“Yes, it is really so,” said he rising. “Everything is plain now. I must leave you, Wilhelm. It is after four o’clock, and I am expected at home. I shall see you again this evening, and we will decide on some definite course of action.” This conversation took place in a lower room of the banker’s house, which had been Wilhelm Müller’s office for many years. He pressed the young man’s hand, and Clement proceeded rapidly towards home. It was their dinner hour, and his parents were waiting for him. The habits of the family had resumed their ordinary course. The sad routine of life is seldom interrupted more than a day even by the most overwhelming disaster, and this exterior regularity, however painful a contrast to the grief that has changed everything interiorly, helped restore calmness to the soul, and with calmness the courage and strength to act. Clement was a quarter of an hour late. He went directly to the dining-room, knowing his father’s punctuality. As he supposed, the family were at dinner, and he took his place after some hasty words of apology at his entrance, and then fell into a profound silence. The fine, spacious room in which they were was one of the pleasantest in the house. Rare old china lined the _étagères_, and the dark panels were relieved by old portraits, all original and of great value, and the most celebrated part of the professor’s collection. The open windows commanded a view of the garden. Verdure refreshed the eye, and the perfume of the flowers pervaded the room. The glass and silver reflected the rays of the sun, though there was a large awning before one of the windows. An air of quiet, opulent comfort everywhere reigned. Clement look around. All these things, to which he was daily accustomed, now made a new impression on him. He noticed to-day the objects he often forgot to observe, but this examination did not have the effect of weaning him from his sad thoughts. On the contrary, it only increased them, and Clement was deeply plunged in gloomy reverie when he was aroused by his little sister’s voice: “Papa,” said Frida, “we shall start for the sea-shore in a week, shall we not?” “Yes, my child,” replied the professor. “And then we shall go to see Hilda?” “Yes, she expects us in a month.” “And after that?” “We shall return home. It will be time, I think, after two months‘’ absence.” In fact, that was the longest time the professor had ever been absent from his cherished home. These few words produced an expression of suffering on Clement’s face which he could not conceal. His mother observed it and questioned him with a look. But Clement turned his eyes away, and did not raise them again till the end of the silent meal, though he keenly felt another look besides his mother’s fastened on him. “Clement, I have something to say to you,” said his mother as soon as dinner was over. He rose instantly, and followed her into the garden, but before leaving the room he said: