KÄte did not know herself how she got over those weeks in which she was separated from her home. It was not so bad as she had imagined. She felt that a greater tranquillity had come over her, a tranquillity she never could feel at home; and this feeling of tranquillity did her good. She wrote quite contented letters, and her husband's bright accounts of "magnificent mountains" and "magnificent weather" delighted her. She also heard good news from Dr. Hofmann, who used to send her his reports most faithfully, as he had promised.

"The boy is in the best of health," he wrote, "you need not worry about him, my dear lady. He certainly has to do without his playfellows at present, for a boy and girl are ill, and he feels bored when alone with the fat boy who is still left. He is generally by himself in the garden; Friedrich has given him some lettuce plants, and he has also sown some radishes. I have found him at his lessons as well."

Thank God! It seemed to the woman as if she could breathe freely now, as though free from a load. She carried the letter from her old friend about in her pocket for a long time, read it whilst out for a walk, when sitting on a bench and in the evening when lying in bed. "A boy and girl are ill"--oh, the poor children. What could be the matter with them? But thank God, he was mostly by himself in the garden now. That was the best.

She wrote a letter to her boy, a very bright one, and he answered her in the same strain. The letter in itself was certainly rather funny. "Beloved mother"--how comical. And the whole wording as though copied from a polite letter-writer. She made up her mind to enclose it in her next letter to her husband what would he say to it? "Beloved mother"--but it pleased her all the same, and also "Your obedient son" at the end of it. Otherwise the letter really contained nothing, nothing of what he was doing, not even anything about the LÄmkes, also no longing "come back soon"; but it was written carefully, tidily and clearly, not such a scrawl as he usually wrote. And that showed her that he loved her.

He had also enclosed a little picture, a small square with a border of lace paper, on which there was a snow-white lamb holding a pink flag. Under it stood in golden letters, "Agnus Dei, miserere nobis."

Where could he have got that from? Never mind from where, he had wanted to give her something. And the small tasteless picture touched her deeply. The good boy.

She put the picture with the lamb of God carefully among her treasures; it should always remain there. A tender longing came over her for the boy, and she could not imagine how she had been able to stand it so long without him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

August was over and September already almost half gone when KÄte returned home. Her husband, who had returned before her, came to meet her; they met in Dresden, and their meeting was a very cordial one. He could never get tired of looking at her bright colour, her bright eyes; and she on her side found him very sunburnt, more youthful-looking and almost as slender as formerly.

They sat hand in hand in the compartment he had had reserved for them; quite alone like two young lovers. They had an enormous amount to say to each other--there was nothing, nothing whatever that disturbed them. They gazed at each other very tenderly.

"How delighted I am to have you again," she said, after he had told her a lot about his journey in a lively manner.

"And I you." He nodded to her and pressed her hand. Yes, it really seemed to both of them as if they had been separated from each other for an eternity. He drew her still closer, held her as tightly as though she were a precious possession that had been half snatched away from him, and she clung to him, leant her head on his shoulder and smiled dreamily.

Innumerable golden atoms danced on a slender slanting sunbeam before her half-closed eyes. The even rattling of the carriages and the calm feeling of a great joy in her heart lulled her to sleep.

Suddenly she started up--was it a jolt, a shock? She had all at once got a fright, as it were: she had not asked anything about the child as yet!

"WÖlfchen--what's WÖlfchen doing?"

"Oh, he's all right. But now tell me, darling, how did you spend the whole day there? How was it divided? In the morning to the spring--first one glass, after that a second--and then? Well?"

She did not tell him. "WÖlfchen is surely well?" she asked hastily. "There must be something wrong--you say so little about him. I've had such a misgiving the whole time. Oh dear, do tell me." Her voice sounded almost irritable--how could Paul be so indifferent. "What's the matter with WÖlfchen?"

"The matter?" He looked at her in great surprise. "But why must there be something the matter with him? He's as strong as a horse."

"Really? But tell me, tell me something about him."

He smiled at her impatience. "What is there to tell about such a boy? He sleeps, eats, drinks, goes to school, comes home, runs out into the garden, sleeps, eats, drinks again and so on, vegetates like the plants in the sunshine. It's much better for you to tell me how you are."

