The Schliebens had reached Berlin safely. KÄte was exhausted when she got out of the train; her hair was untidy, she did not look quite so smart as usual. It had been no trifle to make that long journey with the child. But they had been fortunate hi finding a good nurse so quickly in Cologne--a widow, fond of children and experienced, a typical, comfortable-looking nurse; however, the mother had had enough to see to all the same. Had the child caught cold, or did it not like its bottle? It had cried with all the strength of its lungs--no carrying about, rocking, dandling, singing to it had been of any avail--it had cried with all its might the whole way to Berlin.

But, thank goodness, now they were at home. And everything was arranged as quickly as if by magic. True, the comfortable house they had had before was let, but there was villa after villa in the Grunewald, and, as they required so much more room now, they moved into one of those. They rented it to begin with. Later on they would no doubt buy it, as it was quite impossible to take a child like this one into a town. It would have to have a garden.

They called him Wolfgang. "Wolf" had something so concise, vigorous, energetic about it, and--KÄte gave a slight happy shudder as she thought of it--it was like a secret memory of the Venn, of that desolate spot over which they had triumphed, and to which they made only this slight concession. And did not "WÖlfchen"--if they made that the diminutive of Wolf--sound extremely affectionate?

"WÖlfchen"--the young mother said it about a hundred times every day.

The young mother? Oh yes, KÄte felt young. Her child had made her young again, quite young. Nobody would have taken her for thirty-five, and she herself least of all. How she could run, how she could fly upstairs when they said: "The child is awake. It's screaming for its bottle."

She, who had formerly spent so many hours on the sofa, never found a moment's time to lie down the whole day; she slept all the more soundly at night as a result. It was quite true what she had heard other women say: a little child claims its mother's whole attention. Oh, how empty, colourless those days had been in which she had only existed. It was only now that there was meaning, warmth, brilliancy in her life.

She walked every day beside the child's perambulator, which the nurse pushed, and it was a special pleasure to her to wheel the light little carriage with its white lacquer, gilt buttons and blue silk curtains herself now and then. How the people stared and turned round when they saw the handsome perambulator--no, the beautiful child. Her heart beat with pleasure, and when her flattered ear caught the cries of admiration, "What a fine child!" "How beautifully dressed!" "What splendid eyes!"--it used to beat even more quickly, and a feeling of blissful pride took possession of her, so that she walked along with head erect and eyes beaming with happiness. Everybody took her to be the mother, of course, the young child's young mother, the beautiful child's beautiful mother. How often strangers had already spoken to her of the likeness: "The exact image of you, Frau Schlieben, only its hair is darker than yours." Then she had smiled every time and blushed deeply. She could not tell the people that it really could not resemble her at all. She hardly remembered herself now that not a drop of her blood flowed in WÖlfchen's veins.

It looked at her the first thing when it awoke. Its little bed with its muslin curtains stood near the nurse's, but its first look was for its mother and also its last, for nobody knew how to sing it to sleep as well as she did.

sounded softly and soothingly in the nursery evening after evening, and little Wolf fell quietly asleep to the sound of it, to the song of the wind and the rain round defenceless heads, and of beggars whose garments the dog had torn.

Paul Schlieben had no longer any cause to complain of his wife's moods. Everything had changed; her health, too, had become new, as it were, as though a second life had begun. And he himself? He felt much more inclination for work now. Now that he had returned to business he felt a pleasure he had never experienced before when he saw that they were successful in their new ventures. He had never been enterprising before--what was the good? He and his wife had ample for all their requirements. Of course he had always been glad to hear when they had done a good stroke of business, but he could not say it had ever pleased him to make money. He had always found more pleasure in spending it.

His father had been quite different in that respect. He had never been so easy-going, and as long as he lived he had always reproached himself for having let his only son serve as a soldier in a cavalry regiment. Something of a cavalryman's extravagance had clung to him, which did not exactly agree with the views of the very respectable well-to-do merchant of the middle class. And his daughter-in-law? Hm, the old gentleman did not exactly approve of her either in his heart. She had too much modern stuff in her head, and Paul had followed her lead entirely. You could be cultured--why not?--and also take an interest in art without necessarily having so little understanding for the real things of life.

This honest man, this merchant of the old stamp and true son of Berlin, had not had the joy of seeing what his partners now saw with unbounded astonishment. They had no need to shrug their shoulders at the man's lack of interest in the business any longer, and make pointed remarks about the wife who took up his attention so entirely; now he felt the interest they wished him to have. He was pleased to fall in with their plans now. He himself seemed to want, nay, even found it necessary to form new connections, to extend the calm routine of their business right and left, on all sides. He showed a capacity for business and became practical all at once. And in the middle of his calculations, whilst sitting absorbed at his desk, he would catch himself thinking: "that will be of use to the boy in the future." But at times this thought could irritate him so much that he would throw down his pen and jump up angrily from his desk: no, he had only adopted the child to please his wife, he would not love him.

