He marched on. He was no longer in the mood to whistle, and the clearer the White House rose from the bushes, the more embarrassed he felt. He could already distinguish a kind of rampart, which was surrounded by trees, and through a breach in the foliage he saw a long, low building, which from a distance he had never noticed; behind that another one, and in a black hollow a high flame which quivered up and down. “That must be a forge; but did they work even on Sundays?” An incomprehensible desire to cry seized him, and while he blindly ran on tears gushed from his eyes. Suddenly he saw a wide ditch before him filled to the edge with water. He knew very well he could not get across, but obstinacy compelled him to prepare for a spring, and the next moment the thick and dirty water closed over him. He reached land wet to the skin, covered with a layer of morass and weeds. He tried to let his clothes dry, sat down on the grass, and looked over at the White House. He had grown quite despondent, and as he began to shiver very much, he turned sadly and slowly homeward. CHAPTER IV. The summer which followed brought nothing but grief and care to Meyerhofer’s house. The former owner wished to have the mortgage paid off, and there was no prospect of any one lending the necessary sum. Meyerhofer drove to the town three or four times weekly, and returned home late at night dead drunk. Sometimes he stayed away for the whole night. Frau Elsbeth meanwhile sat upright in her bed and stared into the darkness. Paul often woke when he heard her low sobs; then for a while he would lie as quiet as a mouse, because he did not want her to know that he was awake, but at last he would begin to cry, too. Then his mother became quiet; and if he could not stop crying she got up, kissed him, and stroked his cheek; or she said, “Come to me, my boy.” Then he sprang up, slipped into her bed, and went to sleep on her shoulder again. His father often beat him--he seldom knew why; but he took the blows for granted. One day he heard his father scolding his mother. “Do not cry, you blubbering fool,” he said; “you are only here to make my misery worse.” “But, Max,” she answered, softly, “will you prevent your family from bearing your misfortune with you? Must we not keep closer together when we are so unhappy?” Then he was moved, said she was his brave wife, and called himself bad names. Frau Elsbeth tried to pacify him, bade him confide in her, and be brave. “Yes, be brave--be brave!” he cried, getting angry again. “It is all very fine for you women to speak so; you sit at home, and spread your apron out, waiting humbly for fortune or misfortune to fall into your laps, just as kind Fate may send it. But we men must go forth into hostile life; we must struggle and strive and fight with all sorts of rogues. Away with your warnings! Be brave; yes, indeed, be brave!”