"Oh, I--I--" that seemed so superfluous to her all at once--"I--quite well, you can see that." How indifferent he was with regard to the child. And she--his mother--had been able to forget him so long too? She felt so ashamed of herself that she hastily raised her head from her husband's shoulder and sat up straight. Now they were not lovers any longer, only parents who had to think about their child.

And she only spoke of the boy.

Paul felt the sudden change in his wife. It depressed him: had they gone back to where they were before? Did she already feel no interest again in anything but the boy? He no longer felt any inclination to speak of his journey.

The conversation became more and more monosyllabic; he bought a paper at the next station, and she leant back in her corner and tried to sleep. But she did not succeed in doing so, in spite of feeling very tired; her thoughts continued to revolve round the one point: so there was nothing the matter with him. Thank God! How indifferent Paul was, to be sure. Would WÖlfchen be very delighted when she came home? The dear boy--the darling boy.

She must have slept a little at last nevertheless, for she suddenly heard her husband's voice, as though far away, saying: "Get ready, darling; Berlin," and she started up.

They were already among the innumerable lines that cross each other there. Then the train rushed into the glass-roofed station.

"So we've got so far." He helped her out, and she began to tremble with impatience. Would this running up and down stairs, this crossing to the other side of the station, and then the waiting and watching for the train to the suburbs never come to an end? Would not WÖlfchen be asleep? It would be dark before they got home.

"Is the train soon coming? What time is it? Oh dear, what a long time we have to wait."

"Calm yourself, the boy is waiting for you, never fear. He sits a long time with Cilia every evening; she hasn't much time for him during the day. A nice girl. You've been very fortunate there."

She did not catch what he said, she was thinking the whole time how she would find him. Would he have grown very much? Have changed? Children at his age are said to change constantly--had he grown ugly, or was he still so handsome? But never mind! she used to attach more importance to his outward appearance--as long as he was good, very good, that was all that mattered now. In her thoughts she could already hear his shout of joy, already feel his arms round her neck, his kiss on her mouth.

The wind, which had become pleasant towards evening after a day that had been hot in spite of it already being autumn, fanned her face without being able to cool her cheeks that glowed with emotion. As they stopped in front of the house, which, with its balconies full of bright red geraniums, lay prettily concealed behind the evergreen pines under the starry September sky, her heart beat as though she had run much too far and too quickly. At last! She drew a deep breath--now she was with him again.

But he did not come running to meet her. How strange that he had not watched for her.

"They'll be sitting in the veranda at the back," said her husband. "They always sit there in the evening." He remained behind a little. Let KÄte see the boy alone first.

And she hurried through the hall past the beaming cook and without seeing Friedrich, who had donned his livery after decorating all the rooms with the flowers he had raised himself; she neither admired his successes in the garden nor the cake the cook had placed on the festive-looking table. She ran from the hall into her small sitting-room and from thence through the dining-room, the door of which led to the verandah. The door was open--now she stood on the threshold--those outside did not see her.

There was only one of the shaded lamps on the veranda table that was burning, but it was bright enough to light up the space around it. But Cilia was doing nothing. The stocking she was to darn lay in her lap; her right hand in which she held the long darning-needle rested idly on the edge of the table. She was leaning back a little; her face, which looked more refined and prettier in the twilight, was raised; she seemed to be lost in thought with her mouth half open.

Nothing was to be seen of Wolfgang. But now his mother heard him speak in a tone full of regret: "Don't you know any more? Oh!" And then urgently: "Go on, Cilia, go on, it was so beautiful."

Ah, now she saw him too. He was sitting at the girl's feet, on quite a low footstool, leaning against her knee. And he was looking up at her imploringly, longingly at that moment, looking at her with eyes that gleamed like dark polished agate, and speaking to her in a tone his mother thought she had never heard from him before: "Sing, Cillchen. Dear Cillchen, sing."

The girl began:

"Quoth she with voice subdued, 'Cease from quaking--

"Oh no.

"Not in wrath am I before thee standing--

"No, not that, either.

