* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun laughed in at the windows. And the woman, who, with dry
eyes, was now standing at one of them looking out at the splendour, at
the refreshing, glorious morning that was more sparkling than
ever before, felt vanquished by the power of nature. It was too great,
too sublime, too irresistible--she must bend the knee admiringly before
nature, however veiled her eyes were. Kate stood a long time in deep
thought. Outside was life, here in the room was death. But death is not
the greatest evil. She turned round with a trembling sigh and stepped
back to the bed: "Thank God!"

Then she sank on her knees before the dead boy, folded his cold
hands and kissed him.

She did not hear that someone tapped softly at the door.

"Madame." The chambermaid stuck her head in. And a man's head was
visible above the chambermaid's.

"Madame."

Kate did not hear.

"Here is somebody--the gentleman--the gentleman has arrived."

"My husband?"

Paul Schlieben had pushed the girl aside and had entered, pale,
hurriedly, in great agitation. His wife, his poor wife. What a lot she
had had to go through alone. The lad dead! They had met him with the
news as he arrived unsuspectingly to surprise them at their
breakfast.

"Paul!" It was a cry of the most joyful surprise, the utmost relief.
She fled from the cold dead into his warm arms. "Paul, Paul--Wolfgang
is dead!" Now she found tears. Streaming tears that would not cease and
that were still so beneficial.

All the bitterness she had felt whilst her son was still alive
disappeared with them. "Poor boy--our poor dear boy." These tears
washed him clean, so clean that he again became the little innocent boy
that had lain in the blooming heather and laughed at the bright sun
with transparent eyes. Oh, if she had only left him there. She would
always reproach herself for not having done so.

"Paul, Paul," she sobbed aloud. "Thank God, you are here. Had you
any idea of it? Yes, you had. You know how miserable, how unhappy I
feel." The elderly woman clasped her arms round the elderly man with
almost youthful fervour: "If I had not you--oh, the child, the poor
child."

"Don't cry so much." He wanted to console her, but the tears rolled
down his lined face too. He had travelled there as quickly as he could,
urged on by a sudden anxiety--he had had no letters from her--he had
come full of joy to surprise them, and now he found thin