She had to keep a firm hold of herself so as not to scream aloud, and her hands closed over each other tightly under her apron. The mere fact of folding her hands calmed her. She had so often prayed for strength, and she was sure that He would not forsake her now. She felt as though she were the maiden whom she had been so fond of reading about in the book of holy legends, who had entered the fierce lion's cage undismayed, and had gladly given her blood for the sake of her Heavenly Bridegroom. "Lord Jesus," she cried loudly and fervently, then, pressing her folded hands to her heart, she smiled at her father. "Daddy, my daddy." For a few seconds the old man's grin grew even broader, but then his face became calm. Daddy? He looked at his daughter in astonishment and stammered, "Little Böhnke has gone--who's speaking--so kindly?" "I, Rosa." He shook his head peevishly. "Don't want her." A happy thought struck her. Laying her trembling hand on his, she said in a low, persuasive voice, "It's I, Röschen, your little star, your red-haired girl, your wee birdie, your----" the tears welled into her eyes; she gulped them down bravely, but her voice choked. Then he continued, "My sun, the key which is to [Pg 298] open heaven's door for me--ah!"--he smirked as though he remembered something, and then added as tenderly as he could in his husky, faltering voice, "my consolation." He looked at her, felt her hair as he had done before, and passed his hands over her as she stood before him tall and slender, for she had jumped up from her knees in her bitter, painful emotion. "Too big--too big--you're not my wee one, not my little daughter--Röschen--my sun--my consolation." And he looked down at the floor and smiled, as if a tiny little girl were standing there, who was not yet big enough to reach up to the table. "But I _am_ Röschen," said the girl quickly, as she seized hold of his hands with her feeble ones, and pressed and shook them as if she wanted to bring him to his senses in that way. He continued, however, to speak to an imaginary little child on the floor, as though he were mad or intoxicated. "Are you coming to daddy? Poor daddy is always alone, quite alone since little Böhnke has gone." Then he added in a mysterious, almost unintelligible whisper, "Sophia is going to kill him--they'll all help to kill him--poor Mr. Tiralla." He shook his head miserably.