"Only why did I, weak one, believe thy vows--

"No, I don't know any more. Well, I never! And I've sung it so often when I was at home. At home in the village when me and my sweetheart went for a walk together. Dear, dear"--she stamped her foot angrily--"that I could forget like that."

"Don't be vexed, Cillchen. You mustn't be vexed. Begin again from the beginning, that doesn't matter. I would love to hear it again, again and again. It's splendid."

"Cillchen--Cillchen"--how playful that sounded, positively affectionate. And how he hung on her lips.

KÄte craned her neck forward; she was in the veranda now, but the two had not noticed her yet.

The girl sang in a drawling, sing-song voice as she had sung in the village street at home, but the boy's eyes glistened and grew big as he listened to her. His lips moved as though he were singing as well:

The singer came to a standstill--suddenly the sound of a deep-drawn breath passed through the veranda. The boy gave a terrified shriek--there she stood, there she stood!

"Why, Wolfgang! WÖlfchen!" His mother stretched out her arms to him, but he buried his head in the girl's lap.

KÄte frowned at the girl: what nonsense to sing such songs to him.

"Oh, the mistress!" Cilia jumped up, her face crimson, and let everything she had on her lap stocking, darning ball, wool and scissors--fall on the floor; the boy as well.

Why were they both so terrified? Wolfgang stared at her as if she were a ghost.

He had risen now, had kissed his mother's hand, and mechanically raised his face to receive her kiss; but his face did not show that he was glad to see her. Or was it embarrassment, a boyish shame because she had taken him by surprise? His eyes did not gaze straight at her, but always sideways. Did he look upon her as a stranger--quite a stranger?

An inexpressible disappointment filled the heart of the woman who had just returned home, and her voice sounded harsh without intending it as she told the girl to go away. She sat down on the seat near the table, which she had just vacated, and drew her boy toward her.

"How have you got on, WÖlfchen? Tell me--well?"

He nodded.

"Have you missed your mother a little?"

He nodded again.

"I've brought such a lot of pretty things for you."

Then he grew animated. "Have you also brought something for Cilia? She could find use for a workbasket with all kinds of things in it very well: she has only an old one she used at school, you know. Oh, she can tell such splendid stories--ugh, that make you shiver. And how she can sing. Let her sing this one for you:

"It's perfectly ripping, I can tell you."

And he began to hum the continuation with a laugh:

"Hush!" She put her hand to his mouth. "That's not at all a nice song--it's a horrid one. You mustn't sing that any more."

"But why not?" He gazed at her with eyes round with amazement.

"Because I don't wish it," she said curtly. She was indignant: she would give the girl a bit of her mind to-morrow, yes, to-morrow.

Her cheeks were no longer hot. A cold wind blew through the veranda, which pierced her to the very heart. When her husband called out: "Why, KÄte, what have you been doing with yourself? Do take off your things first," she quickly answered his call.

The boy remained alone behind, and looked out into the mild night that was now quite dark, with blinking, dreamy eyes. Oh, how beautifully Cilia had sung. She would have to sing and tell him stories to-morrow as well. But if she were to come there again! Never mind, they would be sure to be able to find a place where they would be undisturbed.

KÄte did not sleep at all that first night, although she was dead-tired. Perhaps too tired. She had had a long talk about it with Paul after they were in bed. He had said she was right, that neither the one nor the other song was very suitable, but: "Good gracious, what a lot of things one hears as a child that never leave any trace whatever," he had said.

"Not on him." And then she had said plaintively: "I've so often tried to read something really beautiful to him, the best our poets have written but he takes no interest in it, he has no understanding for it as yet. And for such--such"--she sought for an expression and did not find it--"for such things he goes into raptures. But I won't allow it, I won't stand it. Such things may not come near him."

"Then let her go," he had said testily. He was on the point of falling asleep, and did not want to be disturbed any more. "Good night, darling, have a good night's rest. Now that you've come home again you'll do what you think right."

Yes, that she would!

From that day forth she never let the boy out of her sight. And her ears were everywhere. There was no reason to send the girl away--she was honest and clean and did her duty--only she must not be alone with WÖlfchen again. Wolfgang was now in his twelfth year, it was not a maid's place to look after him any more.

