the latter
"the old lady." He never mentioned their names. Malvine had noticed
that at home they never spoke to her father; in her childish way she
imitated this contemptuous silence. The only bright spot in his
existence was a visit to some old business friends, where he unburdened
his overflowing heart, and complained by the hour together of the
tyrants in his house, who trod him under-foot, and ill-treated him now
that he was unfortunate. He was the victim of two silly women, but he
would show them one day of what he was capable. "She" and "the old
lady" were too stupid to understand him, but he hoped he would not die
until he had seen them on their knees before him. In this way he
ceaselessly kept up the smouldering rage within him; his face became
more and more yellow, he grew thinner, he lost his appetite, he looked
as if he were suffering from some dreadful malady. He said nothing,
however, about his health, but seemed to find a comforting satisfaction
in the reflection that "she" and "the old lady" would one day be
surprised to see him lying there, and that would be his revenge. And so
it came to pass--one morning he was too weak to leave his bed. At
luncheon Frau Brohl and Frau Marker noticed his absence, and went to
look for him; as they had taken no notice of him for so long, they were
not aware how shriveled and emaciated he had grown, and were now
shocked and astonished to see how miserable and frail he was. They sent
for a doctor; Frau Brohl made some elder tea; Frau Marker sat up all
night by the sick-bed, but nothing could be done. A few days later he
died, with a look of hatred at his mother-in-law, and a movement of
aversion from his wife.

Nothing was changed in the household; there was another place at table
and a room at liberty, which was soon filled with the things
overflowing from the drawing-room. Frau Brohl still had a passion for
preserving and pickling, which had descended to her daughter and her
granddaughter, and also a passion for needle-work. Year in and year out
the three sat at the window of their drawing-room over embroidery,
lace-making, and such like, working as if they had to earn their daily
bread. They were mistresses of all kinds of fancy work, and invented
many more.

Frau Brohl was unequaled in her inventions of new kinds of work. Such
things as book-markers and slippers, paper-baskets, bed-quilts and
tablecloths, card-baskets, and chair-cushions were all too simple--the
me