The old man stood alone with his wife in the deserted school-room. "Come, dear wife, we will send a message to Walter." He laid his hands once more upon his desk, and tears fell from his eyes. "It is strange," he said, "how much it costs us to leave a spot where we have laboured so long, even although our work has been hard and ill rewarded. Our home is wherever we have been used to the consciousness of duties fulfilled, and when we must leave it, it is as if we were going among strangers!" He put his arm in Brigitta's, and, with heard bent, crossed the threshold which separated him from the humble scene of the daily labour of his life. For the first time, he looked, to his wife's anxious eyes, like a broken-down old man. "I must leave you alone for an hour," she said, when she had seated him in the dwelling-room on the bench by the stove. "I must prepare the dinner." "Do so, mother; man must eat, whether he be merry or sorrowful, eh? And we are not really sorrowful, are we?" And he forced a smile and patted her shoulder. "No, dear Bernhard, we are not!" said his wife, struggling to repress a fresh burst of tears. "Send a messenger to town to Walter as soon as possible," said Herr Leonhardt. "Indeed I will. I cannot rest until my boy is with us. And I will send for the doctor, too!" "Do not send for the doctor; he can do nothing more for me." "But it will be a comfort to me to see him,--do let me send," said Brigitta. And she left the room. The old man sat there, calm and still. "And now I must begin my new daily task,--the laborious task of idleness!" he thought, as he folded his hands and gazed into the night that had closed around him for this life. He sat thus for some time, when the cuckoo began to announce the hour of nine, but the last "cuckoo" stuck in the bird's throat, and he stood still at his open door. The clock had run down. For the first time in many years, Herr Leonhardt had neglected to wind it up. He arose, groped his way towards it, felt for the weights, and carefully drew them up. The cuckoo took breath again, finished his song, and slammed to his door. "I will not forget you again, little comrade," said he, "you, who have chirped on through such merry and sorry times. How often now shall I long for you to tell me when the long, weary hours end!" Thus said the old man to himself, and again slipped back to his place. "There is something done," he said as he sat down. Then minute after minute passed by, his head sank upon his breast, the darkness made him sleepy, and for awhile even his thoughts faded and were at rest. His wife looked in upon him several times, but withdrew softly, that his sleep might not be disturbed. It was almost twelve o'clock. Then something rustled into the room; the old man felt the air stirred by an approaching form, and he raised his head. The figure threw itself at his feet. He put out his hand and touched waves of silky hair. "Father Leonhardt!" "Oh, this is Fräulein Ernestine."