ears speak for me? The heart's
relief is in crying freely. There is a German song to that effect. When I
recover myself, I will sing it to you. Music is a great comforter; music
is the friend of love. There is another German song to _that_ effect." He
suddenly dried his eyes, and got on his feet; some new idea had
apparently occurred to him. "It is dreadfully dull here," he said; "I am
not used to evenings at home. Have you any music in London? Help me to
forget Minna for an hour or two. Take me to the music."

Having, by this time, heard quite enough of his raptures, I was eager on
my side for a change of any kind. I helped him to forget Minna at a
Vauxhall Concert. He thought our English orchestra wanting in subtlety
and spirit. On the other hand, he did full justice, afterwards, to our
English bottled beer. When we left the Gardens he sang me that German
song, 'My heart's relief is crying freely,' with a fervor of sentiment
which must have awakened every light sleeper in the neighborhood.

Retiring to my bedchamber, I found an open letter on my toilet-table. It
was addressed to my aunt by the lawyer; and it announced that he had
decided on accompanying her to the madhouse--without pledging himself to
any further concession. In leaving the letter for me to read, my aunt had
written across it a line in pencil: "You can go with us, David, if you
like."

My curiosity was strongly aroused. It is needless to say I decided on
being present at the visit to Bedlam.

CHAPTER IV

On the appointed Monday we were ready to accompany my aunt to the
madhouse.

Whether she distrusted her own unaided judgment, or whether she wished to
have as many witnesses as possible to the rash action in which she was
about to engage, I cannot say. In either case, her first proceeding was
to include Mr. Hartrey and Fritz Keller in the invitation already
extended to the lawyer and myself.

They both declined to accompany us. The head-clerk made the affairs of
the office serve for his apology, it was foreign post day, and he could
not possibly be absent from his desk. Fritz invented no excuses; he
confessed the truth, in his own outspoken manner. "I have a horror of mad
people," he said, "they so frighten and distress me, that they make me
feel half mad myself. Don't ask me to go with you--and oh, dear lady,
don't go yourself."

My aunt smiled sadly--and led the way out.

We had a special order of admission to the Hospital which placed