And yet when he came home to dinner on those delightful afternoons, on which he could smell the pines round his house and the pure air still more increased the appetite he had got from his strenuous work, and the boy would toddle up to him patting his little stomach and cry: "Daddy--eat--taste good," and KÄte appear at the window, laughing, he could not refrain from swinging the hungry little chatterbox high up into the air, and only put him down on his feet again after he had given him a friendly slap. He was a splendid little chap, and always hungry. Well, he would always have sufficient to eat, thank God.

A certain feeling of contentment would come over the man on those occasions. He felt now what he had never felt before, that one's own home means happiness. And he felt the benefit of having an assured income, that allowed him to enrich his life with all sorts of comforts. The house was pretty. But when he bought it shortly he would certainly add to it, and buy the piece of ground next to it as well. It would be extremely disagreeable if anybody settled down just under their noses.

It had been difficult for Paul to make up his mind to take a house in the Grunewald at the time, after he had lived in Berlin itself as long as he could remember. But now he looked upon his wife's idea of going out there as a very good one. And not only for the child's sake. One enjoyed one's home in quite a different manner out there; one realised much more what it meant to have a home. And how much healthier it was--one's appetite certainly became enormous. In time one would think of nothing but material comforts. And the man followed the hungry boy into the house, as he also felt quite ready for his dinner.

Wolfgang Solheid, called Schlieben, received his first trousers. It was a grand day for the whole house. KÄte had him photographed in secret, as there had never been a boy who looked prettier in his first trousers. And she placed the picture of the little fellow who was not yet three years old--white trousers, white pleated tunic, horse under his arm, whip in his hand--in the middle of her husband's birthday table, surrounded by a wreath of roses. That was the best she could give him among all the many presents. How robust WÖlfchen was. They had not noticed it so much before; he was as big as a boy of four. And how defiant he looked, as bold as a boy of five, who is already dreaming of fighting other boys.

The woman showed the man the picture full of delight, and there was such a gleam in her eyes that he felt very happy. He thanked her many times for the surprise and kissed her: yes, this picture should stand near hers on his writing-table. And then they both played with the boy, who romped about on the carpet in his first pair of trousers, which he still found rather uncomfortable.

Paul Schlieben could not remember ever having spent such a pleasant birthday as this one. There was so much brightness around him, so much merriment. And even if Wolf had torn his first pair of trousers by noon--how and where it had been done was quite incomprehensible to the dismayed nurse--that did not disturb the birthday; on the contrary, the laughter became all the gayer. "Tear your trousers, my boy, tear away," whispered his mother, smiling to herself as the damage was pointed out to her, "just you be happy and strong."

There was a party in the evening. The windows of the pretty villa were lighted up and the garden as well. The air was balmy, the pines spread their branches motionless under the starry sky, and bright coloured lanterns glittered in the bushes and along the paths that were overgrown with trees like large glow-worms.

WÖlfchen was asleep on the first floor of the villa, in the only room that was not brightly lighted up. There was nothing but a hanging lamp of opal there, and every noise was kept away by thick curtains and Venetian blinds. But they drank his health downstairs.

The guests had already drunk the health of the master of the house at the table, and then that of his amiable wife--what greater honour could they pay their popular host and hostess now than to drink the health of the boy--their boy?

Dr. Hofmann, the tried doctor and friend of the family for many years, asked if he might have the privilege of saying a few words. He, as doctor, as counsellor on many an occasion, was best able to say what had always been wanting there. Everything had been there, love and complete understanding and also outward happiness, everything except--here he paused for a moment and nodded to his hostess who was sitting opposite to him, in a friendly manner full of comprehension--except a child's laughter. And now that was there too.

"A child's laughter--oh, what a salvation!" he cried with twinkling eyes and voice full of emotion, as he thought of his own three, who were certainly already independent and had chosen their paths in life, but their laughter still sounded in his heart and ear.

