threw himself back, stretched himself out and struck the bedstead
with his feet, so that it creaked in all the joints.

Kate was terrified; she had never seen him so violent before. But
how right she was. His behaviour showed her that plainly. No, she must
not call herself cruel even if his tears flowed; it was necessary that
Cilia went. But she was sorry for him.

"Woelfchen," she said persuasively, "why, Woelfchen. She tried to
soothe him, and drew up his cover that had fallen down with gentle
hand. But as soon as she touched him he pushed her away.

"Woelfchen--Woelfchen--you with your Woelfchen! As if I were a baby
still. My name is Wolfgang. And you are unjust--envious--you only want
her to go away because I like her better, much better than you."

He shouted in her face, and she became deathly white. She felt as
though she must scream with pain. She who had suffered so much for his
sake was of less account than Cilia in his opinion? All at once she
remembered all the burning and ineffaceable tears she had
already shed for his sake. And of all the hard hours during his illness
none had been so hard as this one.

She forgot that he was still a child, a naughty boy. Had he not said
himself: "I'm not a child any longer"? His behaviour seemed
unpardonable. She left the room without a word.

He followed her with eyes full of dismay: had he hurt her? All at
once he was conscious that he had done so--oh no, he did not want to do
that. He had already got half out of bed to run after her on his bare
feet, to hold her fast by her dress and say: "Are you angry?"--when he
suddenly remembered Cilia again. No, it was too bad of her to tell her
to go.

He wept as he crept under the bed-clothes and folded his hands.
Cilia had told him he was to pray to the Holy Virgin, to that smiling
woman in the blue mantle covered with stars, who sits on a throne over
the altar with the crown on her head. She healed everything. And when
she asked God in Heaven for anything, He did it. He would pray to her
now.

Cilia had once taken him to her church, when his mother was at the
baths and his father in the Tyrol. He had had to promise her not to
tell anybody about it, and the charm of the secrecy had increased the
charm of the church. An unconscious longing drew him to those altars,
where the saints looked so beautiful and where you could see God
incarnate, to whom he had been told to pray as to a father. He had
never liked the church