Frida LÃmke had now been confirmed. She wore a dress that almost touched the ground, and when she saw Wolfgang Schlieben for the first time after a long interval, her greeting was no longer the familiar nod of childhood. But she stopped when she came up to her former play-fellow.

"Hallo, Wolfgang," she said, laughing, and at the same time a little condescendingly--she felt so infinitely superior to him--"well, how are you getting along?"

"All right." He put on a bold air which did not exactly suit the look in his eyes.

She examined him; what a fine fellow Wolfgang had grown. But he held himself so badly, he bent forward so. "Hold yourself up, for goodness' sake," she exhorted, and she straightened her own rush-like figure. "Why do you make such a round back? And you blink your eyes as if you were short-sighted. Hm, you should be with my employer--oh my, she would make you sit up." She chuckled to herself, her whole slender figure shook with a secret inclination to laugh.

"You're so happy," he said slowly.

"Well, why shouldn't I be? Do you think such an old dragon can spoil my good humour? Come, that would be stupid. When she scolds I lower my head, I don't say a word, but I laugh to myself. Ha ha!" Her clear voice sounded very gay.

How pretty she was. The boy's dark eyes were fixed on Frida LÄmke as though he had never seen her before. The sun was shining on her fair hair, which she no longer wore in a long plait, but in a thick knot at the back of her head. Her face was so round, so blooming.

"You never come to see me now," he said.

"How can I?" She shrugged her shoulders and assumed an air of importance. "What do you think I have to do? Into town with the car before eight in the morning, and then only two hours for my dinner always in and out and in the evening I'm hardly ever at home before ten, often still later. Then I'm so tired, I sleep as sound as a top. But on Sundays mother lets me sleep as long as I like, and in the afternoon I go out with Artur and Flebbe. We----"

"Where do you go?" he asked hastily. "I could go with you some time."

"Oh, you!" She laughed at him. "You mayn't, you know."

"No." He bowed his head.

"Come, don't look so glum," she said encouragingly, stroking his chin with her fore-finger, and disclosing a hole in her shabby kid glove. "You go to college, you see. Artur is to be apprenticed too, next autumn. Mother thinks to a hairdresser. And Flebbe is already learning to be a grocer--his father can afford to do that--who knows? perhaps he may have a shop of his own in time."

"Yes," said Wolfgang in a monotonous voice, breaking into her chatter. He stood in the street as though lost in thought, his books pressed under his arm. Oh, how far, far this girl, all three of them, had gone from him all at once. Those three, with whom he had once played every day, whose captain he had always been, were already so big, and he, he was still a silly school-boy.

"Oh, hang it all!" He hurled his pile of books away from him with a violent gesture, so that the strap that held them together came undone. All the books and exercise-books flew apart, and lay spread out in the dust of the street.

"Oh dear, WÖlfchen!" Frida stooped down, quite terrified, and gathered them all up.

He did not help her to collect them. He stared in front of him with an angry look.

"There--now you've got them again," said the girl, who had grown quite red with stooping so busily. She blew off the dust and pressed them under his arm again.

"I don't want them." He let them fall again.

"Hm, you're a nice fellow. What can you be thinking of?--those expensive books." She felt really quite angry with him. "Don't you know that they cost money?"

"Pooh!" He made a gesture as if to say, what did that matter? "Then some new ones will be bought."

"Even if your father has sufficient money," she said, firing up, "it's still not right of you to treat these good books like that."

He did not say a word to that, but took them up and fastened the strap round them again. They stood together, both feeling embarrassed. She glanced sideways at him: how he had changed. And he felt vexed that he had got into a passion: what would she think of him now?

"I shall have to go now," she said all at once, "or I shan't even get my dinner eaten ugh, how hungry I am!" She put her hand on her stomach. "How good it'll taste! Mother has potatoes in their jackets and herrings to-day."

"I shall go too." Suiting his step to hers he trotted beside her as she tripped hastily along.

She got quite red: what would her mother say if she brought Wolfgang with her? No, that would really not do, this was just the day when their room had not been tidied. And she had told a fib too: there were no herrings, only onion sauce with the potatoes in their jackets.

She felt ashamed that Wolfgang should find it out.

"No, you go home," she said, intrenching herself behind a pout. "As you've not been to see us for so long, you needn't come to-day either. I'm angry with you."

"Angry with me--me? What have I done? I wasn't allowed to come to you, I mightn't--that's not my fault, surely. Frida!"

She commenced to run, her face quite scarlet; he ran beside her. "Frida! Frida, surely you can't be angry with me? Oh, Frida, don't be angry. Frida, let me go with you. At last I've met you, and then you behave like this?"

There was sorrow in his voice. She felt it, but she was angry all the same: why should he cling to her like that? Flebbe would not like it at all. And so she said in a pert voice: "We don't suit each other and never shall. You go with your young ladies. You belong to them."

"Say that once more--dare to do it!" He shouted in a rough voice, and raised his hand as though he would strike her. "Affected creatures, what are they to me?"

He was right--she had to confess it in her heart--he had never taken any notice of the young girls who lived in the villas around him. She knew very well that he preferred them to them all, and her vanity felt flattered; she said soothingly, but at the same time evasively: "No, WÖlfchen, you can't go with me any more, it's not proper any more." And she held out her hand: "Good-bye, Wolfgang."

They were among the bushes in a small public garden in which there were benches, the villas lying at a good distance from it, quite hidden behind their front gardens. There was nobody in sight in the quiet radiance of the noonday sun. But even if somebody had come, it would not have made any difference; he seized hold of her with both hands in a kind of rage. "I am going with you--I shall not let you go."

She resisted forcibly: what was the stupid boy thinking of? "Let me go," she said, spitting at him like a little cat, "will you let me go at once? You hurt me. Just you wait, I'll tell Flebbe about it, he'll be after you. Leave me in peace."

He did not let her go. He held her clasped in his arms without saying a word, his books were again lying in the dust.

Did he want to kiss or strike her? She did not know; but she was afraid of him and defended herself as best she could. "You runaway!" she hissed, "hm, you're a nice one. Runs away from home, hides himself in the wood. But they got you all the same--and it served you right."

All at once he let her go; she stood in front of him mocking him. She could easily have run away now, but she preferred to stand there and scold him: "You runaway!"

He got very red and hung his head.

