At the first streak of dawn a sad procession went across the autumnal heath, on the way to Helenenthal. Two miserable wagons crept slowly, one behind the other. In them was found room for all that remained of the Haidehof.

In the first wagon, wrapped in blankets among the straw, lay the master, terribly burned, unconscious ... The pale, trembling woman who anxiously bent over him was the playfellow of his youth.

In this state she fetched him home at last. “We will take him to one of his sisters,” Mr. Douglas had said but she had laid her hands on Paul’s breast, from which the singed rags hung down, as if she wanted to take possession of him for evermore, and had answered:

“No, father, he is coming with us.”

“But your wedding, child—the guests?”

“What is the wedding to me?” she replied, and the gay bridegroom stood by stupefied.

In the second cart lay the few pieces of furniture which had been saved: an old chest of drawers, a few drawers with linen and books and ribbons, earthen ware dishes, a milk pail, and his father’s long pipe.

But where was the latter?

The only one who might have given an explanation lay there unconscious, perhaps already struggling with death.

Had he taken to flight? Had he perished in the flames? The maids had found his bedroom empty, and no trace of himself.

“I suspect no good of him,” said old Douglas, “he was always inclined to madness, and if we find his bones to morrow beneath the ruins I shall be quite convinced that he set fire to the barn himself, and then threw himself into the flames.”

However, just as they were coming through the gates of Helenenthal they heard a dog howling piteously near the barn, and saw a strange cur with his fore paws on a dark mass lying there, and from time to time pulling at something that looked like the end of a garment.

Douglas, surprised, ordered the cart to stop, and walked up to it. There he found the person they were seeking—a corpse. His features were horribly distorted, and his arms still half uplifted, as if he had been suddenly turned to stone. Near him lay a broken pot, and a matchbox was shimming in a pool of petroleum, which as flowing down the wheel ruts as in a gutter.

Then the gray giant folded his hands and murmured a prayer When he came back to the cart he trembled all over, and his eyes were full of tears.

“Elsbeth, look here,” he said, “there lies the body of old Meyerhofer. He wanted to set fire to our property, and God has struck him dead.”

“God does not set barns on fire,” said Elsbeth, and looked back at the burning farm, from which a dark-blue smoke was rising in the chilly morning air.

“But is it not through God’s providence that we were saved?”

“If any one saved us, this one did,” said Elsbeth.

“What? would he have sacrificed everything, would he have become an incendiary—only—to—”

“Ask him,” she said, hoarsely, and in the growing anxiety of her heart she folded her hands on her breast and groaned aloud.

“Heaven grant that he may ever be able to answer again,” murmured Douglas. Then he ordered the servants to bring the old man’s body into the house. He had already sent for a doctor; he himself would drive to the sisters and give them the news.

The guests, horror-stricken, came rushing out to the cart, which stopped before the flower-decked veranda.

“Elsbeth, how ill you look! Elsbeth, spare yourself,” cried out her aunts, and tried to take possession of her.

“Go away!” she said, and repulsed the caressing hands with a movement of horror.

Then the gay bridegroom, who during this night had played such a lamentable part, came to her and tried to persuade her to leave the helpless body. But she looked at him with an absent, wandering glance, as if she did not remember ever to have seen him before. Depressed and discouraged, he left her alone.

The aunts, wringing their hands, hurried to old Douglas, who was walking up and down before the stables awaiting a conveyance. His powerful chest heaved, his white, bushy brows were knitted, and his eyes shot lightning. A storm seemed to be passing over his soul.

“Have pity,” cried the women; “make Elsbeth rest; she must recover herself; she looks as if she were going mad.”

“If it is as she says,” he muttered to himself, “if he has sacrificed all his belongings.... Plague you, leave me in peace!” he cried to the women who surrounded him.

“But think of Elsbeth,” they called out. “At twelve o’clock the vicar comes, and what will she look like?”

“That’s her lookout!” he shouted. “Let her be, she knows quite well what she is doing.”

At the same moment that Paul was lifted from the cart a troop of servants came from the gate carrying his father’s corpse.

One after the other the two bodies were carried into the White House, and the dog went whining and sniffing after them. It was a sad procession.

Elsbeth had Paul carried into her own bedroom, locked the door, and seated herself near the bed.

Vainly the aunts implored to be let in.

At eleven o’clock the doctor came, and declared himself willing to stay with his patient till next morning. He had evidently come prepared for it, for he was an old friend of the house and one of the wedding guests. Meanwhile they were to telegraph for a nurse.

“May I not stay with him?” asked Elsbeth.

“If you can,” he answered, astonished.

“I can,” she answered, with a mysterious smile.

The aunts knocked again. “Spare yourself, child,” they cried through the chink of the door; “you must dress—you must go to the register-office. The vicar has come.”

“He can go away again,” she answered.

There was a murmur outside; the bridegroom, too, was giving his advice.

“What will you do, my child?” said the old doctor, and looked searchingly into her eyes. Then she sank, weeping, on her knees by the bed, seized Paul’s powerless hand and pressed it to her eyes and mouth.

“Is that your firm resolution?” the old man asked. She nodded assent.

“And if he dies?”

“He will not die,” she said; “he must not die.”

The doctor smiled, sadly; “Very good,” he said, then, “stay with him a while, and renew the compresses every two minutes. I will insure quiet meanwhile.”

Soon the carriages were heard coming to the door and leaving the yard. An hour later the doctor re-entered the sick-room. “The house will soon be empty,” he said; “the ceremony is put off.”

“Put off?” she asked, anxiously.

The old man looked at her and shook his head. The human heart showed itself to him every day in new complications.

For weeks the patient lingered between life and death. The nervous fever which had set in seemed to take away all hope.

Elsbeth scarcely left his bedside. She did not eat, she did not sleep; her whole life seemed to be engrossed by the care of her beloved one.

Her old father let her alone. “She must cure him,” he said, “so that I can question him.”

The gay cousin began to feel that his position was not an enviable one, and, after he had allowed his uncle to pay all his debts, left Helenenthal.

Old Meyerhofer’s body had been fetched by the twins the day after the fire. His mysterious death made a great sensation; the newspapers in the capital spoke of it, and what he had not attained through his whole life—to be celebrated as a hero—was granted to him in death.

But all this time the law was hanging over Paul’s head awaiting his recovery.