outh and health; how unfortunate he should meet
him there to-day, just to-day.

"May I get you a carriage?" he inquired hastily--only
let Kullrich get away, it was too awful to have to listen to that
cough--"I'm acquainted with this neighbourhood; I shall be able to get
one."

"Oh yes, oh yes, a cab, a closed one if possible," said Kullrich's
father, drawing a deep breath as though relieved of a great anxiety.
"We shall not possibly be able to go by train. And it's getting so
late. Are you really not cold, Fritz?" A cool wind had suddenly risen,
and the old man took off his overcoat and hung it round his son's
shoulders.

How awful it must be for him to see his son like that, thought
Wolfgang. To die, to die at all, how terrible. And how the man loved
his son. You could hear that in his voice, see it in his looks.

Wolfgang was pleased to be able to run about for a cab. It was
difficult to get one now, and he ran about until he was quite out of
breath. At last he got one. When he reached the place where the
electric cars started, Herr Kullrich was in great despair. He had given
up all hope and his son had coughed a good deal.

He did not know what to say, he was so grateful. The unpretentious
man--he was a subordinate official in one of the government offices and
probably could not afford it--promised the driver a good tip if he
would only drive them quickly to their home in Berlin. He enveloped his
son in the rug that lay on the back seat; the driver also gave them a
horse-cloth, and Wolfgang wrapped it round his schoolfellow's legs.

"Thanks, thanks," said Fritz Kullrich faintly; he was quite knocked
up now.

"Come and see us some time, Herr Schlieben," said the father,
pressing his hand. "Fritz would be pleased. And I am so grateful to you
for helping us."

"But come soon," said the son, smiling again in that peculiar
manner. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye." Wolfgang stood staring after the carriage as it
disappeared quickly; there drove Kullrich--after his mother.

Wolfgang's good spirits had flown. When his companions with whom he
had spent the afternoon sought him with loud hallos--Hans must have
given his Frida many hearty kisses, her hat was awry, her eyes gleamed
amorously--he got rid of them without delay. He said good-bye to them
quickly and went on alone. Death had touched his elbow. And one of the
old songs he had sung with Cilia, the girl from his childhood, suddenly
darted through his mind. Now he u