A darker night was never known. The wind blew from the Rhine, the snow blew about like dust; here and there the lighted windows showed where people were watching the sick. My head was uncovered, yet I did not feel the cold. I cried within myself: "The last day had come! That day of which the Lord has said: 'Afore the harvest, when the bud is perfect, and the sour grape is ripening in the flower, he shall both cut off the sprigs with pruning-hooks, and take away and cut down the branches." Full of these fearful thoughts, I went across the large market-place, where the wind was tossing the old elms, full of frost. As the clock struck one, I pushed open Doctor Steinbrenner's door; its large pulley rattled in the vestibule. As I was groping about, trying to find the railing, the servant appeared with a light at the top of the stairs. "Who is there?" she asked, holding the lantern before her. "Ah!" I replied, "tell the doctor to come immediately; we have a child sick, very sick." I could not restrain my sobs. "Come up, Monsieur Moses," said the girl: "the doctor has just come in, and has not gone to bed. Come up a moment and warm yourself!" But Father Steinbrenner had heard it all. "Very well, Theresa!" said he, coming out of his room; "keep the fire burning. I shall be back in an hour at latest." He had already put on his large three-cornered cap, and his goat's-hair great-coat. We walked across the square without speaking. I went first; in a few minutes we ascended our stairs. Sorlé had placed a candle at the top of the stairs; I took it and led M. Steinbrenner to the baby's room. All seemed quiet as we entered. Zeffen was sitting in an arm-chair behind the door, with her head on her knees, and her shoulders uncovered; she was no longer crying but weeping. The child was in bed. Sorlé, standing at its side, looked at us. The doctor laid his cap on the bureau. "It is too warm here," said he, "give us a little air." Then he went to the bed. Zeffen had risen from her chair, as pale as death. The doctor took the lamp, and looked at our poor little David; he raised the coverlet and lifted out the little round limbs; he listened to the breathing. Esdras having begun to cry, he turned round and said: "Take the other child away from this room--we must be quiet! and besides, the air of a sick-room is not good for such small children." He gave me a side look. I understood what he meant to say. It was the typhus! I looked at my wife; she understood it all. I felt at that moment as if my heart were torn; I wanted to groan, but Zeffen was there leaning over, behind us, and I said nothing; nor did Sorlé. The doctor asked for paper to write a prescription, and we went out together. I led him to our room, and shut the door, and began to sob. "Moses," said he, "you are a man, do not weep! Remember that you ought to set an example of courage to two poor women."