ld gentleman stood in
prayer near his wife's bed, and the boy knelt sobbing by, while his
dying mother's hand still tried to stroke his curls. Three days later
came the funeral, and father and son sat together alone. Both wept, but
the boy's red cheeks returned. Not so the old man's health and strength.
Not that he complained; he still sat and smoked his pipe as before, and
still concerned himself about the price of sugars, but there was no
heart in the smoking or the concern; and he would often look anxiously
at his young companion, who wondered what his father could have on his
mind. One evening, when he had for the hundredth time asked him whether
he would really like to be a merchant, and received the unvarying
answer, he rose from his seat with an air of decision, and told the
servant-girl to order a conveyance to take him the next morning to the
capital, but he said nothing about the object of his expedition.

Late on the following day he returned in a very different mood--happier,
indeed, than he had ever been since his wife's death. He enchanted his
son by his account of the incredible charms of the extensive business,
and the kindness of the great merchant toward himself. He had been
invited to dinner, he had eaten peewits' eggs, and drunk Greek wine,
compared to which the very best wine in Ostrau was mere vinegar; and,
above all, he had received the promise of having his son taken into
their office, and a few hints as to the future course of his education.
The very next day saw Anton seated at a ledger, disposing arbitrarily of
hundreds of thousands, converting them into every existing currency, and
putting them out at every possible rate of interest.

Thus another year passed away. Anton was just eighteen, when again the
windows remained darkened, and the red-eyed servant-girl ran up and
down, and the doctor shook his head. This time it was the old gentleman
by whose bed Anton sat, holding both his hands. But there was no keeping
him back; and after repeatedly blessing his son, he died, and Anton was
left alone in the silent dwelling, at the entrance of a new life.

Old Wohlfart had not been an accountant for nothing; he left his house
in the highest order; his affairs were balanced to a farthing, and he
had written a letter of introduction to the merchant only a few days
before his death. A month later, on a fine summer morning, Anton stood
upon the threshold of his home, placed the key in a friendly hand,