"How could you think of doing such a thing?" she continued with a certain cruelty. "So silly. Everybody laughed at you. We positively could not believe it at first. Well I never, said I, the boy runs away without money, without a cap, without a piece of bread in his pocket. You wanted to go to America like that, I suppose, eh?" She eyed him from top to toe and then threw her head back and laughed loudly: "To think of doing such a thing."

He did not raise his head, only murmured half to himself: "You shouldn't laugh at it, no, you shouldn't."

"Come, what next? Cry, perhaps? What does it matter to me? Your mother cried enough about it, and your father ran about as if he were crazy. All the rangers in the district were on their legs. Tell me, didn't you get a good thrashing when they dragged you home by the collar?"

"No." He suddenly raised his head and looked straight into the eyes that were sparkling a little maliciously.

There was something in his glance--a mute reproach--that compelled her to lower her lids.

"They didn't beat me--I wouldn't have stood it either--no, they didn't beat me."

"Shut you up?" she asked curiously.

He did not answer; what was he to say? No, they had not shut him up, he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street, to school--and still, still he was not free.

Tears suddenly started to his eyes. "You--you shouldn't--shouldn't taunt me--Frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "I'm so--so----"

He wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little and in another way too much. And he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. So he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. And only his tears, which he could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the dust of the street.

They were tears of sorrow and of rage. It was already more than six months ago--oh, even longer--but it still enraged him as though it had happened the day before. He had never forgotten for a moment that they had caught him so easily. They had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere the sun had risen on a new day. And they had carried him home in triumph. What he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. His mother had certainly cried a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "Once, but not more, my son. Remember that."

Wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. Frida stood in front of him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as well--she had always been his good friend. Now she cried with him.

"Don't cry, WÖlfchen," she sobbed. "It isn't so bad. People don't remember anything more about it--such things are forgotten. You certainly need not feel ashamed of it--why should you? There's no harm in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way. Simply say to them: 'Then I'll run away again,' if they won't let you come to us. Come next Sunday afternoon. Then I won't go with Artur and Flebbe--no, I'll wait for you."

She wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the other.

They stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes. The lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of May. The dark and the light head were close to each other.

"Frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though clinging to it, "Frida, are you still fond of me, at any rate?"

"Of course." She nodded, and her clear merry laugh was heard once more, although there were still traces of tears on her face. "That would be a nice sort of friendship, if it disappeared so quickly. There!" She pursed up her mouth and gave him a kiss.

He looked very embarrassed; she had never given him a kiss before.

"There!" She gave him another one. "And now be happy again, my boy. It's such beautiful weather."

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

"You're late to-day," said his mother, when Wolfgang came home from school at two instead of at one o'clock. "You've not been kept, I hope?"

A feeling of indignation rose in him: how she supervised him. The good temper in which his friend Frida had put him had disappeared; the chains galled him again. But he still thought a good deal of Frida. When he was doing his lessons in the afternoon, her head with its thick knot of hair would constantly appear behind his desk, and bend over his book and interrupt him; but it was a pleasant interruption. What a pity that Frida had so little time now. How nice it had been when they were children. He had always been most fond of her; he had been able to play better with her than with the two boys, she had always understood him and stuck to him--alas!

He felt as though he must envy, from the bottom of his heart, the boy who had been the captain when they played at robbers in those days and roasted potatoes in the ashes, nay, even the boy who had once been so ill that they had to wheel him in a bath-chair the first time he went out into the open air. The boy who sat at the desk now, staring absently into space over the top of his exercise-book, was no longer the same. He was no longer a child. All at once it seemed to Wolfgang as though a golden time had gone for ever and lay far behind him, as though there were no pleasures in store for him. Had not the clergyman who was preparing him for confirmation also said: "You are no longer children"? And had he not gone on to say: "You will soon have your share of life's gravity"? Alas, he already had it.

Wolfgang sat with knit brows, the chewed end of his penholder between his teeth, disinclined to work. He was brooding. All manner of thoughts occurred to him that he had never had before; all at once words came into his mind that he had never thought of seriously before. Why did the boys in his form constantly ask him such strange questions? They asked about his parents--well, was there anything peculiar about them?--and then they exchanged glances among themselves and looked at him so curiously. What was so funny about him? Lehmann was the most curious--and so cheeky. Quite lately he had blinked at him sideways so slyly, and puffed up his cheeks as though they must burst with laughter when he made the specially witty remark: "I'll be hanged if I can see any likeness between you and your governor!" Was he really not like his father or his mother? Not like either of them?

When Wolfgang undressed that evening, he stood a long time in front of the looking-glass that hung over his washstand, with a light in his hand, holding it first to the right, then to the left, then higher, then lower. A bright light fell on his face. The glass was good, and reflected every feature faithfully on its clear surface--but there was no resemblance whatever between his big nose and his mother's fine one. His father's nose was also quite different. And neither of his parents had such a broad forehead with hair growing far down on it, and such brows that almost met. His father had certainly dark eyes, but they did not resemble those he saw in the glass, that were so black that even the light from the candle, which he held quite close, could not make them any lighter.

At last the boy turned away with a look full of doubt. And still there was something that resembled a slight feeling of relief in the sigh he now uttered. If he were so little like them externally, need he wonder then that his thoughts and feelings were often so quite, quite different from theirs?

It was strange how the boys at school were an exact copy of their parents; and how the big boys were still tied to their mothers' apron-strings. There was Kullrich, for example; he had been away for a fortnight because his mother had died, and when he came to school again for the first time--with a black band round his coat-sleeve--the whole form went almost crazy. They treated him as though he were a raw egg, and spoke quite low, and nobody made a joke. And when the passage, When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up, happened to occur in the Bible-lessons, in which Kullrich also took part, they all looked at him as though at the word of command, and Kullrich laid his head down on his Bible, and did not raise it again during the whole lesson. Afterwards the master went up to him and spoke a long time to him, and laid his hand on his head.

That was already a long time ago, but Kullrich was still not happy. When they all walked in the playground during the interval, eating their bread and butter, he stood at some distance and did not eat. Was it really so hard to lose one's mother?

There was a wonderful moon shining over the silent pines that night; the boy lay half out of the window for a long, long time. His eyes were burning: his thoughts buzzed in his head like a swarm of gnats that whirl round and round and up and down in the air like a cloud. Where did they come from all at once?

