And scarcely had his 'friend 'passed by before he cursed himself for his--cowardice. Weaker and weaker grew the child. Once Fritz took it to the Prater to amuse it. The gay music of the band, the carriages, all that the summer had left, in which the boy had once found such delight, now cut him to his little heart. They sat together upon a bench, beneath the dusty trees. The child looked at the throng of vehicles with eyes wide and fixed--the father looked at his son. "Does it amuse you? Do you like it, Siegi?" he asked, bending tenderly over him; the boy smiled faintly and said, "Yes, Papa!" But, in a few moments he leaned his tired little head against the father's breast and lisped, "Let us go home." Only a little while longer and Siegi could not leave his bed--and Fritz heard the dread word 'consumption!' He knew that it could be only a question of weeks, and sometimes said to himself that it would be better for the child if death would come quickly. But he thrust the thought from him. No, no, he yearned to hear as long as possible the little voice, and to stroke the thin cheek. The rosy childish face was wan and pinched, the arms looked like little brown sticks, the delicate tracery of the blue veins about the temples grew daily more distinct, the brow grew more like marble.... Then came mornings when Fritz, going early to his office, feared that he should not find the child living upon his return in the evening. As he mounted the stairs when he came home his heart would seem to stand still--he would enter the room very softly. The little head would move on the pillow, a hoarse little voice would gasp: "Papa!" and the father's heart would leap for joy! It came towards the end of August--in a heavy, stifling, sultry night. He was alone with his child. Charlotte had retired; she could not look upon death. The heat was intolerable. The windows were wide open, but they looked out upon a court where the air was no cooler than in the sick-room. The fragrance of the roses and mignonette, which Fritz had brought home with him to perfume the air a little, floated sadly through the small room. It seemed as if the death struggle of the flowers mingled with the death struggle of the child. Siegi lay in his little bed, propped up with pillows. His breathing was so short and quick that it could hardly be counted. "Papa!" he gasped from time to time. "What, my darling? Do you want anything?" "No,--only--when are we going to Schneeburg?" "Soon, my pet--very soon!" The child became half unconscious, tossed from side to side, and plucked vehemently at the sheet with his emaciated little hands. Delirium set in, he laughed aloud, chirrupped to imaginary horses, and then with a thin, quavering little voice, began to sing an old French nursery song that his bonne had taught him: "_Il etait un petit navire_...."