“Whatever is the matter with father?” said Frau Kate Erdmann to Frau Greta Erdmann, as they were both driving along the road on the way to visit their old home and take the opportunity at the same time of telling their brother all that weighed on their minds.

The old man stood crouched up in a corner behind the barn, and was busying himself over a heap of straw which lay there. When he heard the rattle of the dog-cart he stopped in alarm and rubbed his hands like some one who wished to appear unconcerned.

The two sisters looked at each other, and Greta said,

“We must give Paul a hint of this.”

Oh, they had become very reasonable, these two wild girls! not less so inwardly than outwardly; their truant brown curls were combed smoothly behind their ears, and the sparkling eyes had a weary look in them, as though they now knew how it feels to sit in a lonely room and cry one’s heart out.

Frau Kate, indeed, had three strapping boys, and

Frau Greta had already hopes of a fourth; and every one knows “Maternity renders weary.”

Paul was not at home; he was working on the moor; but their father came towards them with a cunning laugh, swinging his crutch, and crying out, “Can’t I run again like a youth?”

Frau Kate expressed her admiration and Frau Greta agreed with her.

“It goes first-rate,” he laughed; “the day before yesterday I even went as far as Helenenthal.”

They looked at him in surprise, and almost in terror, for since he was forced to leave it he had never been there again.

“How were you received?” asked Frau Greta.

“Who? What? Oh, you think perhaps I went for a neighborly visit? You are real geese! I would sooner be the guest of your watch-dog and try to take his mutton-bone away.”

“But what did you do there, then?”

“I peeped through the gate and looked at the clock and then I came home again. How long do you think it takes me to walk there? just guess.”

They had no idea.

“An hour and a half, just like a professional runner.... Indeed,” he looked down meditatively, “if one had anything to carry, it might take two.”

“And you went only to find that out?”

“That was all, my love, that was all!” and his eye sparkled meaningly.

Then they seated themselves in the veranda, which Paul had had erected before the door, on the model of the White House. The old house-keeper, who had formerly managed the Erdmanns’ establishment, and who after they were married had emigrated to the Haidehof, had to go into the kitchen to make coffee and waffle cakes, and as their father did not know what to talk about to his daughters, he abused Paul and his sons-in-law. To-day he did it less from absolute love of abuse than from old habit; his thoughts seemed to be wandering somewhere else, and while he spoke he wriggled on his chair with uncomfortable activity.

“Let us go in,” said Kate; “we must look after household matters a little, and the wind is blowing us away here.”

“There will be a storm to-night,” said Greta. And then they both turned round terrified, for the laugh which the old man gave sounded so very strange.

“Let there be a storm,” he said, a little embarrassed; “that won’t matter at all. There are storms in married life too, sometimes, are there not?”

In Kate’s face there lurked something of her old mischievous look, but Greta drew down the corners of her mouth, as if she were going to cry. She seemed not quite to have got over the last.

“Yes, autumn will be early this year,” she said, with a touch of melancholy.

The old man whistled “Wenn die Schwalben Heimwarts Ziehn” (When the Swallows Homeward Fly), and Katie said:

“Let autumn come; the barns are full.”

“Thank God!” tittered the old man, “they are full.”

The sisters put their arms round each other, and pressing their foreheads against the window panes, looked out into the sunny yard, from which clouds of dust were whirling to the sky....

At dusk Paul came home, black as a nigger, for the peat-dust, which the wind had been blowing about, had settled on his beard and face.

He mutely shook hands with his sisters, looked sharply into their eyes, and said, “You shall tell me all about it afterwards.”

Greta looked at Kate, and Kate looked at Greta; then they suddenly laughed aloud, and, seizing him by both shoulders, danced about the room with him.

“You will make yourselves black, children,” he said.

“My sweetheart is a chimney-sweep,” hummed Greta; and Kate sang the second verse, “My sweetheart comes from the nigger’s land.”

Then they kissed him and ran to the looking-glass to see whether the kiss had left a mark.

When he had gone out to make himself tidy, Greta said, “It’s funny that he has only to look at one and all is right again.”

And Kate added, “But he is more silent himself to-day than ever.”

“Paul, be good,” they said, caressingly, as they sat together at the supper-table; “we may only come here on such rare occasions!... show us a friendly face.”

“Have you forgotten what day it is?” he answered, stroking their hair.

They started, for their first thought was of the anniversary of their mother’s death, but they breathed freely again, for that fell near Midsummer-day.

“Well?” they asked.

“To-day, eight years ago, our barn was burned down!”

All were silent; only their father chuckled and sighed to himself....

It began to grow dark; over the heath there still streamed a streak of red light, which was reflected a fiery glow upon the white table-cloth. The storm rattled at the shutters.