But it was difficult for KÄte to live up to her resolutions. Her husband, of course, had claims on her too, and also her house and her social life; it was not possible to shake off, give up, neglect everything else for the one, for the child's sake. Besides, it might make her husband seriously angry with the child, if she constantly went against his wishes; she trembled at the thought of it. She had to go into society with him now and then, he was pleased when she--always well dressed--was in request as an agreeable woman. He was fond of going out--and went, alas, much, much too often. So she instructed the cook and the man-servant--even begged them earnestly to keep a watch on what was going on. They were quite amazed; if the mistress was so little satisfied with Cilia, she should give her notice; there would be girls enough on the 1st of January.

KÄte turned away angrily: how horrid of the servants to want to drive the other away. And if another one came into the house, might it not be exactly the same with her? Servants are always a danger to children.

Wolfgang was developing quickly, especially physically. It was not that he was growing so tall, but he was getting broader, becoming robust, with a strong neck. When he threw snowballs with the LÄmkes outside the door he looked older than Artur, who was of the same age, even older than Frida. He was differently fed from these children. His mother was delighted to notice his clear, fresh-looking skin, and saw that he had plenty of warm baths and a cold sponge down every morning. And he had to go to the hairdresser every fortnight, where his thick, smooth mop of dark hair, which remained somewhat coarse in spite of all the care expended on it, was washed and a strengthening lotion rubbed into it. The LÄmkes looked almost starved when compared with him; they had not recovered from the effects of scarlet fever very long. If only WÖlfchen did not get it too. His mother had a great dread of it. She had kept him away from the LÄmkes until quite recently; but there was always the danger of infection at school. Oh dear, one never had peace, owing to the child.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They had had a splendid time out of doors. The lake that lies below the villas like a calm eye between the dark edges of the woods was frozen; Wolfgang and half of his form had been skating there. KÄte had also walked up and down the shore for some time after their midday meal, watching her boy. How nicely he skated already. He was more secure on his legs and skated better than many of the lads who were describing the figure eight and circles, skating in the Dutch style and dancing with ladies. He was always trying to do all kinds of tricks already, he was certainly courageous. If only he did not fall down or tumble into the water! And he was always skating into the middle of the lake, where the wisps of straw had been placed to show that it was dangerous. It seemed to the mother that nothing could happen to him as long as she stood on the shore watching him incessantly. But at last her feet were quite frozen, and she had to go home.

When the boy came home, as it was commencing to grow dark, he was very bright. He spoke of the skating with great glee. "Oh, that was ripping. I should like to run like that for ever--to-morrow, the day after to-morrow--every day--and further and further every time. The lake is much too small."

"Aren't you tired at all?" inquired his mother, smiling at him. She never grew weary of gazing at him, he looked so beaming.

"Tired?" The corners of his mouth drooped with a smile that was almost contemptuous. "I'm never tired. Not of such things. Cilia said she would like to skate with me some time."

"Well, why not?" His father, who was sitting at the table drinking his coffee, smiled good-humouredly; it amused him to tease the lively boy a little. "Then your mother will have to engage a second housemaid, as long as there's ice on the ground."

Wolfgang did not understand that he was bantering. He cried out, quite happy: "Yes, she must do that." But then his face grew long: "But she has no skates, she says. Father, you'll have to buy her some."

"I'l be hanged if I will--well, what next?" His father gave a loud laugh. "No, my boy, with all due respect to Cilia, it would be carrying it a little too far to let her skate. Don't you agree with me?"

He looked at his wife, who was rattling the cups loudly, quite contrary to her custom. She said nothing, she only gave a silent nod, but her face had quite changed and grown cold.

The boy could not understand it. Why should Cilia not skate? Did not his mother like her? Funny. It was always like that, whenever there was anything he liked very, very much, she did not like it.

He rested his head on both hands as he sat working at his desk: it felt so heavy. His eyes burnt and watered when he fixed them on his exercise-book--he must be tired, he supposed. His Latin would not be good. In his mind's eye he already saw the master shrug his shoulders and hurl his book on to the bench over so many heads: "Schlieben, ten faults. Boy, ten faults! If you don't pull yourself together, you'll not get your remove to Form IV. with the others at Easter."

