She had reached the house and got as far as the carpeted marble stairs. A step came down towards her, and she stood still, leaning against the balustrade and smiling up at the new comer. "Dear Grollmann!" "Good gracious, Fräulein Cilli! How came you here? And how ill you look! Dear me! you ought to go to bed at once!" "I have no time for that, dear Grollmann, but I do feel very weak; will you help me up the stairs?" "Why, where do you want to go?" "To him--to Herr Schmidt." Grollmann shook his head. "Dear Fräulein Cilli, you know that I would do anything in the world to please you, and particularly to-day, when you are in such trouble about your good father; but you really cannot possibly go to Herr Schmidt. If you want anything for your good father--and he has been asking after him already, although he has so many things on his mind--I will take an opportunity of saying it--" "It is not about my father," said Cilli, "nor about myself, but I have such difficulty in speaking, dear Grollmann." The old servant was awestruck as she raised her blind eyes to him. He did not venture another word of reply, not even to ask her what was that paper which she had slipped inside her dress, and led her silently and carefully up the remaining steps to the master's door. "Shall I announce you, Fräulein?" he whispered. "Only open the door, dear Grollmann." The old man hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door boldly, guided the blind girl across the threshold with outstretched arm, without himself entering, closed the door behind her, and dropped into a chair close by, resting his chin upon his hands. "I must take the poor child downstairs again," he muttered; "she will not stay long." Uncle Ernst, who was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, lost in sullen meditation, had not heard the gentle opening of the door. Now, having reached the farther end of the room, he turned and started. "Cilli!" he exclaimed with a long-drawn breath. "Cilli," he repeated, as he went up to her, where she silently awaited him. He was standing before her, strangely moved by the contrast between the dark and dismal thoughts in which he had been plunged, and the angelic, radiant face into which he now looked; and his hand, which had taken hers, trembled, and his voice shook, as he led her to a chair and said: "What brings you to me, my child? Is your father worse?" "I think not," answered Cilli, "although I know that he cannot last long." "That is all stuff and nonsense," said Uncle Ernst, the gentleness of his tone contrasting oddly with the rough words. "Those three hundred pounds would not have made you happy. And what have I done to him that he should be afraid that I would not take care of him and you if it came to the worst?--his Socialism--pooh! He will always remain for me what he is--one of the few honest men in a world of rogues."