"And if I believed in Heaven I should say so too," rejoined Leuthold, throwing himself upon a kitchen chair. "Only conceive of the joy! We are wealthy,--independent,--delivered from our ten years' servitude,--delivered--ah!" He fanned himself with the pocket-handkerchief that he had just used at the bedside of Hartwich's corpse to dry the tears that he did not shed. In spite of her good fortune, Frau Bertha looked uncomfortable. "I am almost sorry he has gone," she said timidly. "It seems to me a sin to rejoice so at any one's death,--he might appear to us." "Don't talk such nonsense; you know I cannot endure it," said Leuthold angrily. "You behave as if we had killed him. Wishes are neither poison nor steel; and we are not rejoicing at his death, but at our inheritance. It is but human." "Yes, yes," said Bertha, comforted, "you are quite right. If we could have had the money while he lived, we should not have wanted him to die; he might have lived for a hundred years for all I would have cared. It was his own fault that we wished him dead. Why did he keep us so pinched?" Leuthold nodded approvingly. "I see you are willing to listen to reason; now have the kindness to come downstairs with me and pay the proper respect to the body." "What must I do that for?" asked Bertha, alarmed. "Because it is becoming! I have instructed you sufficiently upon this point; you know my wishes--come!" These words, that cut like a knife in their utterance, made opposition useless. Bertha took her casseroles from the fire, looked after the doves in the bag, and followed her husband down stairs. On the way she asked him, "What shall I say when we get there?" "Not much," said Leuthold dryly. "There is not much to be said in such stiff, silent society,--a couple of oh's and ah's will suffice; it is very graceful in a woman to fall upon her knees by the bedside; but if you should attempt it, pray restrain your usual impetuosity, or the repose even of the dead might be disturbed." "You are a fearful man," whispered Bertha. "I am actually afraid of you. Will you make such joking speeches when I die?" "I shall not outlive you, my good Bertha," said Leuthold, plaintively. "If I should, be assured I will mourn for you as the nurseling for his nurse!" Frau Bertha looked doubtfully at her husband. She scarcely knew what to make of this tender asseveration, and she said nothing. They had reached the door of Hartwich's apartment. "Where is your handkerchief--your pocket-handkerchief?" Leuthold asked softly. Bertha sought it in vain; she had forgotten it. "How thoughtless," whispered Leuthold, "to forget your handkerchief under such circumstances!" "Then give me yours," said Bertha.