Pooh, he did not mind much--no, really not at all. On the whole nothing was of any importance to him whatever. All at once he felt so dead-tired. Why did she begrudge Cilia everything? She told such ripping stories. What was it she had told last night when his parents were out and she had crept to his bedside? About--about--? He could not collect his thoughts any more, everything was confused.

His head sank on his desk; he fell asleep, with his arms stretched out over his books.

When he awoke an hour might have passed by, but he did not feel rested all the same. He stared round the room and shivered. All his limbs ached.

And they hurt him the whole night through, he could not sleep; his feet were heavy as he dragged himself to the lake to skate next afternoon.

He returned home from skating much earlier than usual. He did not want to eat or drink anything, he constantly felt sick. "How green the boy looks to-day," said his father. His mother brushed his hair away from his forehead anxiously: "Is anything the matter with you, WÖlfchen?" He said no.

But when evening came round again and the wind whispered in the pine-trees outside and a ghostly hand tapped at the window--ugh, a small white hand as in Cilia's song--he lay in bed, shivered with cold in spite of the soft warm blankets, and felt his throat ache and his ears tingle and burn.

"He's ill," his mother said very anxiously next morning. "We'll get the doctor to come at once."

"Oh, it can't be anything much," said the man reassuringly. "Leave him in bed, give him some lemon to drink so that he can perspire, and then an aperient. He has eaten something that has disagreed with him, or he's caught cold."

But the doctor had to be telephoned for at noon. The boy was slightly delirious and had a great deal of fever.

"Scarlet fever!" The doctor examined his chest and then pulled up the cover again very carefully. "But the rash isn't quite out yet."

"Scarlet fever?" KÄte thought she would have sunk down on her knees--oh, she had always been so terribly afraid of that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The clear frosty weather with the bright sunshine and a sky that was almost as blue as in summer was over. Grey days with a heavy atmosphere hung over the roof of the villa; KÄte, who was standing at the window in the sick-room, staring out at the tops of the pines that were mourning in the dull mist with tired eyes, thought she had never seen anything greyer.

The disease had seized hold of the boy with powerful grip, as though his vigorous, well-nourished body were just the sort of hot-bed for the flames of the fever to rage in. The doctor shook his head: the scarlet fever had taken such a mild form everywhere else except in this case. And he warned them against the boy catching cold, prescribed this and that, did his best--not only as his duty, no, but because he felt such deep and hearty sympathy for them--he had always been so fond of the robust lad. They all did their best. Every precaution was taken, every care--everything, everything was to be done for him.

KÄte was untiring. She had refused the assistance of a nurse; she violently opposed the wishes both of her husband and her old friend; no, she wanted to nurse her child alone. A mother does not grow tired, oh no.

Paul had never believed that his wife could do so much and be so patient at the same time--she, that nervous woman, to be so untiring, so undaunted. She had always had a light step, now she could not even be heard when she glided through the sick-room; now she was on the left side of the bed, now on the right. She, whose strength gave way so easily even if her intentions were good, was always, always on the spot. There were many nights in which she did not get an hour's sleep. Next morning she would sit like a shadow in the large arm-chair near the bed, but still she was full of joy: Wolfgang had slept almost two hours!

"Don't do too much, don't do too much," implored her husband.

She put him off with: "I don't feel it. I'm so fond of doing it."

How long was it to go on? Would, could her strength hold out? "Let the girl sit up with him for one night at least. She would be so glad to take your place."

"Cilia? No."

Cilia had offered her services again and again: oh, she would take such good care of him, she knew how, for a little brother of hers had died of scarlet fever. "Let me do it," she implored, "I shall not fall asleep, I'll take such good care of him."

But KÄte refused. It cut her to the heart every time she heard her boy say in his feverish dreams during the nights that were so long and so black: "Cillchen--we'll toss the hay--hooray--Cillchen."

Oh, how she hated that round-cheeked girl with her bright eyes. But she feared her more than she hated her. In the hours of darkness, in those hours in which she heard nothing but the sick boy's moans and the restless beating of her own heart, this girl seemed to wander about in another form. She appeared to her out of the night, large and broad, she stationed herself boldly near the child's bed, and something of the triumph of power flashed in her eyes, that were otherwise so dull and unintelligent.

