"Yes," she said, "it was there, too, that I found out for the first time that I should never be able to do without you."

"And there is the juniper-tree," he continued, when they stepped out into the fields, "where we--" and then he suddenly cried aloud, and stretched out both his hands into s.p.a.ce.

"What is the matter?" she exclaimed, anxiously, looking up at him. He had turned deathly pale and his lips quivered.

"It is gone," he stammered.

"What?"

"It--it--my--my own."

Where once the buildings of the Haidehof rose there now stretched a level plain; only a few trees spread out their miserable branches.

He could not accustom himself to this sight, and covered his face with his hands, while he shivered feverishly.

"Do not be sad," she pleaded. "Papa would not have it rebuilt before you could make your own arrangements."

"Let us go there," he said.

"Please, please, not," she replied, "there is nothing to be seen except a few heaps of ruins--at another time, when you are not so excited."

"But where shall I sleep?"

"In the same room in which you were born--I have had it arranged for you, and your mother's furniture put in. Can you still say now that you have lost your home?"

He pressed her hand, gratefully, but she pointed to the juniper-bush, which had struck them before.

"Let us go there," she said, "lay your head on the mole-hill and whistle me something. Do you remember?"

"I should think so!"

"How long is it since then?"

"Seventeen years."

"Oh, heavens, I have loved you so long already, and in the mean time have become an old maid! And I have waited for you from year to year, but you would not see it. 'He must come at last,' I thought, but you did not come. And then I was discouraged, and thought: 'You cannot force yourself upon him; in reality he does not want you at all. You must come to some resolution.' And to put an end to all my longings, I accepted my cousin, who for the last ten years had been dangling after me. He had made me laugh so often, and I thought he would--but enough of this--"

and she shuddered. "Come, lie down--whistle."

He shook his head and pointed with his hand silently across the heath, where, on the horizon, three lonely fir-trees stretched their rough arms towards the sky.

"Thither," he said. "I cannot rest ere I have been there."

"You are right," she replied, and hand in hand they walked through the blooming heather, over which the wild bees were swarming, sleepily humming.

When they entered the cemetery the clock at the White House was striking noon. Twelve times it sounded in short strokes, a soft echo quivered in the air, and then all was quiet again; only the humming and singing continued.

His mother's grave was overgrown with ivy and wild myrtle, and at its head rose the radiant blossom of a golden-rod. Between the leaves rust-colored ants were creeping, and a lizard rustled down into the green depths.

Silently they both stood there, and Paul trembled. Neither dared to interrupt the solemn stillness.

"Where have they buried my father?" Paul asked at last.

"Your sisters took the body over to Lotkeim," answered Elsbeth.

"That is as well," he replied. "She has been lonely all her life; let her be so in death, too. But to-morrow we will also go over to him."

"Will you go and see your sisters?"

He shook his head sadly. Then they relapsed into silence.

He leaned his head on his hands and cried.

"Do not cry," she said, "each one of you has now a home." And then she took the little parcel that she held under her arm, unfastened the white paper of the cover, and there appeared an old ma.n.u.script-book with torn cover and faded leaves.

"See," she cried, "she sends you this, her greeting."

"Where did you get it from?" he asked, surprised, for he had recognized his mother's handwriting.

"It lay in the old chest of drawers which was saved from the fire, squeezed between the drawers and the back. It seems to have been lying there ever since her death."

Then they sat down together on the grave, laid the book between them on their knees, and began to study it. Now he remembered that Katie, at the time when he surprised her with her lover, had spoken of a song-book which had belonged to their mother; but he had never made up his mind to ask after it, because he did not want to bring to life again the painful remembrance of that hour.

All sorts of old songs were in it, copied out neatly; near them others half scratched out and corrected. The latter she seemed to have reproduced from memory, or perhaps composed herself.

There was also the one about the poet which Katie had recited at the time.

And then came one, which was this:

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child; Beside thy bed thy mother mild Watches till dreams shall bring thee peace--Sleep on!

"The little bell whose tones so clear From out the wood resounded here Its silver music soon will cease-- Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!

Without the moon shines soft and bright, A legend tell the linden-trees-- Sleep on!

"About the heath the shepherd's son, The princess in the White House lone; While leaves are flutt'ring in the breeze-- Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!

Thy rose-bush at the door dreams wild Of heath and hill and many things-- Sleep on!

"Thy little bird upon the sill Chirps gently towards thy bed his trill, And closes wearily his wings-- Sleep on!

"Dear child, sleep on; sleep on, dear child!

Beside thy bed thy mother mild Watches the hour-gla.s.s slowly turn-- Sleep on!

"Thy mother watches--time goes by-- The midnight hour approaches nigh, And then thy father may return-- Sleep on!"

And then another poem: