"Dear uncle! I thank you from my heart for your love, which you give me so freely, for how could I have deserved it? What I did yesterday I would have done for any captain under whom I had served for four and twenty hours. If indeed love deserves love, then I deserve yours, for I love and honour you as I would love and honour a father. But that I am the only one who loves you, you only say because you are out of spirits, and I hope you do not think it; and if you do think it, I know better than you." "Indeed!" said Uncle Ernst. "You know better? You know nothing about the matter. Have you ever waited in helpless anguish and despair, tearing your hair because nature seemed to do her work too slowly? Have you ever sunk on your knees in gratitude when your child's first cry smote on your ear? Have you ever nursed children on your knees, and secretly found all your happiness in their laughing eyes, and then seen how those eyes ceased to laugh at you, how they looked shyly past you and turned away, eyes and hearts both? To know such things a man must have experienced them." "At the worst you can only be speaking of Philip," said Reinhold, "and even there you take too gloomy a view; but Ferdinanda! And even if all is not as it should be, is it not partly your own fault, my dear uncle? A girl's heart needs sunshine, constant sunshine! During these last few days I have never once heard you speak so kindly to her as you have just done to me." "Because you understand me," exclaimed Uncle Ernst. "Ferdinanda does not understand me. I do not expect that she or any other woman should. They are not sent into the world for that; they are here to cook and to knit, like Rike, or if they cannot all cook and knit, to spend their time in playing the piano, playing at sculpture, and so on. I consider it one of the principal causes of the feebleness and worthlessness of the present day that women are allowed so much liberty, and can interfere in so many things that are quite beyond their province. Besides, if you think so much of the girl--and I allow she is worth rather more than most of the chatterboxes--marry her! You would then at once have a right to take the business off my hands." Was this one of his uncle's grim jokes, or was it earnest? Reinhold could not tell. Happily he was spared the necessity of answering by a knock at the door. It was Cilli's father, old Kreisel, who at Herr Schmidt's "Come in!" stepped into the room. "What is it, Kreisel?" asked Uncle Ernst "But, my good man, what an extraordinary get up! Are you going to a funeral?"