Oswald slipped on tiptoe into the boys' room. He wanted to see at least one dear face, Bruno's face. The first dawn was peeping into the room through the closed curtains; it was quite cool there. Bruno had again left the window open all night, as he liked to do. Oswald closed it, for the morning air was blowing in and Bruno's face was heated by a restless dream. Again he was lying there, as in the first night when Oswald saw him, with his arms crossed on his breast, dark defiance on his weird, beautiful face. But when Oswald kissed him on his forehead he did not open his eyes, as before, to smile upon him in blissful dreams; he did not open his lips, as before, to whisper to him the touching words: I love you! the dark brows almost met, and pain contracted the proud lips. At any other time Oswald would have looked upon this as a mere accident, but now, in his momentarily softened humor, it pained him. "Is he still angry," he thought, "because I left him at home yesterday? Does he feel that he has no longer all my love? And yet, do I not love him all the more now?" He pushed the hair gently from the boy's forehead; he wrapped the covering closer around his delicate limbs, and crept out of the room again, with heavy heart. A sad anticipation of a great sorrow passed through him. Was it to happen to him, to Bruno, and alas! perhaps, even to her, after this blessed happiness! He hastened down into the garden to breathe more freely in the open air, and wandered about in the walks and avenues, and shook the dew from the branches into his feverish face, and looked with his dim, wearied eyes into the pious, childlike eyes of the flowers. In the kitchen-garden he found the gardener at work. He was a man, at least, and Oswald longed to hear a human voice. He spoke to the man, a thing he had never done before; he asked him if he was married? Whether he had any children? Did he love his children very much? The man gave him those awkward, half answers, which such people generally return to our questions--it is not that they feel less than the higher classes, but they are not accustomed to analyze their feelings and to clothe them in appropriate words. It is this which often gives them the appearance of indifference. He became more talkative when he was questioned about his work; he spoke with delight of the glorious weather, magnificent sunshine, alternating with warm rains and thunder-storms. But Oswald only heard him half, and left the old man suddenly, who lifted his cap, looked after him in astonishment, shook his head and continued his work. Oswald wandered on and on restlessly, but soon the garden felt too confined; he passed through the open space enclosed by the high wall, and hurried out into the fields, from the fields into the forest, and on and on towards the roar which fell upon his ear, first indistinctly, then louder and louder.