n the
Grunewald. But something that sounded like a gentle sighing was heard
around the white villa with the red roof and the green shutters.

The mother, who was waiting for her son, listened: was anybody
there? No, it was the breeze that was trying to move the branches of
the old gnarled pines.

Kate Schlieben was standing at the window now. She had torn it open
impatiently some time before, and now she leant out of it. As far as
her eye could reach there was nobody to be seen, nobody whatever. There
was still no sign of him.

The clock struck two. The woman gazed round at the mantel-piece with
an almost desperate look: oh, that unbearable clock, how it tortured
her. It must be wrong. It could not be so late.

Kate had sat up waiting for Wolfgang many an evening, but he had
never remained out so long as to-day. Paul had no objection to the boy
going his own way. "My child," he had said, "you can't alter it. Lie
down and go to sleep, that is much more sensible. The boy has the key,
he will come home all right. You can't keep a young fellow of his age
in leading-strings any longer. Leave him, or you'll make him dislike
our house--do leave him in peace."

What strange thoughts Paul had. He was certainly quite right, she
must not keep the boy in leading-strings any longer. She was not able
to do so either--had never been able to do so. But how could she go to
bed quietly? She would not be able to sleep. Where could he be?

Kate had grown grey. In the three years that had elapsed since her
son's confirmation she had changed considerably outwardly. Whilst
Wolfgang had grown taller and stronger and broader like a young tree,
her figure had drooped like a flower that is heavy with rain or is
about to wither. Her fine features had remained the same, but her skin,
which had retained almost the delicate smoothness of a young girl's for
so long, had become looser; her eyes looked as if she had wept a great
deal. Her acquaintances found Frau Schlieben had grown much older.

When Kate saw herself in the glass now, she did not blush with
pleasure at the sight of her own well-preserved looks; she did not like
looking at herself any more. Something had given her a shock both
inwardly and outwardly. What that had been nobody guessed. Her husband
knew it certainly, but he did not speak of it to his wife. Why agitate
her again? Why tear open old wounds?

He took good care never again to mention the day on which the boy
had been