"No child--no happiness. But a child brings happiness, great happiness. And especially in this case. For I, as a doctor, have hardly ever feasted my eyes on a more magnificent chest, a more splendidly developed skull, straighter legs and brighter eyes. All his senses are sharp; the lad hears like a lynx, sees like a falcon, smells like a stag, feels--well, I've been told that he is already up in arms against the slightest corporal punishment. It is only his taste that is not so finely developed as yet--the boy eats everything. However, this is again a new proof to me of his very great physical superiority, for, ladies and gentlemen"--at this point the doctor gave a jovial wink--"who does not agree with me? a good stomach that can stand everything is the greatest gift a kind Providence can give us on our journey through life. The boy is a favourite of fortune. A favourite of fortune in the two-fold meaning of the word for not only is he perfectly happy in himself, but his entry on the scene has also brought happiness to those around him. Our dear hostess, for example, have we ever seen her like this before? So young with those who are young, so happy with those who are happy? And our honoured friend here--nobody could imagine that he had climbed to the middle of the forties--he is as full of energy, of plans and enterprise as a man of twenty. And at the same time he has the beautiful calm, the comfortable appearance of the happy father who has had his desires gratified. And this fortunate boy is the cause of it all. Therefore thanks be to the hour that gave him, the wind that brought him here. From whence----?"

The doctor, who had a small vein of malice in his nature, here made a pause intentionally, cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat, for he saw many curious eyes fixed on him full of expectation. But he also saw the quick perturbed look the husband and wife exchanged, saw that Frau Schlieben had grown pale and was hanging anxiously, almost imploringly, on his lips, so he continued hastily with a good-natured laugh: "From whence, ladies--only have patience. I'll tell you now: he fell from the skies. Just as the falling star falls to earth on a summer night. And our dear hostess, who was just going for a walk, held out her apron and carried him home to her house. And so he has become the star of this house, and we all and I especially--even if I have become superfluous here in my capacity of doctor--are pleased with him without asking from whence he came. All good gifts come from above--we learnt that already in our childhood--so here's to the health of the boy who fell down to our friends from the sky."

The doctor had grown serious, there was a certain solemnity about him as he raised his champagne glass and emptied it: "God bless him! To the health of the child, the son of the house. May this fortunate lad grow, thrive and prosper."

The finely cut glasses gave a clear and melodious sound as they clinked them. There was a buzzing, laughter and cheering at the table, so that the little fellow upstairs in his bed began to toss about restlessly. He murmured impatiently in his sleep, pouted and lowered his brow.

The chairs were moved downstairs. The guests had risen, and, going up to the parents, had shaken hands with them as though to congratulate them. Dr. Hofmann had done that really very nicely, really exceedingly well. But the little fellow was awfully sweet. All the women present agreed they had rarely seen such a pretty child.

KÄte's heart had beaten a little anxiously when the doctor commenced to speak--surely he would not betray what had only been confided to him and the lawyer under the influence of a good glass of wine and a good dinner?--but it was now full of happiness. Her eyes sought her husband's, and sent him tender, grateful glances covertly. And then she went to their old friend, the doctor, and thanked him for all his good, kind words. "Also in WÖlfchen's name," she said in a soft, cordial voice.

"So you are satisfied with me all the same? Well, I'm glad." He drew her arm into his and walked up and down with her somewhat apart from the others. "I saw, my dear lady, that you grew uneasy when I began about the boy's antecedents. What kind of an opinion can you have of me? But I did so intentionally, I have been burning to find an opportunity to say what I did for a long time. Believe me, if I got a two-shilling bit every time I've been questioned about the boy's parentage--either openly or in a roundabout way--I should be a well-to-do man by now. I've often felt annoyed at the questions; what I said just now was the answer to them all. I trust they have understood it. They can keep their surmises to themselves in the future."

"Surmises?" KÄte knit her brows and pressed the doctor's arm. What did those people surmise?--did they already know something, did they guess about the Venn? She was seized with a sudden terror. Pictures passed before her mental vision with lightning speed--there in that bright festive room--dark pictures of which she did not want to know anything more.

"How terrible," she said in a low voice that quivered. If the people got to know anything, oh, then she did not put her thought into words, for the sudden dread was almost choking her--then they would not get rid of the past. Then that woman would come and demand her right, and could not be shaken off any more. "Do you think," she whispered hesitatingly, "do you think they--they guess--the truth?"

"Oh no, they're very far off the mark," laughed the doctor, but then he grew grave again directly. "My dear lady, let us leave those people and their surmises alone." Oh dear, now he had meddled with a delicate subject, he felt quite hot--what if she knew that they thought that her Paul, that most faithful of husbands, had duties of a special kind towards the child?

"Surmises--oh, what is it they surmise?" She urged him to tell her, whilst her eyes scrutinised his, full of terror.

"Nonsense," he said curtly. "Why do you want to trouble about that? But I told you and your husband that at once. If you make such a secret of the boy's parentage, all kinds of interpretations will be placed on it. Well, you would not hear of anything else."