Then the tired-out woman would press her hands to her throbbing temples, and stretch out her arms as though to ward her off: no, no, you there, go away! But the phantom remained standing at the child's bed. Who was it: the mother--the Venn--the maid--Frau LÄmke? Oh, they were all one.

Tears of anguish rolled down KÄte's cheeks. How the boy laughed now. She stooped over him so closely that their breaths intermingled, as she had done once before, and whispered to him: "Your mammy is here, your mammy is with you."

But he made no sign of recognition.

Cilia's face was swollen with weeping as she opened the kitchen door in the basement on hearing somebody give a gentle knock. Frau LÄmke greeted her in a whisper; she had always sent the children so far, but they had come home the day before with such a confusing report, that her anxiety impelled her to come herself. She wanted to ask how he was getting on. Two doctors' carriages stood outside the gate, and that had terrified her anew.

"How is he? How is he to-day?"

The girl burst into tears. She drew the woman into the kitchen in silence, where she found the cook leaning against the fireplace without stirring any pan, and Friedrich just rushing upstairs to answer the electric bell as if somebody were in pursuit of him.

"Dear, dear!" Frau LÄmke clasped her hands. "Is the boy so bad, really so bad?"

Cilia only nodded and hid her streaming eyes in her apron, but the cook said dully: "It's about over."

"About over? Will he really die Wolfgang, the boy?" The woman stared incredulously: that was impossible. But she had turned terribly pale.

"Well, it's bad enough," said the cook. "Our doctor has called in another professor, a very well-known one--he was here yesterday--but they don't believe that they can do anything more. The illness has attacked the kidneys and heart. He no longer knows anybody, you know. I was in the room this morning, I wanted to see him once more--there he lay quite stiff and silent, as though made of wax. I don't believe he'll pull through." The good-natured woman wept.

They all three wept, sitting round the kitchen table. Frau LÄmke entirely forgot that she had made up her mind never to enter that kitchen again, and that her cabbage, that she had put on for their dinner, was probably burning. "Oh, dear, oh dear," she repeated again and again, "how will she get over it? Such a child--and an only child, whom she adored so."

Upstairs the doctors were standing at the sick-bed, the old family doctor and the great authority, who was still a young man. They were standing on the right and the left of it.

The rash had quite disappeared; there was not a trace of red on the boy's face now, and his eyes with their extremely black lashes remained persistently closed. His lips were blue. His broad chest, which was quite sunken now, trembled and laboured.

At every gasping breath he took his mother gasped too. She was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, stiffly erect; she had sat like that the whole night. Her piercing eyes with their terrified expression flew to the doctors' grave faces, and then stared past them into space. There they stood, to the right and to the left--but there, there!--did they not see it?--there at the head of the bed stood Death!

She started up with an inarticulate sound, then sank down again as though broken in spirit.

The doctors had given the child, who was so dangerously ill, an injection; his heart was very weak, which made them fear the worst. Then the authority took leave: "I'll come again to-morrow"--but a shrug of the shoulders and a "Who knows?" lay in that "I'll come again to-morrow."

The family doctor was still there; he could not leave them, as he was their friend. KÄte had clung to him: "Help! Help my child!" Now he was sitting with Paul Schlieben downstairs in his study; KÄte had wished to remain alone with the sick boy, she only wanted to know that he was near.

The two men sat in silence with a glass of strong wine before them. "Drink, do drink, my dear friend," Paul Schlieben had said to the doctor; but he did not drink himself. How will she stand it, how will she stand it? That buzzed in his head the whole time. He was wrapped in thought, and there were deep lines on his forehead. And the doctor did not disturb him.

KÄte was on her knees upstairs. She had sunk down in front of the chair in which she had watched through all those anxious nights, and was holding her hands pressed against her upturned face. She was seeking the God on high who had once upon a time laid the child so benignantly in her path, and was now going to cruelly tear it away from her again. She cried to God in her heart.

"O God, O God, don't take him from me. Thou must not take him from me. I have nothing else in the world beside him. God, God!"