He exposed his hot forehead, his chest, from which his nightshirt had slipped, to the cool night air in May--ah, that did him good. That was the best, the only thing that soothed, that gave peace. Oh, how delightful the air was, so pure, so fresh.

Where could Cilia be now? he wondered. He had never heard anything more about her, She was where he would like to have been--oh, how he would have liked it. Something that resembled the sound of bells came floating along, and he stretched out his arms and bent further and further out of the window.

Wolfgang had such a vivid dream about Cilia that night that when he awoke he thought she was standing at his bedside, that she had not left him yet. But after he had rubbed his eyes, he saw that the spot on which she had just been standing smiling so pleasantly was empty.

After school was over he had to go to the Bible-lesson; he was to be confirmed the following Easter. True, he was still young, but Paul Schlieben had said to his wife: "He is so developed physically. We can't have him confirmed when he is outwardly, at any rate, a grown-up man. Besides, his age is just right. It is much better for him if he does not begin to reflect first."

Did he not reflect already? It often seemed to KÄte as if the boy evaded her questions, when she asked him about the Bible-lesson. Did his teacher not understand how to make an impression on him? Dr. Baumann was looked upon as an excellent theologian, everybody rushed to hear his sermons; to be allowed to join his confirmation classes, that were always so crowded, was a special favour; all his pupils raved about him, people who had been confirmed by him ten, fifteen years before, still spoke of it as an event in their lives.

KÄte made a point of going to hear this popular clergyman's sermons very often. Formerly she had only gone to church at Christmas and on Good Friday, now she went almost every Sunday to please her boy, for he had to go now. They left the house together every Sunday, drove to church together, sat next to each other; but whilst she thought: "How clever, how thought-out, what fervour, surely he must carry a youthful mind away with him"? Wolfgang thought: "If only it were over!" He felt bored. And his soul had never soared there as when the little bell rang when the monstrance had been raised, when he had smelt the odour of incense before dim altars.

There was something in him that drove him to the church he had once visited with Cilia. When he went to the Bible-class he had to pass close by it; but even if the road had been longer, he would still have made it possible to go there. Only to stand a few minutes, a few seconds in a corner, only to draw his breath once or twice in that sweet, mysterious, soothing air laden with incense. He always found the church door open; and then when he stepped out again into the noise of Berlin, he went through the streets with their hurry and their rush like one come from another world. After that he did not take any notice of what he was told about the doctrines and the history of the Church--what were Martin Luther, Calvin and other reformers to him? His soul had been caught, his thoughts submerged in a feeling of gloomy faith.

Thus the summer and winter passed. When the days grew longer, and the mild warmth of the sun promised to dry up all the moisture winter had left behind ere long, Paul Schlieben had his villa cleaned and painted. It was to put on a festive garment for their son's great day, too.

The white house looked extremely pretty with its red roofs and green shutters, as it peeped out from behind the pines; there would almost have been something rustic about it, had it not been for the large plate-glass windows and the conservatory, with its palms and flowering azaleas, that had lately been built on. Friedrich was sowing fresh grass in the garden, and an assistant was tidying up the flower-beds; they were digging and hoeing everywhere. The sparrows were chirping noisily, bold and happy; but strips of paper tied to long pieces of string and stretched across the lawns that had just been sown fluttered in the purifying wind and frightened the impudent birds away from the welcome food. All the gardens were waking up. The stems of the roses had not yet been released from their coverings, in which they looked like a chrysalis made of straw, but the young shoots had appeared on the fruit-trees, and the spurge-laurel made a fine show with its peach-coloured blossoms. Perambulators painted white and sky-blue were being driven up and down the street, the baby inside was already peeping out from behind the curtains, and little feet tripped along by the side. Nurses and children came out of all the doors, the boys with hoops, the girls with their balls in a knitted net. Giggling young girls went off to tennis, and big boys from the third form made love to them.

Brightness and gaiety everywhere. There was a glad excited rustling in the tops of the pines, and the sap rose and fell in the willows along the shores of the lake. A flight of starlings passed over the Grunewald colony, and each bird looked down and chose in which box on the tall pine stems it would prefer to nest.

The new suit of clothes--black trousers and coat--Wolfgang was to wear at his confirmation lay spread out on his bed upstairs. Now he was to try it on.

KÄte was filled with a strange emotion, and her pulse quickened as she helped him to put on his new suit. So far he had always been dressed like a boy, in knickers and a sailor blouse, now he was to be dressed like a man all at once. The festive black suit of fine cloth did not suit him; for the first time one noticed that he was thick-set. He stood there stiffly, he felt cramped in the trousers, the coat was uncomfortable, too: he looked miserable.

"Look at yourself, just look at yourself," said KÄte, pushing him in front of the glass.

He looked into it. But he did not see the clothes, he only saw his mother's face as she looked into the glass at the same time as he, and he saw they had not a single feature in common.

"We're not a bit alike," he murmured.

"Hm? What did you say?" She had not understood him.

He did not answer.

"Don't you like the suit?"

"It's awful!" And then he stared at himself absently. What had they been saying again that morning? They had been jeering at him, Lehmann and von Kesselborn, who were to be confirmed with him. Was it because their fathers were not so rich as his? Kesselborn's father was a retired officer, who now filled the post of registrar, but Kesselborn was terribly proud of his "von"; and Lehmann was his bosom friend. However, he had told them that he had already had a silver watch since he was eight years old, and that he was to have a real gold one for his confirmation, which he would then wear every day--that had vexed them awfully.

It was before the lesson had commenced--they were all three waiting--and Kesselborn had suddenly said: "Schlieben gives himself airs," and had then turned to him and said: "You needn't be so stuck-up." And then Lehmann had added, also quite loudly so that everybody must have heard it: "Don't put on so much side, we know all about it."

"What do you know?" He had wanted to jump on Lehmann like a tiger, but the clergyman had just then come in and they began prayers. And when the lesson, of which he had hardly heard anything--he heard the other words all the time--was over, he had wanted to tackle Kesselborn and Lehmann, but they had been sitting near the door, and had already gone before he could get out of his bench. He did not see them again. But he noticed glances in which there was a certain curiosity and spitefulness--or did he only imagine it? He was not quite sure about it, and he had not thought any more about it either. But now when he saw his mother's face so close to his in the glass, he suddenly remembered it all again. And it all came back to him, plumped like a stone into his thoughts.