"No." KÄte closed her eyes and gave a slight shudder. "He's our child--our child alone," she said with a strange hardness in her voice. "And nobody else has anything to do with him."

He shook his head and looked at her questioningly, surprised at her tone.

Then she jerked out: "I'm afraid."

He felt how the hand that was lying on his arm trembled slightly.

Amid the gaiety of the evening something had fallen on KÄte's joy that paralysed it, as it were. Many questions were asked her about little Wolf--that was so natural, they showed her their friendly interest by means of these questions--and they watched her quietly at the same time: it was marvellous how she behaved. They had hardly believed the delicate woman capable of such heroism. How much she must love her husband, that she took his child--for the boy must be his child, the resemblance was too marked, exactly the same features, the same dark hair--this child of a weak hour to her heart without showing any ill-will or jealousy. She, the childless woman, to take another woman's child. That was grand, almost too grand. They did not understand it quite.

And KÄte felt instinctively that there was something concealed behind the questions they asked her--was it admiration or compassion, approval or disapproval?--something one could not get hold of, not even name, only suspect. And that embarrassed her. So she only gave reserved answers to their friendly questions about WÖlfchen, was concise in what she told them, cool in her tone, and still she could not hinder her voice vibrating secretly. That was the tender happiness she felt, the mother's pride she could not suppress, the warmth of her feelings, which lent her voice its undertone of emotion. The others took if for quite a different emotion.

The ladies, who took a walk in the garden after the dinner was over, were chatting confidentially together. The paths that smelt of the pines and in which the coloured lanterns gave a gentle subdued light were just suitable for that. They wandered about in twos and threes, arm in arm, and first of all looked carefully to see if there were any listeners, for their hostess must on no account hear it. There was hardly one among the ladies who had not made her observations. How well she bore up. It was really pathetic to see how resentment and affection, dislike and warmth struggled to get the mastery as soon as there was any talk about the child. And how a restless look would steal into her bright eyes--ah, she must have had and still have much to contend with, poor thing.

There was only one lady there who said she had known Paul Schlieben much too long and well not to feel sure that it was ridiculous--nay, even monstrous--to suppose he would do such a thing. He who was always such a perfect gentleman, not only in his outward behaviour and appearance but also in his thoughts, he, the most faithful of husbands, who even now, after a long married life, was as much in love with his wife as though they had just been married. The thing was quite different. They had always wished for children, what was more natural than that they should adopt one, now that they had finally given up all hope? Did not other people do the same?

Of course that happened, there was no doubt about it. But then the particulars were always given as to whether it was an orphan or the illegitimate offspring of some one moving in the highest circles, whether it had been offered in the newspaper--"to be given away to noble-minded people"--or whether it was the child of a girl who had been left in the lurch or the unwished-for child of parents belonging to the labouring classes, who had already been too richly blessed with children, and so on. Something at least was always known about it. But in this case why was such a secret made of it? Why did they not say openly: we have got it from there or there, it happened in such and such a manner?

It was difficult to question Frau Schlieben quite openly about the little one's parentage. They had already gone to her once with that intention, but as soon as they had introduced the subject such a terrified expression had come into the woman's eyes, something so shy and reserved into her manner, that it would have been more than tactless to continue the conversation. They were compelled to desist from questioning her--but it was peculiar, very peculiar.

And the gentlemen in the smoking-room, whom the host had left alone for a moment, discussed the same theme. The doctor was catechised.

"I say, doctor, your speech was excellent, worthy of a diplomatist, but you can't deceive us. You don't know anything about the little chap's antecedents either? Now come!" It especially puzzled both partners that Schlieben had told them so little. When everything under the sun was discussed in business, one had also a certain right to know the man's private affairs too, especially as they had already worked with the old gentleman. Where would Paul have been now, if they two had not safeguarded his interests so energetically at the time when he put everything else before business? Herr Meier, who was already elderly and very corpulent, and whose good-natured, intelligent face bore signs of his fondness for a glass of wine, felt really very hurt at such a want of confidence: "As though we should have placed any difficulties in the way--absurd! Doctor, just tell us one thing. Did he get the boy here?"

But the other partner, Herr Bormann, who was somewhat choleric and had to go to Carlsbad every year, interrupted him sharply. "Well, really, Meier! And what's it to us? They say they have brought him with them from their last journey, when they were away so long--good. Where were they last? They went from Switzerland to the Black Forest and then to Spa, didn't they?"

"No, to the North Sea," said the doctor quietly. "You can see it as well, the boy has quite the Frisian type."