Her surroundings, all her other possessions--also her husband--were forgotten. She had only the child now. That one child that was so dear, so good, so clever, so excellent, so obedient, so beautiful, so charming, so extremely lovable, that had made her life so happy, so rich that she would be poor, poor as a beggar were he to leave her.

"WÖlfchen, my WÖlfchen!"

How dear he had always, always been; so entirely her child. She did not remember anything more about the tears she had shed on his account; if she had ever shed any, they had been tears of joy, yes, only tears of joy. No, she could not do without him.

Starting up from the position in which she had been praying she dragged herself to his bedside. She took his body, which was growing cold, into her arms and laid it on her breast in her despair, and her glowing breath passed all over him. She wanted to let all her warmth stream into him, to hold him fast to this earth with the force of her will-power. When his breast fought for air, her breast fought too, when his heart-beat flagged, hers flagged too. She felt that his coldness was making her cold, that her arms were stiffening. But she did not let him go. She fought with Death standing at the head of the bed--who was stronger, Death or her love, the mother's love?

Nobody could get her away from the boy's bed, not even the nurse whom Dr. Hofmann had sent out when he had at last been compelled to go to town that afternoon. The nurse and her husband attempted to raise her by gentle force: "Only an hour's rest, only half an hour's. In the next room or here on the sofa."

But she shook her head and remained on her knees: "I'm holding him, I'm holding him."

Evening came on. Then midnight. It had blown a good deal earlier in the day, but it was very quiet outside now. As quiet as death. There was no longer any wind to shake the pines around the house; they stood bolt upright against the clear, frosty sky, their tops as though cut out of stiff cardboard. The stars blinked mercilessly; the full moon was reflected on the glittering silvery surface of the frozen lake, from which the strong wind had swept all the damp snow the day before and made it clean. A terrible cold had set hi all at once, which seemed to lay hold of everything with its icy breath.

The watchers shivered with cold. When Paul Schlieben looked at the thermometer, he was horrified to see how little it registered even in the room. Was the heating apparatus not in order? You could see your own breath. Had the servants forgotten to put coals on?

He went down into the basement himself; he could have rung, but he felt he must do something. Oh, how terribly little you could do. His wife cowered in the arm-chair in silence now, with large, staring eyes; the nurse was half asleep, nothing stirred in the room. The boy, too, was lying as quietly as if he were already dead.

A great dread took possession of the man, as he groped his way through the dark house. There was something so paralysing in the silence; all at once everything, the rooms, the staircase, the hall seemed so strange to him. Strange and empty. How the breath of youth had filled them with life before, filled them with the whole untamed thoughtlessness of a wild boy!

He leant heavily on the banisters as he groped his way downstairs. Would the servants still be up?

He found them all there. They sat shivering round the table in the kitchen, which was as cold as though there had not been a bright, blazing fire there all day. The cook had made some strong coffee, but even that did not make them any warmer. An icy cold crept through the whole house; it was as though the ice and snow from outside had come in, as though the chill breath of frozen nature were sweeping through the house too, from attic to cellar.

It was no use throwing more coals into the jaws of the huge stove, or that the water that streamed through all the pipes was hotter. Nobody's feet or hands were any warmer.

"We will try what a very hot bath will do for the patient," said the nurse. She had often seen this last remedy rewarded with success in similar cases.

All hands were busy. The cook made a fire, the other two dragged the boiling water upstairs; but Cilia carried more and was quicker about it than Friedrich. She felt all the inexhaustible strength of youth in her that is glad to be able to do something. How willingly she did it for that good boy. And she murmured a short prayer in a low voice every time she poured a bucketful into the tub that had been placed near the bed. She could not make the sign of the cross, as neither of her hands was at liberty, but she was sure the saints would hear her all the same.

"Holy Mary! Holy Joseph! Holy Barbara! Holy guardian angel! Holy Michael, fight for him!"

The cook, who remained downstairs in the kitchen, looked for her hymn-book; she was a Protestant and did not use it every day. When she found it she opened it at random: the words would be sure to suit. Oh dear! She showed it to Friedrich, trembling. There was written:

"When my end is drawing nigh,
Ah, leave me not----"