"I'm not at all like you," he said once more. And then he watched her face: "Not like father either."

"Oh yes," she said hastily, "you are very much like your father."

"Not the slightest bit."

Her face had flamed, and then he noticed that she suddenly turned pale. Then she laughed, but there was something forced in her laugh. "There are many children who hardly resemble their parents at all--that has nothing to do with the matter."

"No, but----" All at once he stopped and frowned, as he always did when he exerted himself to think. And he shot such sharp, such suspicious, such scrutinising glances at the glass under his knit brows that KÄte involuntarily moved aside, so that her head could not be seen near his in the glass any more.

She was seized with a sudden fear: what did he mean? Had he spoken like that intentionally, or had he said it quite unconsciously? What had they said to him? What did he know?

Her hands that had found something to do to his clothes--she was on her knees pulling down his trousers--were full of nervous haste, and were pulling here, pulling there, and trembling.

He was not looking into the glass now, he was gazing at the kneeling woman with an indefinable look. As a rule, his face had not much expression and was neither handsome nor ugly, neither fine nor insignificant--it was still a smooth, immature boy's face without a line on it--but now there was something in it, something doubting, restless, which made it appear older, which drew furrows on his forehead and lines round his mouth. Thoughts seemed to be whirling round behind that lowered brow; the broad nostrils quivered slightly, the trembling lips were pressed tightly together.

A deep silence reigned in the room. The mother did not utter a word, nor did the son. The birds were twittering outside, even the faintest chirp could be heard as well as the soft rustling of the spring wind in the tops of the pines.

KÄte rose slowly from her knees. She found difficulty in getting up, all her limbs felt as if they were paralysed. She stretched out her hand gropingly, caught hold of the nearest piece of furniture and helped herself up.

"You can take it off again now," she said in a low voice.

He was already doing so, visibly glad at being able to throw off the clothes he was so unused to.

She would have liked so much to say something to him, something quite unimportant--only to speak, speak--but she felt so strangely timid. It was as though he might say to her: "What have I to do with you, woman?" And her fear kept her silent.

He had taken off his new suit now, and was standing before her showing his broad chest, which the unbuttoned shirt had left exposed, his strong legs, from which the stockings had slipped down, and all his big-boned, only half-clothed robustness. She averted her glance--what a big fellow he was already!--but then she looked at him again almost immediately: why should a mother feel shy at looking at her child? A mother?

Her eyes flickered. As she walked to the door she said, without turning her head to him again: "I'm going down now. You'll be able to finish without me, no doubt."

He mumbled something she could not understand. And then he stood a long time, half dressed as he was, and stared into the glass, as though the pupils of his eyes could not move.

The day of his confirmation drew near; it was to take place on Palm Sunday. Dr. Baumann had laid the importance of the step they were about to take very clearly before the boys' eyes. Now a certain feeling of solemnity took the place of Wolfgang's former indifference. He was more attentive during the last lessons; the empty bare room with the few pictures on the plain walls did not seem so bare to him any longer. Was it only because he had grown accustomed to it? A softer light fell through the dreary windows and glided over the monotonous rows of benches, beautifying them.

Even Lehmann and Kesselborn were not quite so unsympathetic lately. All his thoughts grew gentler, more forgiving. The boy's hard heart became soft. When the clergyman spoke of the Commandments and specially emphasised the one, "Honour thy father and thy mother," it seemed to Wolfgang there was much for which he must ask forgiveness; especially his mother's forgiveness.

But then when he came home and wanted to say something loving to her--something quite unprepared, quite spontaneous--he could not do it, for she had not perceived his intention.

KÄte often went to the station to meet him--oh, how tired the poor boy must be when he came home. It was really too great a rush for him to have to go to town for his Bible-lessons so often, and there was always twice as much work at school before the end of the term. She would have liked to have caressed him, to have fondled him as she formerly did little WÖlfchen. But when she saw him come sauntering along, never looking out for her, never imagining that she was there waiting for him, she would turn quickly down the first street or remain standing quietly behind a tree and let him pass by. He did not notice her at all.

The popular clergyman had to prepare a great many boys for confirmation, too many; he could not interest himself in each individual one of them; nevertheless he thought he could assure Wolfgang's mother, who came to see him full of a certain anxiety in order to ask him how her son was getting on, that he was satisfied with him.

"I know, I know, Frau Schlieben. Your husband considered it his duty to explain it to me--I have also seen the boy's Catholic certificate of baptism. But I think I can assure you with a clear conscience that the lad is a sincere, evangelical Christian. What, you still have some doubts about it?" Her doubtful mien, the questioning anxiety in her eyes astonished him.

She nodded: yes, she had a doubt. Odd that she should have got it quite lately. But a stranger, anybody else would not understand it, not even this man with the clever eyes and the gentle smile. And she could hardly have expressed her doubt in words. And she would have had to tell her tale quite from the beginning, from the time when she took the child away from its mother, took it into her own hands, the whole child, body and soul.

So she only said: "So you believe--you really believe--oh, how happy I am, Dr. Baumann, that you believe we have done right." She looked at him expectantly--oh, how she yearned for him to confirm it and he bowed his head:

"So far as our knowledge and understanding go--yes."

Wolfgang did not sleep the night before Palm Sunday. He had been told at the last lesson that day that he was to prepare his thoughts. And he felt, too, that the next day was an important day, a fresh chapter in his life. He did his best to think of everything a boy preparing for his confirmation ought to think of. He was very tired and could not help yawning, but he forced his eyes open every time. However, he could not help his thoughts wandering again and again; his head was no longer clear.

What text would he get next day in remembrance of his confirmation? he wondered. They had often talked about it at school, each one had his favourite text which he hoped to get. And would he get the gold watch early in the morning before going to church? Of course. Oh, how angry Kesselborn and Lehmann would be then--those wretches! He would hold it up before their eyes: there, look! They should be green with envy--why should they always be whispering about him, meddling with things that did not concern them at all? Pooh, they could not make him trouble about it all the same, not even make him angry.

And still all at once he saw his own face so plainly before his mind's eye and his mother's near it, as he had seen them in the glass. There was not a single feature alike--no, not one.

