"I cannot drink any more; believe me, I cannot," said Annele. She lamented piteously that they all must die. When Lenz tried to soothe her by telling her that they had provisions for many days yet, and that before those were exhausted help would surely come, she broke out into fresh lamentations over her wicked life, her ingratitude and hardness of heart in turning her back upon the abundance of good things that were given her, and persisting in demanding those she could not have. "My head seems covered with snakes. Put your hand on it; is not every hair a serpent? O Heavens! only this very day, or was it yesterday, I put on my crown of braids. Go away! I must take down my hair!" With trembling and feverish hands she took down her hair, and as it hung about her shoulders she looked like one crazed with grief. Lenz and Petrovitsch had great difficulty in quieting her. The old man finally persuaded his nephew to go with him into the sitting-room and leave her to herself. "Keep calm," he said, when they were alone together, "else your wife will die before help comes. I never saw such a change in any human being, and never would have believed it possible. It is more than human constitution can bear. Tell me now what sort of a letter this is which I found in your little girl's dress when I laid Bubby on her feet." Lenz told the horrible resolution he had formed, and begged his uncle to give back the letter which contained his farewell to life. The old man, however, held it fast and read it half aloud. Lenz's heart trembled at hearing the words which were not to have been read till he was out of the world. He tried to make out his uncle's thoughts, as far as the pale blue light would let him study the expression of his features. The old man read steadily to the end without once looking up, and then, with a short, quick glance at his nephew put the letter in his pocket. "Give me the letter; we will burn it," said Lenz, scarcely above a whisper. In the same low tone Petrovitsch answered: "No; I will keep it; I never half knew you till now." Whether the words were meant favorably or otherwise it was hard to tell. The old man rose, took his brother's file from the wall, held it firmly, and pressed his thumb into the groove worn by the dead man's steady toil of years. Perhaps he was registering there a vow to fill a father's place to Lenz, if they should be saved. He only said: "Come here; I have something to whisper in your ear. The meanest act a man can commit is to take his own life. I once knew a man whose father had killed himself. 'My father took the easiest way for himself and the hardest for us,' he said, and the son"--here Petrovitsch drew Lenz close to him, and shouted in his ear--"cursed his father's memory." Lenz staggered backward and almost fell to the ground at the words.