“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 manuscript-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.