It was really odd that mother and son resembled each other so little. Now he was wide awake, and commenced to ponder, his brows knit, his hands clenched. What did they really mean by their offensive remarks? If only he knew it. He would be quite satisfied then, quite easy. But he could not think of anything else as things were now, with everything so obscure. All his thoughts turned round and round the same point. It was a horrible feeling that tormented him now, a great uncertainty in which he groped about in the dark. Light, light, he must have light. Ah, he would see that he got some.

He tossed about restlessly, quite tortured by his thoughts, and considered and pondered how he was to find it out, where he was to find it out. Who would tell him for certain whether he was his parents' child or not? Why should he not be their child? Yes, he was their child--no, he was not. But why not? If he was not their real child, would he be very sorry? No, no!--but still, it terrified him.

The perspiration stood out on the excited boy's body, and still he felt icy-cold. He drew the cover up and shook as though with fever. His heart behaved strangely too, it fluttered in his breast as though with restless wings. Oh, if only he could sleep and forget everything. Then there would be no thought of it next day, and everything would be as it had always been.

He pressed his eyes together tightly, but the sleep he had driven away did not come again. He heard the clocks strike, the old clock resounded hi the dining-room downstairs, and the bronze one called from his mother's room with its silvery voice. The silence of the night exaggerated every sound; he had never heard the clocks strike so loudly before.

Was the morning never coming? Was it not light yet? He longed for the day to come, and still he dreaded it. All at once he was seized with an inexplicable terror--why, what was it he feared so much?

If only he were already at church--no, if only it were all over. He was filled with reluctance, a sudden disinclination. The same thought continued to rush madly through his brain, and his heart rushed with it; it was impossible to collect his thoughts. He sighed as he tossed and turned on his bed; he felt so extremely lonely, terrified, nay, persecuted.

If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea--alas, he could not escape from that thought, it was everywhere and always, always there.

As the morning sun stole through the shutters that were still closed on Palm Sunday, forcing its way into the room in delicate, golden rays, KÄte came into her son's room. She was pale, for she had been struggling with herself the whole night: should she tell him something, now that he was to enter upon this new chapter of his life or should she tell him nothing? Something within her whispered: "The day has come, tell him it, you owe it to him"--but when the morning sun appeared she bade the voice of the night be silent. Why tell him it? What did it matter to him? What he did not know could not grieve him; but if he knew it, then--perhaps he would then--oh, God, she must keep silent, she could not lose him!

But she longed to let him feel her love. When she came in with soft steps she was amazed, for he was standing already quite dressed in the new black coat and trousers at the window, gazing fixedly at the field in which they were beginning to build a villa now. The ground floor was already finished, there was a high scaffolding round it; it was going to be an enormous building.

"Good morning, my dear son," she said.

He did not hear her.

"Wolfgang!"

Then he turned round quickly and looked at her, terrified and as though he did not know her.

"Oh, you're already dressed." Her voice seemed to express disappointment; she would have been so pleased to have helped him just on that day. There was a strange feeling in her heart; she had never thought the day would have affected her so. Was it not a day like other days, a festival, of course, but one of many? And now it seemed as though the day were unique, and as though there would never be another like it again.

She went up to Wolfgang, laid her arms round his neck and looked deep into his eyes: "My child!" And then she smiled at him. "I wish you joy."

"Why?" He looked past her with such a strange expression that all the heartfelt things she had wanted to say to him remained unsaid. He was still quite a child although he was almost taller than she, much too much of a child, he did not understand the importance of the day as yet. So all she did was to improve on his appearance a little, to take away a thread from his clothes here, to blow away some dust there and pull his tie straight. And then he had to bend his head; she made a parting again in his stiff obstinate hair, that never would remain straight. And then she could not restrain herself, but took his round face between both her hands and pressed a quick kiss on his forehead.

"Why not on my mouth?" he thought to himself. "A mother would have kissed her child on his mouth."

They went down to breakfast. There were flowers on the table; his father, who was wearing a frock coat, was already seated, and the gold watch lay on Wolfgang's plate. A splendid watch. He examined it critically; yes, he liked it. "In remembrance of April 1, 1901," was engraved inside the gold case. Neither Kesselborn nor Lehmann would get such a watch, none of the boys who were to be confirmed would get anything like such a beauty. It was awfully heavy--he really ought to have a gold chain now.

Wolfgang's parents watched him as he stood there with the watch in his hand, looking at it yes, he was pleased. And that pleased them, especially KÄte. She had wanted to have a text engraved inside it as well, but Paul did not wish it: don't let them get sentimental about it. But it was all right as it was, the boy was pleased with the gift, and so they had gained their object.

"It strikes as well," she said to him eagerly. "You can know what time it is in the dark. Look. If you press here--do you see?"

"Yes. Give it to me--you've to press here." He knew all about it.

They had lost count of the time; they had to be going. Wolfgang walked to the station between his parents. When they passed the house where LÄmke was hall-porter, Frida was standing at the door. She must have got up earlier than usual this Sunday; she was already in her finery, looked very nice and smiled and nodded. Then Frau LÄmke stuck her head out of the low cellar-window, and followed the boy with her eyes.

"There he goes," she philosophised. "Who knows what life has in store for him?" She felt quite moved.

It was splendid weather, a real spring day. The tasteful villas looked so festive and bright; all the bushes were shooting, and the crocuses, tulips and primroses were in bloom. Even Berlin with its large grey houses and its noise and traffic showed a Sunday face. It was so much quieter in the streets; true, the electric cars were rushing along and there were cabs and carriages, but there were no waggons about, no brewers' and butchers' carts. Everything was so much quieter, as though subdued, softened. The streets seemed broader than usual because they were emptier, and the faces of the people who walked there looked different from what they generally did.

The candidates for confirmation were streaming to the church; there was a large number of boys and girls. Most of the girls drove, for they all belonged to good families.

Ah, all those boys and girls. KÄte could hardly suppress a slight feeling of longing, almost of envy: oh, to be as young as they were. But then every selfish thought was swallowed up in the one feeling: the boy, the boy was stepping out of childhood's land now. God be with him!

Feelings she had not known for a long time, childlike, devout, quite artless feelings crowded in upon her; everything the years and her worldly life had brought with them fell from her. To-day she was young again, as young as those kneeling at the altar, full of confidence, full of hope.

