Steps were heard in the ante-chamber, and Gunther came in, accompanied
by the farm bailiff.

"Come in," said he, "it will please your master."

With a heavy tread, the bailiff walked up to the sick man's bedside. In
his right hand he held some of the ripened grain, while, with his left,
he beat his breast as if to force out the words:

"Master, I've brought you the first ears from our new field, and hope
your health may be spared, so that you may eat the bread from it for
many a year to come."

Eberhard seized the ears and, with his other hand, pressed that of the
servant, who now left the room and went down to the barn, where he sat
down on a sheaf and wept.

"Shall I remain with you, or would you rather be alone with your
child?" asked Gunther.

Eberhard dropped the ears, and they lay upon the coverlet. He reached
for Irma's hand. Gunther went out.

And now Eberhard dropped his daughter's hand, pointed to her heart and
then to the ears of corn.

She shook her head and said: "Father, I don't understand you."

An expression of pain passed over Eberhard's features, and he placed
his finger on his lips, as if grieved that he could not speak. Who
knows but what he meant to say: "Good seed will grow from the swamp, if
we rightly cultivate it; and out of your own heart, too, my child; out
of your lost, ruined--"

"I'll call Gunther," said Irma; "perhaps he will understand what you
mean."

Eberhard shook his head, as if in disapproval. His features betrayed
something like anger at Irma's inability to understand him.

He bit his speechless lips and tried to raise himself. Irma assisted
him, and he now sat up, supported by the pillows.

His face had changed. It had suddenly acquired a strange hue and an
altered expression.

With a shudder, Irma realized what was taking place. She fell down by
his bedside, and laid her cheek upon her father's hand. He drew his
hand away.

She looked at him. With great effort he raised his hand--it was damp
with the dews of death--and with outstretched finger he wrote a word
upon her brow. It was a short word; but she saw, she heard, she read
it. It was written in the air, on her forehead, in her brain,--aye, in
her very soul. Uttering a piercing cry, she sank to the floor.

Gunther came in hurriedly. Stepping over Irma, he rushed to the
bedside, lifted Eberhard's fallen hand, felt for the beating of his
heart, started back--and then closed his friend's eyes.

The silence