The aunts, wringing their hands, hurried to old Douglas, who was walking up and down before the stables awaiting a conveyance. His powerful chest heaved, his white, bushy brows were knitted, and his eyes shot lightning. A storm seemed to be passing over his soul. “Have pity,” cried the women; “make Elsbeth rest; she must recover herself; she looks as if she were going mad.” “If it is as she says,” he muttered to himself, “if he has sacrificed all his belongings.... Plague you, leave me in peace!” he cried to the women who surrounded him. “But think of Elsbeth,” they called out. “At twelve o’clock the vicar comes, and what will she look like?” “That’s her lookout!” he shouted. “Let her be, she knows quite well what she is doing.” At the same moment that Paul was lifted from the cart a troop of servants came from the gate carrying his father’s corpse. One after the other the two bodies were carried into the White House, and the dog went whining and sniffing after them. It was a sad procession. Elsbeth had Paul carried into her own bedroom, locked the door, and seated herself near the bed. Vainly the aunts implored to be let in. At eleven o’clock the doctor came, and declared himself willing to stay with his patient till next morning. He had evidently come prepared for it, for he was an old friend of the house and one of the wedding guests. Meanwhile they were to telegraph for a nurse. “May I not stay with him?” asked Elsbeth. “If you can,” he answered, astonished. “I can,” she answered, with a mysterious smile. The aunts knocked again. “Spare yourself, child,” they cried through the chink of the door; “you must dress--you must go to the register-office. The vicar has come.” “He can go away again,” she answered. There was a murmur outside; the bridegroom, too, was giving his advice. “What will you do, my child?” said the old doctor, and looked searchingly into her eyes. Then she sank, weeping, on her knees by the bed, seized Paul’s powerless hand and pressed it to her eyes and mouth. “Is that your firm resolution?” the old man asked. She nodded assent. “And if he dies?” “He will not die,” she said; “he must not die.” The doctor smiled, sadly; “Very good,” he said, then, “stay with him a while, and renew the compresses every two minutes. I will insure quiet meanwhile.” Soon the carriages were heard coming to the door and leaving the yard. An hour later the doctor re-entered the sick-room. “The house will soon be empty,” he said; “the ceremony is put off.” “Put off?” she asked, anxiously. The old man looked at her and shook his head. The human heart showed itself to him every day in new complications. * * * * * For weeks the patient lingered between life and death. The nervous fever which had set in seemed to take away all hope. Elsbeth scarcely left his bedside. She did not eat, she did not sleep; her whole life seemed to be engrossed by the care of her beloved one.