Dr. Baumann spoke grave words full of advice to the boys and girls; many of the young children sobbed, and their mothers, too. A shudder passed through the crowded church, the young dark and fair heads bent low. KÄte's eyes sought Wolfgang; his head was the darkest of all. But he did not keep it bent, his eyes wandered restlessly all over the church until they came to a certain window; there they remained fixed. What was he looking for there? Of what was he thinking? She imagined she could see that his thoughts were far away, and that made her uneasy. Moving nearer to her husband she whispered: "Do you see him?"

He nodded and whispered: "Certainly. He's bigger than all the others." There was something of a father's pride in the man's whisper. Yes, to-day it came home to him: even if they had had many a sorrow they would not have had under other circumstances, many a discomfort and unpleasantness, still they had had many a joy they would otherwise have missed. In spite of everything the boy might in time be all right. How he was growing. There was an expression about his mouth that was almost manly. It had never struck his father before--was it the black clothes that made the boy look so grave?

Wolfgang's thoughts went along paths of their own; not along those prescribed there. He had many sensations, but he could not keep hold of any; he was lost in thought. He saw a bit of the sky through a square in the window-pane, and the flitting figures of his father, mother, Frida, his masters and school-fellows appeared to him in it. But they all glided past, no vision remained. All at once he felt quite alone among all that crowd of people.

When his turn came he stepped mechanically up to the altar with Kullrich beside him; Lehmann and Kesselborn were in front of him. How he hated those two again all at once. He would have liked to throw his watch, his gold watch at their feet: there, take it! But take back what you've said, take it back! Ugh, what a terrible night that had been--horrible. He felt it still in all his limbs; his feet were heavy, and as he knelt down on the cushion on the step leading up to the altar his knees were stiff. Kullrich was crying the whole time. Ah, he was no doubt thinking of his mother, who was not with him any longer. Poor fellow! And Wolfgang felt suddenly that something moist and hot forced its way into his eyes.

The organ above them was being played very softly, and the clergyman repeated the texts he had chosen for the candidates in a low voice to the accompaniment of its gentle tones:

"Revelation, 21st chapter, 4th verse. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

Ah, that was for Kullrich. He raised his face, that was wet with tears and so red and hot, to receive the comforting words. But now, now--Wolfgang stopped breathing--now his text was coming. What kind of a text would he get, what would he say to him?

"Hebrews, 13th chapter, 14th verse. For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come."

That was to be for him--that? What was the meaning of it? A terrible disappointment came over Wolfgang, for--had he not waited for the text as for a revelation? The text was to be a judgment of God. It was to tell him what was true--or what was not true. And now?

Here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come. That did not tell him anything.

He got up from the steps mechanically, deceived in all his hopes. He did not see that his mother's eyes sent him a covert greeting, that his father was surreptitiously nodding to him with a friendly expression on his face; he felt quite disillusioned, quite bewildered by this disappointment.

If only it had been over now. How tiring it was to sit quiet for so long. Wolfgang was pale and yawned covertly; the long night during which he had not slept made itself felt, he could hardly keep himself from falling asleep. At last, at last the "Amen" was said, at last, at last the final hymn pealed from the organ.

The enormous crowd poured out of the church like a never-ending flood. Each child joined its parents and passed through the church porch between its father and mother.

Wolfgang walked like that, too, as he had done before. He saw Kullrich in front of him--with his father only; both of them still wore the broad mourning-band. Then he left his father and mother and hurried after Kullrich. He had never been on specially friendly terms with him, but he took hold of his hand now and pressed and shook it in silence, without a word, and then went back again quickly.

Her boy's impulsive sympathy touched KÄte greatly; altogether she was very much moved that day. When Wolfgang walked beside her again, she looked at him sideways the whole time with deep emotion: oh, he was so good, so good. And her heart sent up burning hopes and desires to heaven.

The sky was bright, so blue, there was not a cloud on it.

They took a carriage so as to drive home, as both parents felt they could not be crowded together in the train with so many indifferent, chattering people; they wanted to be alone with their son. Wolfgang was silent. He sat opposite his mother and allowed his hand to remain in hers, which she kept on her lap, but his fingers did not return her tender, warm pressure. He sat as quiet as though his thoughts were not there at all.

They drove past the house again in which LÄmke was porter; Frida sprang to the window on hearing the noise the carriage made on the hard, sun-baked road, and smiled and nodded once more. But there was nothing to be seen of Frau LÄmke now, and Wolfgang missed her. Well, that afternoon as soon as he could get free he would go to the LÄmkes.

Some guests were already waiting for them at the villa. They did not wish to invite a lot of outsiders in honour of the confirmation, but still the good old doctor, his wife, and the two partners had to be asked--all elderly people. Wolfgang sat between them without saying much more than "yes" and "no," when questions were put to him. But he ate and drank a good deal; the food was always good, but still you did not get caviar and plovers' eggs every day. His face grew redder and redder, and then his head began to swim. At last his health was drunk in champagne, and BraumÜller, the oldest partner, a very jovial man, had amused himself by filling the boy's glass again and again.

"Well, Wolfgang, that will be grand when you come to the office. Your health, my boy."

It was almost five o'clock when they got up from table. The ladies sat down in the drawing-room to have a cup of coffee, the gentlemen went to the smoking-room. Wolfgang stole away, he felt such a longing for the LÄmkes. First of all he wanted to show them the gold watch, and then he wanted to ask what text Frida had got at her confirmation, and then, then--what would Frau LÄmke say to him?

Here have we no continuing city, we seek one to come; that was really a stupid text. And still he could not get it out of his head. He thought of it the whole time whilst sauntering slowly along through the soft silvery air of spring, that is so full of presages. No, the text was not so stupid, after all. He knit his brows thoughtfully, looked up at the motionless tops of the pines and then around him--"Here have we no continuing city"--could not that also mean, here is not your home? But where then--where?

A strange gleam came into his dark eyes, a look as if seeking for something. And then his face, which the wine had flushed, grew pale. If it were true what the two had said? Oh, and so many other things occurred to him all at once: there had been that Lisbeth, that horrid woman who had been with them before Cilia came--what was all that Lisbeth had always been babbling about when she was in a bad humour? "You've no right here"--"you're here on sufferance"--and so on, only he could not remember it all now. What a pity! At that time he had been too young and too innocent, but now--now?

"Hang that woman!" He clenched his hand. But oh, if he only had her there now. He would not call her names, oh no, he would get it out of her quite gently and coaxingly, for he must, he must know it now.