It was a good thing that the house-keeper now entered the room. She was a garrulous woman, who had always much news to relate.

“Well, Frau Jankus, what have you to tell us?” called out Kate to her, who was glad to shake off the nightmare of remembrance.

“Oh, dear madam,” cried the old person, “don’t you know yet? There are great goings-on in the church to-day. The whole village is making wreaths; over the altar they have hung a whole garland of rare tea-roses, and on each side the most beautiful oleander trees are placed.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“A wedding is the matter! Miss Douglas’s wedding will be to-morrow!”

The two sisters started, exchanged a quick glance with each other, and then looked at Paul.

But he was rolling a crumb of bread between his fingers, and looked as if the story did not concern him in the least.

The sisters exchanged another glance and nodded significantly. Then, with the same impulse, they both seized his hands.

“Children, you tear me to pieces,” he said, with a feeble smile.

“Ah, then there will be polterabend there today?” asked their father, growing quite lively all of a sudden.

“Probably, probably!” answered the old housekeeper. “Not long ago I saw a troop of children go by quite laden with old flower-pots and rubbish.”

“At our wedding they showed more moderation,” said Greta, and both sisters looked at each other and smiled dreamily.

“That’s a splendid coincidence,” muttered the old man, and rubbed his hands.

“Why splendid?” asked Paul.

“Oh, I only meant ... coincidence—the same day that they burned down our barn. Just tell me, Paul—you were awake—what hour might it have been when you saw the flames rise?”

“It might have been one o’clock.”

“Well, you ought to know. Though what the business really was that took you to Helenenthal that night passes my comprehension, but it is all right quite right! now I know the exact hour.”

Then you know a great deal! said Greta, laughing.

“So I do,” he answered, sulkily. “You’ll see, my little daughter, you’ll see!”

Kate was about to come to her sister’s assistance, but Paul made them a sign, secretly, to leave the old man in peace.

Soon after, the sisters took leave.

“You wanted to tell Paul that father has secrets behind the barn,” said Kate, when they were both sitting in the dog cart.

“Yes that is true!” she answered, made the driver stop, and beckoned to Paul. But the old man, who, in his distrust, always liked to hear everything that was said, thrust himself in, and so they had to leave it unsaid.

When Paul, on his usual evening round, came into the kitchen, he saw how his father was negotiating with the house keeper for an earthen pot.

“What do you want the pot for, Mr Meyerhofer?” asked the old woman.

“I also am going to celebrate polterabend, Frau Jankus,” he replied, with a hollow laugh. “Perhaps they will give me some of the wedding cake.”

The old woman nearly died of laughing, and his father limped off to his bedroom with the pot, locking the door carefully behind him.

The whole house had retired to rest, only Paul still paced up and down in the dark yard.

“So to morrow will be her wedding,” he thought, folding his hands “If I were a good Christian I ought to say a prayer for her happiness. But I am not such an inert fellow yet, by a long way I believe that I once loved her very much, more than I knew myself. How can it have been that I became a stranger to her?” He thought and thought, but could come to no right conclusion.

The moon rose over the moor—a great blood red disk—which spread an uncertain light all over the yard. The storm seemed to be augmenting. It whistled round the corners and howled through the trees.

“If a fire were to break out to day it would not content itself with the barn only,” thought Paul and then it occurred to him that he must send a reminder to the agent, to hasten the insurance. “For one never knows what might happen during the night. I will go to sleep”—he concluded his reflections—“to morrow is another day, and a wedding day, too.”

He went on tiptoe to the bedroom, which he had prepared for himself near that of his fathers, so as to be at hand if anything should happen to the old man. He lighted no candle, for the full moon, rising higher, already shone brightly into the room.

“I wonder if you will sleep to night? he thought an hour later. The shadows of the storm blown leaves led a wild dance on his counterpane, and in between the light of the moon quivered like little tongues of white flame.

“On that midsummer night the moon shone just as bright,” and then he remembered how white Elsbeth’s dressing gown had looked, peeping out underneath her dark cloak.

“That was the finest night of my life,” he murmured, with a sigh, and then he decided to go to sleep! and drew his blanket over his head to strengthen his resolution.

Some time after, he thought he heard his father get up softly in the next room and limp out at the door. He could distinctly hear how the crutch clattered on the stone flags of the hall.

“He will come back directly,” he thought, for it often happened that his father got up in the night.

With that he fell into an uneasy doze, in which all sorts of terrible dreams chased each other through his head. When he next came to full consciousness the moon was already high in the heavens, her beams now scarcely illumined his room at all, but the garden and yard lay bathed in light.