"That boy? With his black eyes?" No, there was nothing to be got out of Hofmann. He looked so innocent that you might have thought he was speaking seriously instead of joking. Aha, he had taken his stand; he had made up his mind not to say anything. They would have to let the subject drop.

The doctor, who had already taxed himself with stupidity in his heart--oh dear, now he had aroused everybody's curiosity instead of helping the Schliebens--heard the gentlemen pass on to politics with great relief.

It was midnight before the last guests left the villa. Their bright talk and laughter could still be heard distinctly from the end of the street in the silence of the night, as husband and wife met at the foot of the stairs leading up to the first floor.

All the windows of the lower rooms were still open, the silver was still on the table, the costly china stood about--let the servants put it away for the time being. KÄte felt a great longing to see the child. She had seen so little of him that day--there had been visitors the whole day. And then what a number of questions she had had to listen to, what a number of answers she had had to give. Her head was burning.

As she and her husband met--the man was hurrying out of his room, he had not even given himself time to lock away the cigars--she had to laugh: aha, he wanted to go upstairs too. She hung on his arm and they went up together keeping step.

"To WÖlfchen," she said softly, pressing his arm. And he said, as though excusing himself: "I shall have to see if the noise has not awakened the boy."

They spoke in an undertone and moved along cautiously like thieves. They stole into the nursery--there he lay, so quietly. He had thrown off the covering in his sleep so that his naked rosy little legs were visible, and a warm, strong and wonderfully fresh smell ascended from the child's clean healthy body and mingled with the powerful odour of the pines, that the night sent into the room through the slightly open window.

KÄte could not restrain herself, she bent down and kissed the little knee that showed dimples in its firm roundness. As she looked up again, she saw her husband's eyes fixed on the sleeping child with a thoughtful expression.

She was so used to knowing everything that affected him, that she asked, "What are you thinking of, Paul? Does anything trouble you?"

He looked at her absently for a few moments and then past her; he was so lost in thought that he had not heard her question at all. At last he murmured, "I wonder if it would not be better to be open about it? Hm." Then he shook his head and thoughtfully stroked his beard into a point.

"What are you saying? What do you mean? Paul!" She laid her hand on his.

That aroused him. He smiled at her and said then: "KÄte, we must tell people the truth. Why shouldn't we say where he comes from? Yes, yes, it's much better, otherwise I fear we shall have a good deal of unpleasantness. And if the boy does find out in good time that he is not really our child--I mean our own child--what does it matter?"

"Good gracious!" She threw up her hands as though horrified. "No--not for the world--no! Never, never!" She sank down on the bed, spread both her arms over the child's body as though protecting it, and nestled her head on the warm little breast. "Then he would be lost to us, Paul."

She took a deep breath and trembled. Her voice expressed such horror, such a terrible fear and prophetic gravity that it startled the man.

"I only thought--I mean--I have really long felt it to be my duty," he said hesitatingly, as though making a stand against her fear. "I don't like that the--that people--well, that they talk. Don't be so funny about it, KÄte; why shouldn't we tell?"

"Not tell! You ask why we shouldn't tell? Paul, you know that yourself. If he gets to know it--oh, that mother! that Venn!"

She clasped the boy even more tightly; but she had raised her head from his breast. Her face was pale, and her eyes looked quite bewildered as they stared at her husband. "Have you forgotten her?"

Her tremulous voice grew hard. "No, he must never know it. And I swear it and you must promise me it as well, promise it sacredly now, here at his bedside whilst he's sleeping peacefully--and if I should die, not then either, Paul"--her voice grew louder and louder in her excitement, and its hard tone became almost a scream--"we'll never tell him it. And I won't give him up. He's my child alone, our child alone."

Then her voice changed. "WÖlfchen, my WÖlfchen, surely you'll never leave your mother?"

Her tears began to stream now, and whilst she wept she kissed the child so passionately, so fervently that he awoke. But he did not cry as he generally did when he was disturbed in his sleep.

He smiled and, throwing both his little arms round her neck as she bent down to him, he said, still heavy with sleep, but yet clearly, plainly, "Mammy."

She gave a cry of rapture, of triumphant joy. "Do you hear it? He says 'Mammy.'"

She laughed and cried at the same time in her excessive joy, and caught hold of her husband's hand and held it fast. "Paul--daddy--come, give our child a kiss as well."

And the man also bent down. His wife threw her arm round his neck and drew his head still further down quite close to hers. Then the child laid the one arm round his neck and the other round hers.

They were all three so close to each other in that calm summer night, in which all the stars were gleaming and the moonbeams building silver bridges from the peaceful heavens down to the peaceful earth.