A violent longing, a burning curiosity had suddenly been roused in him, and would not be repressed any longer. There must be some truth in it, or how could they have taunted him like that? And he must know the truth; he had a right to know it now. His figure grew taller. Self-will and defiance engraved deep, firm lines round his mouth. And even if it were ever so terrible, he must know it. But was it terrible? The lines round his lips became softer. "Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come"--very well then, he would seek it.

He gave up sauntering and began to stride along more quickly. What would Frau LÄmke say? And if he should ask her now--she meant so well by him--if he should ask her in the way a man is asked when he has to swear to anything, if he asked her whether--yes, but what was it he really wanted to ask her?

His heart throbbed. Oh, that stupid heart. It often behaved as if it were a wild bird that has been shut up in a small cage.

He had commenced to run again; now he had to slacken his pace. And still he was quite breathless when he came to the LÄmkes. The father and son had gone out, but the mother and daughter were sitting there as though waiting for him.

Frida jumped up, so that the edging she had been crocheting for the kitchen fell to the ground, seized hold of both his hands, and her blue eyes sparkled with admiration. "Oh, how fine you are, Wolfgang! Like a gentleman--awfully grand."

He smiled: that was nice of her to say it.

But when Frau LÄmke said in a voice full of feeling: "Now I shall have to treat you as a grown-up, Wolfgang--you're getting too big now--but I like you none the less for that, you may be sure, I could hardly be fonder of my own children"--he felt happier than he had done the whole day. His face grew tender and full of emotion, and he pressed the gnarled hand that gave his such a hearty shake firmly.

Then he sat down near them; they wanted to hear about everything.

He showed them his gold watch and let it strike the hour; but he did not talk much, the atmosphere of the room filled him with a vague feeling of delight, and he sat quite still. There was the same smell of freshly-made coffee as once before, and the myrtle in the window and the pale monthly rose mingled their fainter perfume with it. He had quite forgotten that he had already been there some time; all at once it occurred to him with a sudden feeling of dread that he had something to ask. He cast a searching glance at the woman. She was just saying: "Oh, how pleased your mother will be to have such a big son," when he jerked out: "Am I her son?" And as she did not answer, but only looked at him uncertainly with her eyes full of dismay, he almost shouted it: "Am I her son?"

The mother and daughter exchanged a rapid glance; Frau LÄmke had turned scarlet and looked very embarrassed. The boy had got hold of her arms with both hands and was bending over her. There was no getting out of it.

"Don't tell me any lies," he said hastily. "I shall find it out all the same. I must find it out. Is she my mother? Answer. And my father--he isn't my real father either?"

"Good gracious, Wolfgang, what makes you think of such a thing?" Frau LÄmke hid her embarrassment under a forced laugh. "That's all nonsense."

"Oh no." He remained quite serious. "I'm old enough now. I must know it. I must."

The woman positively writhed: oh, how disagreeable it was for her; let the boy go somewhere else and ask. "I should get into nice trouble with them if I told tales," she said, trying to get out of it. "Ask your parents themselves, they'll tell you all you want to know. I'll take care not to meddle with such things."

Frida opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, but a warning glance made her remain silent. Her mother flew at her angrily: "Will you be quiet? To think of you mixing yourself up with it. What next. On the whole, what do chits like you know about such things? Wolfgang's father knows very well what the boy is to him and where he got him from. And if the lady is satisfied with it, no one else has a word to say about it."

Wolfgang stared at the gossip. "The boys say--Lisbeth said--and now you say--you too"--he jumped up--"I'll go and ask--them." He pointed with his finger as though pointing at something at a great distance of which he knew nothing. "Now I must know it."

"But Wolfgang--no, for God's sake!" Frau LÄmke pressed him down into the chair again, quite terrified. "LÄmke will beat me if he gets to know what I've done. He may possibly lose his situation as porter because of it--now, straightway, and the children don't earn anything as yet. I've not said anything, have I? How can I help that other people make you suspicious and uneasy? I don't know your mother at all and your father will, of course, have lost sight of her long ago. Let the whole thing lie, my boy." She wanted to soothe him, but he was not listening.

"My--my father?" he stammered. "So he is my real father?"

Frau LÄmke nodded.

"But my--my real m--" He could not say the word "mother." He held his hands before his face and his whole body quivered. He was suddenly seized with a longing, that great passionate longing, for a mother who had borne him. He did not say a word, but he uttered sighs that sounded like groans.

Frau LÄmke was frightened to death; she wanted to clear herself but made it much worse. "Tut, tut, my dear boy, such a thing often happens in life--very decent of him that he doesn't disown you; there are heaps who do. And you would have far to go to find anybody like the lady who has adopted you as her own child. Splendid--simply splendid!" Frau LÄmke had often been vexed with the fine lady, but now she felt she wanted to do her justice. "Such a mother ought to be set in gold--there isn't such another to be found." She exhausted herself in praise. "And who knows if it's true after all?" And with that she concluded.

Oh, it was all true. Wolfgang had grown quiet--at least his face no longer showed any special emotion when he let his hands fall. "I shall have to be going now," he said.

Frida stood there looking very distressed. She had known it all a long time--who did not know it?--but she was very sorry indeed that he knew it now. Her clear eyes grew dim, and she looked at her friend full of compassion. Oh, how much more beautiful her own confirmation last Easter had been. She had not had any gold watch, only quite a small brooch of imitation gold--it had cost one shilling and sixpence, for she had chosen it herself with her mother--but she had been so happy, so happy.

"What text did you get?" she asked quickly, so as to take his thoughts away from it.

"I don't know it by heart," he said evasively, and his cheeks that had grown pale flamed. "But it suited." And with that he went out of the door.

He went straight home--why should he waste any more time? the matter was urgent. He did not notice the starlings flying in and out of their boxes on the tall pines, did not notice that there was already a bright crescent in the evening sky that was growing darker and darker, and a golden star near it, he only noticed with satisfaction as he entered the hall at the villa that the coats and hats had disappeared from the pegs. That was good, the visitors had left. He rushed to the drawing-room, he almost fell into the room. His father and mother were still sitting there--no, his father and she, the--the----

"Come, tell us where you've been such along time," inquired his father, not without a touch of vexation in his voice.

