the young fellow answered in a hoarse voice.
Wolfgang pricked up his ears: he surely knew that voice? And now he
also recognised the face. Wasn't that Kullrich? Good gracious, how he
had changed. He raised his hat involuntarily: "Good evening,
Kullrich."

And now the latter also recognised him. "Schlieben!" Kullrich
smiled, so that all his teeth, which were long and white, could be seen
behind his bloodless lips. And then he held out his hand to his former
schoolfellow: "You aren't at school either? I've left as well. It's a
long time since we've seen each other."

The hand Wolfgang held had a disagreeable, moist, cold feeling, and
a shudder passed through him. He had forgotten long ago that he had
once heard that Kullrich had consumption; all at once he remembered it
again. But that was quite impossible, surely you could not die
so young? Everything in him strove against the conviction.

"Have you been ill?" he asked quickly. "But now you're all right
again, aren't you?" It was quite difficult for him to remember that he
was speaking to his old schoolfellow; this Kullrich was quite a
stranger to him.

"Oh yes, pretty fair," said Kullrich, smiling once more. Quite a
peculiar smile, which even struck the careless youth. Kullrich had
never been nice-looking, he had a lump at the end of his nose; but now
Wolfgang could not take his eyes off him. How much more refined his
face had grown and so--he could not contain himself any longer, all at
once he blurted it out: "How different you look now. I hardly
recognised you."

"My son is soon going away," his father said quickly, drawing his
son's arm more closely through his own as he spoke. "Then I hope he
will come back quite well. But he has tried to do too much to-day. The
weather was so fine--plenty of fresh air and the smell of the pines,
the doctor said--but we have remained out too long. It won't do you any
harm, I trust?" There was again such a terrible anxiety expressed in
his voice. "Are you cold? Would you not like to sit down until we can
start?" The father put a camp-stool, which he had carried under his
arm, on the ground, and opened it: "Sit down a little, Fritz."

Poor fellow! The father's voice, which trembled with such loving
anxiety, touched Wolfgang strangely. Poor fellow, he really must be
very ill. How terrible! He was overcome with dread, and stepped back
involuntarily for fear the sick boy's breath should reach him. He was
full of the egotism of y