.” He felt as if he had been made to drag something dead out of its grave.

“Well, it seems that you cut a nice figure yesterday,” said his father, when they met at the breakfast-table.

He quietly smiled to himself, and his father muttered something about lack of feeling of honor.

The twins had big dreamy eyes, and when they looked at each other a blissful smile crossed their faces. They, at least, were happy.

Weeks passed. The harvest was got in unharmed, thanks to Paul’s untiring care. It was a better year than it had been for a long time. But his father was already calculating how he could use the profits for his peat speculation.

He bragged on in his usual manner, and the less Mr. Douglas seemed to pay attention to the proceedings, the more he boasted at the inns about the advantage of his partnership.

Having once consented to swindle, he had to outvie every lie by a new and bigger one. Mr. Douglas might be as patient as he liked; the abuse which was made of his name at last became too much for him.

It was one morning towards the end of August that Paul, who was working in the yard with Michel Raudszus, saw the tall figure of their neighbor walking across the fields straight to the Haidehof.

He was startled—that could not bode any good.

Mr. Douglas shook hands with him kindly, but from under his iron-gray, bushy brows shot an ill-boding look.

“Is your father at home?” he asked, and his voice sounded angry and threatening.

“He is in the parlor,” Paul said, depressed; “if you will allow me, I will take you to him.”

At the sight of the unexpected guest, his father jumped up embarrassed from his chair; but he recovered himself immediately, and began, in his boasting tone, “Oh, it is a good thing that you are here, sir; I have something urgent to say to you.”

“And I not less to you,” retorted Mr. Douglas, planting his massive figure close before him. “How is it, my dear friend, that you abuse my name in this manner?”

“I—your name—sir? What do you mean? Paul, go out.”

“He may stay here,” retorted Mr. Douglas, turning to Paul.

“He shall go out, sir!” cried the old man. “I suppose I am still master in my own house, sir?”

Paul left the room.

In the dark passage he found his mother, who had folded her hands and was gazing towards the door with a fixed look. At the sight of him she broke into tears and wrung her hands.

“He will lose us the only friend we have still on earth,” she sobbed; then she sank down in his arms, starting convulsively when the threatening voices of the two men fell louder on her ear.

“Come away, mother,” he urged; “it excites you too much, and we can’t help matters, anyhow.”

She let him drag her to her bedroom without resistance.

“Give me a little vinegar,” she entreated, “or I shall drop.”

He did as she asked, and while he rubbed her temples with it, spoke to her in a loud tone, so that she should not hear the raised voices of the two men.

Suddenly the doors banged; for a while all was quiet—uncomfortably quiet; then the clattering of a chain and the cry of his father, hoarse with fury,

“Sultan—at him!”

“For God’s sake, he is setting the dog at him!” shrieked Paul, and rushed into the yard.

He came just in time to see how Sultan, a big fierce mastiff, sprang at Douglas’s neck, while his father, brandishing his whip, ran after him.

Michel Raudszus had thrust his hands into his pockets and was looking on.

“Father, what are you doing?” he shouted, tore the whip from his hand, and wanted to go after the dog, but before he could reach the struggling group the beast, strangled by the powerful hand of the giant, lay on the ground stretching out its four paws.

The blood ran down from Douglas’s arm and neck. His anger seemed over. He remained standing still, wiping his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said, with a good-natured smile,

“The poor beast has had to pay for it.”

“You are wounded, Mr. Douglas!” Paul cried, clasping his hands.

“He has taken my neck for a joint of veal,” he said. “Come with me for a few steps, and help me to wash myself, so that my womenkind may not be too much frightened.”

“Forgive him,” Paul entreated; “he did not know what he was doing.”

“Will you come back, you wretch?” shrieked his father’s voice from the yard. “I suppose you want to make common cause with that forsworn scoundrel!”

There was a convulsive twitch in his neighbor’s clinched fists; but he mastered himself, and said with a forced smile,

“Go back; the son ought to stay with the father.”

“But I want to make amends,” Paul stammered.

“The swindler, the rogue,” was heard from the background.

“Go back,” said Douglas, with set teeth; “make him keep quiet, or he will do for himself.”

Then he began to whistle a march with all his might, in order not to hear the abuse, and walked off with a measured tread.

The old man was raging in the yard like a madman; he threw the stones about, swung the cart-pole in the air, and kicked with his feet right and left.

When he met Paul he wanted to seize him by the throat, but at that moment his mother rushed out of doors with a piercing cry and threw herself between them. She clung to Paul with both arms; she wanted to speak, but the fear of her husband lamed her tongue. She could only look at him.

“Pack of women!” he cried, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and turned away; but feeling obliged to vent his rage on somebody, he walked up to Michel Raudszus, who was slowly returning to his work.

“You dog, what are you gaping here for?” he shouted at him.

“I am working, sir,” he answered, and gave him a cutting glance from under his black brows.

“What should prevent me, you dog, from grinding you to powder?” the old man shrieked, shaking his fists under his nose.

The servant shrank back, and at that moment both his master’s fists struck him in the face. He staggered back—every drop of blood left his dark face; without uttering a sound, he seized upon an axe.

But at this moment, Paul, who had been watching the scene with growing anxiety, grasped his arm from behind, wrested the weapon from his hand, and threw it into the well.

His father tried to clutch the servant by the throat again, but with quick resolution Paul seized him round the body, and although the old man kicked and struggled, gathering up all strength, carried him in his arms into the parlor, the door of which he locked from the outside.

“What have you done to your father?” his mother whimpered. She had beheld this deed of violence petrified with horror, for that her son could attack his father was to her perfectly incomprehensible. She looked shyly up at him, and repeated, wofully, “What have you done to your father?”

Paul bent down to her, kissed her hand, and said, “Be calm, mother, I had to save his life.”

“And now you have locked him up? Paul, Paul!”

“He must remain there till Michel has gone,” he replied. “Don’t open the door for him, or there will be an accident.”

Then he walked out into the yard. The servant was leaning against the stable door, chewing his black beard, and leering at him viciously.

“Michel Raudszus!” he called out to him.

The man approached. The veins on his forehead had swollen like blue cords. He did not dare look at him.

“Your surplus wages are five marks and fifty pfennigs. Here they are. In five minutes you must be gone.”

The servant gave him such a terribly sinister glance that Paul was alarmed at the thought that he had suffered this man near him so long without any foreboding; he kept his eyes fixed upon him, for he feared every moment to be attacked by him.

But the servant turned away in silence, went to the stables, where he tied up his bundle, and two minutes later walked out at the gate. During the whole terrible scene he had not uttered a single word.

“That’s done! now to father,” said Paul, firmly resolved to bear all blows and abuse calmly.

He unlocked the door, and expected that his father would rush upon him.

The old man was sitting huddled up in the corner of the sofa, staring before him. He did not move, either, when Paul came up to him and said, beseechingly,

“I did not like doing it, father, but it had to be done.”

He only gave him a shy look askance; then said, bitterly,

“You can do what you like; I am an old man, and you are the strongest.”

Then he sank back again.

From that day forward Paul was master in the house.