“Strange—it seems to me as if I had not heard father come back,” he said to himself. He sat up and looked at the watch that was hanging over his bed.

“Light minutes to one.” Two hours had elapsed meanwhile.

“I suppose I was fast asleep,” he thought, and was about to lie down again. Then the house door, caught by the storm, slammed noisily to, so that the whole house shook.

He jumped up, terrified What is that? The house door open, father not back yet? The next moment he had thrown on his coat and trousers, and with bare feet and bare head rushed out.

The door which led from his father’s bedroom into the hall stood wide open. Pale with anxiety, he stepped towards the bed—it had not been used, only on the foot of it there was an impression on the feather quilt So his father had been sitting there without stirring for more than an hour and a half—evidently waiting till he himself was asleep.

What in the name of Heaven did all this mean?

His look wandered searchingly round the room. The worsted slippers in which his father generally crept about the house were thrown in the corner, but the boots, which for months had been standing there unused, were gone.

What? Did his lame father want to go for a ramble in the middle of the night? His heart almost stopped beating He rushed out into the yard.

It was as clear as daylight, only as far as the shadow of the barn extended night still reigned.

The storm howled among the trees, the glistening white sand was whirled in the air, otherwise all was silent and deserted.

He hastened through the garden—no trace of him—to the back of the stables—still no trace of him. Ah, what did this mean? The gate open? Where had he gone? The dog near him whined, he hastily unfastened his chain. “Seek for your master, Turk. Seek.”

The dog sniffed about on the ground and ran to the front of the barn, where the bundles of straw were lying piled up like pale mountains of sand along the wall.

The moonlight was dazzling on the whitewashed wall, and lay bright and glittering on the ground One might have found a pin by its light. There was nothing to be noticed, except in one place the straw seemed disarranged.

But stop! how does the ladder come here, which is leaning against the wall? The ladder which but two hours ago was lying flat along the inside of the fence?

Who has taken it from its place?

And, by heaven!—what is this?—

Who has opened the window of the loft, which he himself had bolted from the inside before the barn was filled with the sheaves?

Below at the foot of the ladder, the ground looked moist, as if a liquid had been spilled. An odor of petroleum rose from the spot.

With trembling hands he seized the straw which was strewn on the ground. Yes, it was wet, and the obnoxious odor communicated itself to the fingers that touched it.

He felt his knees tremble under him, a dull, terrible foreboding clouded his senses. With difficulty he raised himself up and mounted the ladder, till he reached the window of the loft.

The dog whined below.

“Seek for your master, Turk. Seek!”

The animal broke out into a joyous howl and ran sniffing round and round, till he seemed to have found the scent.

Paul gazed at him. He was trembling feverishly, in agonizing suspense.

The way the animal took was through the gate. Then it really had been his father who had opened it.

But then—then.... Which way would he turn?

“Seek for your master, Turk. Seek!”

The dog again gave a short howl, and then ran with great speed down the path towards Helenenthal.

Helenenthal! What does father want in Helenenthal? Ah, did he not say a short time ago that he had been there one afternoon for an experiment? For an experiment! And how strangely and unpleasantly he laughed when he said it.

And to-day, too. How mysterious his behavior had been! And when they were speaking of the barn catching fire, what did he mean by the words that it was a splendid coincidence today? Why to day? Whatever happens, I must find the solution of this riddle ere it is too late!

He looked around, seeking help.

As his hand was groping mechanically in the dark aperture he laid hold of the handle of a tin can which stood hidden there among the sheaves. It was the petroleum can, which he had freshly filled yesterday. And on whose advice? Who was it who came and said,

“Father, father, for Jesus’ sake, what do you want to do at Helenenthal?”

And now, how much is there still in it? It is scarcely half full.

As he unconsciously went on groping about, he came upon some boxes of matches which lay by the can.

This opened his eyes, he gave a terrible cry, “He is going to set Helenenthal on fire!”

Everything swam before his eyes, and he would have fallen backward from the ladder had he not clung to the framework of the window.

All was clear. His father’s confused talk, his laughs, his threats.

But there was yet time. The old man could only creep along on his crutch. He might throw himself on his horse, and gallop after him.

“Saddle a horse!” he called out through the dark, and sprang down from the ladder. Then suddenly it shot through his brain—“Why did father ask so minutely about the time years ago? Would his revenge be executed at the same moment? Good heavens’ then all is lost. I told him one o’clock was the hour, and it is one now.”

Mad fear seized him—again he climbed the ladder.

In the next moment the flames would rise over there.

Is it not burning there already? No, it is only the moon that shines on the windows of the White House. Heavenly Father, is there no salvation, no mercy? If a prayer, if a curse could have the power to lame the out stretched hand! Who will warn him, who will give him a sign to turn back?