"To-day, just on this day," said his mother. "They all sent you their love, they waited for you. But it's almost eight o'clock now."

Wolfgang cast an involuntary glance at the clock on the mantel-piece--right, nearly eight o'clock. But all that was immaterial now. And, staring straight in front of him as though his eyes were fixed on some object, he placed himself in front of the two.

"I have something to ask you," he said. And then--it came out quite suddenly, quite abruptly. "Whose child am I?"

Now it was said. The young voice sounded hard. Or did it only sound so cutting to KÄte's ears? She heard something terribly shrill, like the dissonant blast of a trumpet. O God, there it was, that awful question. A sudden wave of blood laid a thick veil covered with glittering spots before her eyes; she could not see her boy any more, she only heard his question. She stretched out her hand gropingly, helplessly--thank God, there was her husband! He was still there. And now she heard him speak.

"What makes you ask that question?" said Paul Schlieben. "Our son of course. Whose child could you be otherwise?"

"I don't know. That's just what I want to know from you," the boy went on in his hard voice.

It was strange how calm the voice sounded, but it seemed doubly terrible to KÄte in its monotony.

Now it became a little louder: "Give me an answer--I will--I must know it."

KÄte shuddered. What inexorableness, what obstinacy lay in that "I will"--"I must!" He would never stop asking again. She sank down as though crushed, and shuddered.

Even the man's quiet voice betrayed a secret tremor. "Dear boy, somebody--I will not ask who, there are always enough gossips and abettors--has again put something into your head. Why do you treat us as if we were your enemies? Haven't we always been like a father and mother to you?"

Oh, that was wrong--like a father and mother? Quite wrong. KÄte started up. She stretched out her arms: "My boy!"

But he remained standing as though he did not see those outstretched arms; his brows were contracted, he only looked at the man. "I know very well that you are my father, but she"--he cast a quick sidelong glance at her--"she's not my mother."

"Who says that?" KÄte shrieked it.

"Everybody."

"No, nobody. That's not true. It's a lie, a lie! You are my child, my son, our son I And the one who denies that lies, deceives, slanders!----"

"KÄte!" Her husband looked at her very gravely, and there was a reproach in his voice and a warning. "KÄte!"

And then he turned to the boy, who stood there so sullenly, almost defiantly--drawn up to his full height, with one foot outstretched, his head thrown back--and said: "Your mother is naturally very much agitated, you must take care of her--to-day especially. Go now, and to-morrow we will----"

"No, no!" KÄte did not let him finish speaking, she cried in the greatest excitement: "No, don't postpone it. Let him speak--now--let him. And answer him--now--at once that he is our son, our son alone. Wolfgang--WÖlfchen!" She used the old pet name from his childhood again for the first time for months. "WÖlfchen, don't you love us any more? WÖlfchen, come to me."

She stretched out her arms to him once more, but he did not see those longing, loving, outstretched arms again. He was very pale and his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"WÖlfchen, come."

"I cannot."

His face never moved, and his voice had still the same monotonous tone which sounded so terrible to her. She sobbed aloud, and her eyes clung to her husband--he must help her now. But he looked at her with a frown; she could plainly read the reproach in his face: "Why did you not follow my advice? Had we told him in time--" No, she would not find any help in him either. And now--what was it Paul was saying now? Her eyes dilated with a sudden fear, she grasped the arms of her chair with both hands, she wanted to sink back and still she started up to ward off what must come now Was Paul out of his mind? He was saying: "You are not our son."

"Not your son?" The boy stammered. He had made up his mind that nothing should disconcert him, but this answer disconcerted him all the same. It bewildered him; he turned red, then white, and his eyes wandered uncertainly from the man to the woman, from the woman to the man.

So he, too--that man--was not his father either? But Frau LÄmke had said so? Oh, so he wanted to disown him now? He looked suspiciously at the man, and then something that resembled mortification arose within him. If he were not his father, then he had really no--no right whatever to be there?

And, drawing a step nearer, he said hastily: "You must be my father. You only don't want to say it now. But she"--he gave a curt nod in the direction of the chair--"she's not my mother." His eyes gleamed; then he added, drawing a long breath as though it were a relief: "I've always known that."

"You've been wrongly informed. If I had had my way, I would have told you the truth long ago. But as the right moment--unfortunately--has been neglected, I will tell you it to-day. I tell you it--on my word of honour, as one man speaking to another--I am not your father, just as little as she is your mother. You have nothing to do with us by birth, nothing whatever. But we have adopted you as our child because we wanted to have a child and had not one. We took you from----"

"Paul!" KÄte fell on her husband's breast with a loud cry, as she had done at the time when he wanted to disclose something to the boy, because he was indignant at his ingratitude. She clasped her arms round his neck, she whispered hastily, passionately in his ear with trembling breath: "Don't tell him from where. For God's sake not from where. Then he'll go away, then I shall lose him entirely. I can't bear it--have mercy, have pity on me--only don't tell him from where."

He wanted to push her away, but she would not let go of him. She repeated her weeping, stammering entreaty, her trembling, terrified, desperate prayer: only not from where, only not from where.

He felt a great compassion for her. His poor, poor wife--was this to happen to her? And then he was filled with anger against the boy, who stood there so bold--arrogant--yes, arrogant--who demanded where he had to ask, and looked at them unmoved with large, cold eyes.

His voice, which had hitherto been grave but gentle whilst speaking to Wolfgang, now became severe: "Besides, I won't allow you to question me in this manner."

"I have a right to question you."

"Yes, you have." The man was quite taken aback. Yes, the lad had the right. It was quite clear who was wrong. And so he said, thinking better of it and in a more friendly voice again: "But even if you are not our son by birth, I think the training and the care you have received from our hands during all these years have made you our child in spirit. Come, my son--and even if they all say you are not our son, I tell you you are our son in truth."

"No," he said. And then he walked slowly backwards to the door, his dry eyes fixed on those he had called parents for so long.

"Boy, where are you going? Stop!" the man called after him in a kind voice. The boy was certainly in a terrible position, they must have patience with him. And he called out once more "Stop, Wolfgang!"

But Wolfgang shook his head: "I cannot. You have deceived me. Let me go." He shook off the man's hand that he had laid on his sleeve with a violent gesture.

And then he screamed out like a wounded animal: "Why do you still worry me? Let me go, I want to think of my mother--where is she?"

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