He slipped out into the hall, where his cap hung. “Tell my sisters,” he said to the servant who was waiting there, “that I am going home to order a carriage for them.” And he breathed as if relieved when the door closed behind him. The storm had abated: a soft rain came drizzling from the sky, the wind blew refreshingly over the heath, and at the verge of the horizon, where the evening glow paled away, the sheet-lightning of the far-distant thunder-storm shot from fiery, glowing clouds. As if the wild hunters were behind him, he ran across the rain-soaked road to the wood, whose branches closed above his head with a peaceful murmur. The damp moss sent out its perfume, and sparkling drops fell from the needles of the fir-trees. When he stepped out onto the heath, and saw the dark outline of his home before his eyes, he stretched out his arms, and cried out into the storm: “Here is my place--here I belong, and I shall be a rogue if ever again I try to find my happiness among strangers. I swear here that I will reject all vanities and foolish hankerings. I know now what I am, and what is unfit for me shall be lost to me. Amen.” So he took leave of his youth and of his youthful dreams. CHAPTER XIII. When he awoke next morning he found his mother sitting near his bed. “You up already?” he asked, wonderingly. “I have not been able to sleep,” she said, in her low voice, which always sounded as if she were asking pardon for what she said. “Why not?” he asked. She did not answer, but stroked his hair and smiled at him sadly. Then he knew that the twins had been telling tales, and that it was grief for him which did not let her rest. “It was not so bad, mother,” he said, consolingly; “they made fun of me a little, nothing more.” “Elsbeth, too?” she asked, with big, anxious eyes. “No, not she,” he replied, “but--” he was silent and turned to the wall. “But what?” asked his mother. “I don’t know,” he answered, “but there is a ‘but’ in it--” “You wrong her, perhaps,” said his mother, “and look, she sent you this by the girls.” She drew from her pocket a long object which was carefully wrapped in tissue-paper. In it was a flute, made of black ebony, with sparkling silver keys. Paul blushed with shame and joy; but his joy soon vanished, and after he had looked at the instrument for a while he said, softly, “What must I do with it now?” “You must learn to play it,” answered his mother, with a touch of pride. “It is too late,” he replied, shaking his head sadly; “there are other things for me to do.” He felt as if he had been made to drag something dead out of its grave. “Well, it seems that you cut a nice figure yesterday,” said his father, when they met at the breakfast-table. He quietly smiled to himself, and his father muttered something about lack of feeling of honor. The twins had big dreamy eyes, and when they looked at each other a blissful smile crossed their faces. They, at least, were happy.