In the yard a number of women assembled who had loved his mother on account of her quiet, simple manners, and who now wanted to follow the cortege without really belonging to the mourners. The sharp eye of his father soon discovered them. “Paul, my son,” he cried, “go out and urge the ladies to enter the house of mourning.” Paul obeyed this order with hesitation, for he did not know how to word the invitation. When he stepped out onto the threshold his first glance fell on Elsbeth, who, in a mourning-dress, stood among the village women and carried a wreath of white roses. And when she saw him her eyes filled with tears. For a moment he felt as if he would like to press his head against the folds of her dress and cry there; but others stood near her, staring at him. He made an awkward bow, and said, “My father begs you--would you like to see the dead?” The women slowly went into the house; only Elsbeth lingered. “Won’t you come in, too?” he asked. “My poor dear Paul,” she said, and seized his hand. He shut his eyes and staggered back two steps. “Do come,” he said, mastering himself again; “look at her, she has always loved you so much.” “Paul, my son, where are you?” sounded his father’s voice from the interior of the house. “Paul,” she said, hesitating, with rising tears, “you must not despair; there are still others who--love you.” “Oh yes,” he said, “I know--but come, I must pour out the wine.” She sighed deeply; then she timidly went in after him, and mixed again with the other women. “Paul, come here!” beckoned his father, who today seemed to fancy himself the master again; and when Paul bent his head to him, he whispered in his ear, “I hear the wine is finished. What does that mean? Will you shame us all?” “I think there are a few more bottles,” Paul answered. “Make them last till the vicar comes; but you must also offer a glass to the women. Do you hear?” “Oh, if only the vicar would come soon,” sighed Paul, and tried hard to fill the glasses only half. And at last the vicar came. The whole assembly pressed into the room where the dead woman lay in her coffin. The place was bathed in sunshine, and checkered lights which had found their way through the waving linden branches played merrily on the marble-white face. Paul helped to carry his father’s chair to the head of the coffin, then he withdrew to a quiet corner behind the mourning assembly where he could rest a little, for he was tired with much running about. But they would not let him rest. “Where is the youngest son?” asked the vicar, who wanted to gather the whole family round him. “Paul, my child, where are you?” called his father. Then he had to come forward, and took his place close to the head of the coffin, near his father’s chair. A low murmur passed through the assembly, and some looked embarrassed, as if they would say, “So that is a son, too? Then we have made a mistake there.”