midnight the patient grew a little calmer,
nor the faithful Mohr, who acted as sick nurse during the day, and who
in the intervals when his constant attendance was not required, found
his sole recreation in sitting at Balder's turning lathe and playing
countless games of chess. At the commencement of the illness, Marquard
had been inclined to send Edwin to the hospital, where he could have
taken charge of him more easily. But the other two friends and Madame
Feyertag would not listen to the proposal, and although the illness
lasted for weeks and months, the kindhearted woman never for a moment
regretted that she had kept the sick man under her roof. Her heart and
her linen chest, her hands and those of her old maid-servant were
always open and ready, whenever they were needed. "My worthy friend,"
said the zaunkoenig to her husband--he came every day to inquire how the
sick man had passed the night--"your explosive theory is brilliantly
refuted, and the wisdom of Solomon proven:--'the price of a virtuous
woman is far above rubies.'"

A calm smile rested on his lips and he looked at the crape on his white
hat. The shoe-maker shrugged his shoulders. "The intention is good,"
said he, "but the idea is usually weak. For instance, there's my
daughter Reginchen!--Well, I won't praise her, but Schopenhauer is
right again in regard to her explosive effect. The Lord knows what ails
her; her mother didn't make half so much fuss when she was young. But
her imaginative power Herr Koenig, is beyond any man's comprehension.
You know she's betrothed to Herr Franzelius. Didn't she act at first as
if she would die if she couldn't have him? Besides, he's a very
respectable man and if he only gets rid of his radical nonsense, can
make a good living; for it can't be denied that he has education and
what's called character, and with the few groschen she'll bring him, he
can settle in life and even start a printing office. Well, as I have
only this one daughter--we're weak, Herr Koenig, we men when we are
fathers. But now, just think of this: ever since the young gentleman
upstairs died, the silly thing has worn black as if he had been her
brother, and all the betrothal gayety is over. When Herr Franzelius
comes in the evening, they clasp each other's hands for ten minutes and
hang their heads like a couple of weeping willows, and all the rest of
the day she sits still and reads Schiller's poems, and if I ask how
much of her wedding outfit is