“Isn’t that pretty?” “Very pretty! Who taught you that, Kitty?” “I once found it in a book of songs which belonged to mother. I almost think she made it herself.” During this conversation Paul had stood there stupefied with horror; but when he heard his mother’s name his anger overpowered him, and he cracked his whip over the heads of the couple, so that the withered leaves of the arbor flew rustling about. With a loud cry they all sprang up. No sooner had the brothers recognized him than they attempted to make off; but the girls clung to them whimpering. They sought protection against their own brother. “Come here!” he called out to them. Then they left their lovers and flew to one another for mutual protection. The two Erdmanns receded farther still. “You stay here!” he cried. “What do you want with us?” said the elder one, who was the first to recover his impudence. “You shall answer to me for your conduct.” “You know where we are to be found,” said the younger one, and pulled his brother by the coat-tail as a hint to escape with him. But at this moment Paul seized him by the throat. “Leave go!” he screamed. “You come into the house with me.” “Oh no; _rather_ not,” said the elder one. “I don’t know at all what you want with us,” said the younger one, who, under the iron grasp of Paul’s fist, was not a little frightened. “We love your sisters; we have nothing to do with you.” “And if you love them, don’t you know where the door is, through which you might have come to woo them? Robbers that you are!” At this moment Ulrich had torn his brother from Paul’s grasp; and before he could collect his senses they both flew in hot haste through the garden, leaped the fence, and disappeared in the darkness of the heath. Completely stunned, he turned round and saw his sisters crouching behind the trunk of a tree. “Come!” he said, pointing towards the house, and, sobbing, they followed him. When they wanted to slip away to their own room, he said, opening the door of the parlor, “In here.” Trembling, they crouched down in a corner, for they did not know what punishment he would inflict upon them. He lit the candle himself, took up the family album and took out a picture. “Now come to your room.” Like two returning penitents they crept slowly behind him. “Who is that?” he asked, in his severest voice, pointing to the picture. It was a portrait of their mother, taken in early youth, almost effaced by the lapse of time. But they recognized it very well, and, wringing their hands, fell on their knees before the bed and sobbed pitifully on the pillow. And then they confessed everything to him. It was worse than he had ever imagined. A dreadful silence ensued. Paul stepped to the window and looked out into the night. “Thank God you are dead, mother!” he said, folding his hands. Then they wept aloud, crept up to him on their knees, and wanted to kiss his hands. He stroked their hair. He loved them far too well.