But there are the flames No. Perhaps in another second the fiery glow will rise to the sky.

“Elsbeth, awake’”

It will flame up as it did then, eight years ago, when the blood red reflection paralyzed all his faculties, as he roamed in the garden of Helenenthal. If to day, as at that time, a fire were to rise on the heath, or that his father’s hand might be stiffened in the midst of his criminal purpose.

Oh, God in Heaven, let a miracle happen! Let a fire break out on the heath, as it happened before—as happened before.

There must be a fire! And there must be a fire here! If lightning would but strike the roof of his own home, so that the flames might cry out to his father, “Stop, stop!” Ah, why is it such a clear, starlight night? Why is there no threatening cloud upon the horizon? Perhaps he is even now stretching up to the thatched roof. Perhaps he is now striking the match. In another moment all warning will be too late.

There must be a fire! There must be a fire here!

And there is no torch that I could swing to warn him!

“There must be a fire! There must be a fire here!”

And as he looked around with eyes starting from his head, there suddenly flashed upon him an idea as bright as the fire he was longing for.

He shouted with joy.

“Yes, that’s the thing. The terror will benumb him. It must be saved. Saved at any price.”

With both hands he seized the can, and swinging it round him, poured its contents on the piled-up sheaves.

He grasped the matches. There is a soft hissing, the storm howls through the opening, and the flame shoots up high into the air, a whistling, hissing roaring is heard. The fire has already reached the roof.

He rushes back into the yard, which still lies silent before him.

“Fire! fire! fire!” he cries, to wake the sleepers.

In the stables, where the farm servants sleep, there is a great stir, shrieks come from the servants’ rooms.

The roof is already wrapped in a fiery mantle. The tiles begin to crack, and fall rattling to the ground. Wherever there is an outlet a fountain of flame immediately spirts up towards the sky.

Hitherto he had been standing in the yard all alone, watching his terrible work with folded hands, but now the doors were torn open, and the farm servants and maids rushed screaming into the yard.

Then he sighed, relieved, as at a duty accomplished, and walked slowly into the garden to avoid meeting anybody. “I have worked long enough,” he murmured, slamming the gate behind him. “To-day I will rest!”

With lagging steps he went along the gravel path like one tired out, murmuring incessantly “Rest! rest!”

His glance wandered wearily around, the garden lay before him, bathed in a sea of light caused by the moonbeams and the flames, and the shadows of the storm driven leaves danced before his eyes like something supernatural. Here and there a spark fell upon the path before him, looking like a glowworm. He searched for the darkest arbor, and hid in its farthest corner. There he sat down on the turfy seat and buried his face in his hands.

He wanted neither to hear nor to see anything more.

But a dull feeling of curiosity made him look up after a while, and as he raised his eyes he saw the flames arch over the house like a crimson, white-edged canopy, for the storm was blowing that way.

Then he knew all was lost.

He folded his hands. He felt as if he ought to pray.

“Mother! mother!” he cried, his eyes full of tears, stretching out his arms to the sky.

Then, suddenly, a strange change came over him. He felt quite happy and free, the heavy load which had weighed on his mind all these years had vanished, and, with a deep breath, he drew his hands along his shoulders and arms, as though he longed to rid himself of the sinking fetters.

“There,” he cried, like one from whose heart a burden is taken, “now I have nothing more, now I need care no longer. I am free, free as the birds in the air.”

He hit his forehead with his fists, he cried, he laughed. He felt as if an undeserved, unheard of happiness had descended upon him from heaven.

“Mother! mother!” he shouted, wild with joy. “Now I know how your fairy tale ends. I am released! I am released!”

At this moment the frightened lowing of the cattle fell upon his ear, and brought him back to his senses. “No, you poor animals shall not perish on my account,” he cried, springing up, “I would rather die myself.”

He hurried to the back door of the house, where the servants were eagerly carrying out the furniture.

“Look at master!” they exclaimed, weeping, and drew each other’s attention to his bare feet.

“Leave that alone!” he cried. “Save the animals!”

An axe lay on the path. With it he broke open the back door of the stables, which led into the fields, for the yard was already a sea of flames.

As in a dream he sees how the garden and field are filling with people. The village fire engine comes rattling along, the road to Helenenthal, too, becomes alive.

Three, four times he rushes into the flames, the servants behind him, then he sinks down, fainting with pain, in the middle of the burning stables.

A shriek, a piercing shriek from a woman, causes him to open his eyes once more.

Then it seemed to him as if he saw Elsbeth’s face vanishing in mist over his head, then it was night again round him....