Ascher was saved. The terrible blow which had struck him down had not crushed the life from him. He was awakened. But when, after four weeks of gruesome fever and delirium, his mind had somewhat regained its equilibrium, his hair had turned white as snow, and his children beheld an old, decrepit man. That which Viola had denied her father when he returned to them in all the vigor of his manhood, she now lavished upon him in his suffering and helplessness, with that concentrated power of love, the source of which is not human, but Divine. In the space of one night of terror, the merest bud of yesterday had suddenly blossomed forth into a flower of rarest beauty. Never did gentler hands cool a fever-heated brow, never did sweeter voice mingle its melody with the gruesome dreams of delirium. On his sick-bed, lovingly tended by Ephraim and Viola, an ennobling influence gradually came over the heart of the old gambler, and so deeply touched it, that calm peace crowned his closing days. It was strange that the events of that memorable night, and the vicissitudes that had preceded it, had left no recollection behind, and his children took good care not to re-awaken, by the slightest hint, his sleeping memory. A carriage drew up one day in front of Ascher’s house. There has evidently been a splendid crop of oats this year. Uncle Gabriel has come. Uncle Gabriel has only lately assumed the additional character of father-in-law to Ephraim, for he declared that none but Ephraim should be his pet daughter’s husband. And now he has come for the purpose of having a confidential chat with Viola. There he sits, the kind-hearted, simple-minded man, every line of his honest face eloquent with good-humor and happiness, still guilty of an occasional violent onslaught upon his thighs. Viola still remains his “little spit-fire.” “Now, Viola, my little spit-fire,” said he, “won’t you yet allow me to talk to my Nathan about you? Upon my word, the boy can’t bear the suspense any longer.” “Uncle,” says Viola, and a crimson blush dyes her pale cheeks: “Uncle,” she repeats, in a tone of such deep earnestness, that the laughing expression upon Gabriel’s face instantly vanishes, “please don’t talk to him at all. MY place is with my father!” And to all appearances Viola will keep her word. Had she taken upon herself a voluntary penance for having, in her heart’s bitter despair, presumed to abjure her faith in the Sechûs of her mother? Or was there yet another reason? The heart of woman is a strangely sensitive thing. It loves not to build its happiness upon the hidden ruins of another’s life. THE SEVERED HAND BY WILHELM HAUFF