"I am exceedingly sorry," he said to Oswald, as the latter accompanied him to the door, "that we must have company just to-day. It is very painful to me to think that the house is open, and dancing going on, while a member of my family is lying dangerously ill."

Oswald tried his best to quiet the good old gentleman, although his own heart was full of anxiety. Nor did he dare to mention to the baron at this time a resolution which he had formed during the last hours.

He had come to the conclusion that he could not remain any longer in this house.

How he should be able to live without Bruno; how he should tear himself away from the happiness of seeing Helen every day, he could not tell.

He only knew he must go.

This he repeated to himself, over and over again, as he smoothed Bruno's pillow, as he took his burning hands in his own, brushed his hair from his brow, or moistened his parched lips. There was almost womanly tenderness in these loving attentions.

"If my mother were alive, she could not nurse me better," said Bruno, pressing his hand gratefully.

"You never knew your mother, Bruno."

"I was only three years old when she died; but I remember my father,"

and now the boy began to speak of his father with feverish excitement; how tall and strong and beautiful he had been; "not as slender as you, but broader in the shoulders, and with long, dark locks that flowed down upon his shoulders, like King Harf.a.gar;" and of the little farm, high up in Dalecarlia, which the father had worked with two servants only, and how clever he had been at everything; and how he had wielded his axe, although he had been page at the queen's court in his youth, carrying her long silk train on state occasions; and of Thor, the fast trotter, whom the father put into his sleigh; and of the northern winter nights, when the stars on the black sky sparkled like diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, so bright that the snow glittered in their light; and of the northern lights, how they suddenly blazed up on the horizon and stretched out their fiery arms to the zenith.

"We must make a trip to Sweden together," he said; "here winter is mere child's play; there you will see real snow and ice! Here it is hot, intolerably hot--I wish I were amid snow and ice!" And the boy tossed his head restlessly on his pillow and asked for water.

Just then music was heard from the garden.

"What is that?" he said, standing up.

Oswald went to the window.

"It is the whole company," he said; "they are just coming out from among the trees. Count Grieben and your aunt are at the head of the procession. They were going to pa.s.s right under our window, but the baron, who came next to Count Grieben, is telling them to take the other way. The first couples are out of sight now, but more and more couples are coming out."

"Has Helen come by yet?" asked Bruno, raising himself.

"No, not yet."

"Oh, why must I be in bed!" cried Bruno, sinking back exhausted by the effort and the increased pain.

"There she is now!"

"Not with Felix, I hope?"

"No, with a young man I have never seen before."

"Never mind," said Bruno, "so she is not with Felix."

"Now the last have gone by," said Oswald, taking his seat again by Bruno's bedside.

Bruno's restlessness seemed to have been increased by this direct reference to Helen, which had heretofore been carefully avoided by both of them. He began once more to speak of Helen. Oswald had to tell him what she wore, whether she looked handsome, very handsome, handsomer than any of the other ladies? whether she had smiled? or looked up at his window?

"Oh, if I could but get up! if I could but see her for a moment!"

"You will see her soon again, Bruno!"

"I don't know; I want to see her so much just to-day, only for a moment. I feel as if I had something to tell her that oppresses my heart. And then, if she refuses Felix,--and she will certainly do so,--she is to go back to school, and then it may be a long time before I ever see her again. But I won't stay here if she goes away. Come, Oswald, let us go to Hamburg. You are clever and know so much; you will easily find employment, and I too--any kind of work, if I can only be near her and see her from time to time."

He fell into a kind of stupor, and then again he suddenly started up.

"Why did Helen go away?"

"You are dreaming, Bruno; she has not been here."

"Nor Aunt Berkow?"

"No, Bruno."

"And yet I saw them both so distinctly. They came in hand in hand through that door; Helen dressed in white, with a wreath of dark-red roses in her hair; aunt Berkow in black, and her hair as she always wears it. Aunt Berkow led Helen up to you, and you fell into each other's arms and wept and kissed each other; and then aunt Berkow came to my bed and said: Now, Bruno, now you can go to sleep. Then my eyes closed; it grew dark around me; I sank with the bed lower and lower, and quicker and quicker--then the fright waked me up."

"Do you feel worse, Bruno?" asked Oswald, troubled by these flights of his imagination.

"On the contrary," replied Bruno; "that sleep has done me a great deal of good. My pain is not as bad as before; but I feel very tired. I think I could sleep now."

He turned his head, but a few moments afterwards he started up once more.

"Oswald, will you do me a very, very great favor?"

"Certainly; what is it?"

"Pray dress yourself and go down stairs."

"Not for anything in the world."

"But, I pray you, do it for my sake! You see I am much better now, and I should like to sleep, and I am going to sleep. You cannot help me when I am sleeping?"

"But what am I to do down stairs?"

"You see, Oswald," said Bruno, "I should like to see Helen more than anything in this life. And I cannot do it. I have no strength in my limbs. But, if you see her, I shall feel as if I also had seen her.

Please, please go down stairs! You need not speak to anybody; only, if you can manage it, tell Helen I send her my best, my very best love--and perhaps she will say something in reply, perhaps she will say: Give my love to Bruno! Then you must come straight back to me, so as not to forget the tone of her voice when she said it. And listen, Oswald, before I forget it. It might be, you know, that I die suddenly, no--don't laugh, I am quite serious then, do not let them undress me; I want to be put in the coffin just as I am. Look here!--You know I always wear a medallion on my heart; it is my mother's; but that is not the only reason why it is so sacred to me; there is a lock of Helen's hair inside, which I cut off a long time ago in jest. If they should take the medallion from me, I think I could not be quiet in my grave.

And now, please go! or it will be too late."

Oswald did not know what to do. If he did not do what the boy wished, he might bring back his feverish excitement, which seemed to have abated considerably. On the other hand, he did not like at all to leave him, even for a moment. And yet he would have been delighted to see Helen--only for an instant--so much must have taken place during these last hours.

Bruno soon made an end to his doubts.

"You promised me," he said, sadly, "and now you will not do it. You do not love me."

What could he do now? Oswald went into the adjoining room, his bed-chamber, and changed his dress. He had probably never in his life dressed for a party in a similar state of mind. The whole thing looked to him like hideous irony. He started back when he saw his own distorted face in the looking-gla.s.s. The last few hours seemed to have aged him as many years.

He came back to Bruno's bed.

"Let me look at you," said the boy, half rising. "How well you look! So stately and handsome!--kiss me, Oswald."

Oswald took the boy in his arms and kissed him on his fine, proud lips--so pale and parched, alas! Then he let him sink softly back on his pillow.