"Oh yes!" said the boy. "I only did not like to tell while the others were present, because they would have laughed at me. I had stayed behind a little, and a projecting rock hid the others from my sight I thought I could overtake them at any moment, and so I was walking on slowly, often looking upward. Suddenly I saw Helen come so close to the edge of the precipice, which there comes down a hundred feet or more, that it looked as if she must fall if she moved ever so little. I cried out in my anxiety--then she came still nearer, actually bending over, and everything turned around me well, you know the rest. But there is Malte coming. Goodnight, Oswald." "Good-night, you mad boy." Oswald kissed his pet on his forehead and went in deep thought to his room. He leaned out of the open window and looked down in the garden, lost in meditation. The night was dark; only here and there a single star peeped for a moment through the canopy of clouds. At times a sound came from the trees, as if they were speaking to each other in low, confused murmurs; the fountain of the Naiad splashed gently and abruptly, as if it were telling a weird old story. "Your life is like this night," said Oswald to himself; "here and there a star, which vanishes again, and then chaos and darkness. You were right, dear Berger, our life is nothing, and quite sad enough to make any man who has sense wish to get rid of it quickly. Now you are where Melitta is, and Oldenburg too. Perhaps you see them pass by your cell, arm in arm; perhaps that will make your mind return to you, while others lose it at the sight. I might make a little trip to N., to see my good friends. Who knows? The place might prove so pleasant that I might stay there altogether." "How is Bruno?" asked a voice from below. It was Helen's voice. Oswald saw her white dress shine in the dark. "Thank you; he is well," he replied. "Good-night." And the light dress vanished in the shrubbery. "No, life is more than an empty nothing," murmured Oswald as he closed the window. "If Berger had seen this girl, he would not have given up life. And yet he has seen her, admired her, sung her praises even in sweet verses, and yet he has lost his mind--oh, it is a fearful thing this life--dark and ghost-like, and nothing real in it but the sweet voice that bids you good-night!" CHAPTER VII. There are in the life of every family, as in that of nations, moments when all the members feel more or less distinctly that something great and extraordinary is going to happen. The dark future casts its shadow far back upon the present, filling the minds of some with dismay and of others with hope, but everywhere causing a restlessness which, in its turn, contributes to bring about the crisis.