oom. He looked first at one, then at another, threw back his head, and
left without saying a word.

Herr Seelenfromm and M. Riviere were likewise not frightened by the
distance; they called. Eleanore met them in the hall, and got rid of
them by the usual method. And one day even Herr Carovius came around to
inquire how mother and child were doing. Philippina received him; and
Philippina was having a hard time of it at present: she was not allowed
to enter Gertrude's room; Gertrude would have nothing to do with her;
she refused to see her.

So that she might not get too far behind with her work--for it meant
her daily bread--Eleanore pushed the table up to the window, and despite
the poor light, kept on writing. In the evening she would sit by the
lamp and write, although she was so tired that she could hardly keep her
eyes open.

After three days, Gertrude had no milk for the baby; it had to be fed
with a bottle. It would cry for hours without stopping. And as soon as
it was quiet, its clothes had to be washed or its bath prepared, or
Gertrude wanted something, or one of the pestiferous visitors came in.
Eleanore had to lay her work aside; in the evening she would fall across
the bed and sleep with painful soundness for an hour or two. If the baby
did not wake her by its hungry howling, the bad air did. Her head ached.
Yet she concealed her weakness, her longing, her oppression. Not even
Daniel noticed that there was anything wrong with her.

She had very little opportunity to talk with him. And yet there was
probably not another pair of eyes in the whole world that could be so
eloquent and communicative with admonition, promise, request, and
cordial resignation. One evening they met each other at the kitchen
door: "Eleanore, I am stifling," he whispered to her.

She laid her hands on his shoulder, and looked at him in silence.

"Come with me," he urged with a stupid air. "Come with me! Let's run
off."

Eleanore smiled and thought to herself: "The demands of his soul are
always a few leagues in advance of the humanly possible."

The next morning he stormed into the room. Eleanore was only half
dressed. With an expression of wrath flitting across her face she
reached for a towel and draped it about her shoulders. He sat down on
Gertrude's bed, and let loose a torrent of words: "I am going to set
Goethe's 'Wanderers Sturmlied' to music! I am planning to make it a
companion piece to the 'Harzreise' and publish the