His father called him back; he must obey. But it was more than mere obedience that awoke in him. He not only went; he went gladly. His father's words conveyed to him a permission rather than an order. When the spring sun penetrates into a room that has been uninhabited and closed for the winter we see that what has lain on the floor like dry mummies was really sleeping life. Now it moves and stretches itself and becomes a buzzing cloud and swarms up jubilantly into the golden ray. Not his father alone, every house in his home-town, every hill, every garden about it, every tree within it, called him. His brother, his sister--this was the name he gave Christiane--called him. Yet, she did not call him. She felt a dislike of him, a dislike so strong that for six years his brother had struggled in vain to overcome it. He felt as if he must go home on that account if on no other; he must show her that he did not deserve her dislike, that he was worthy to be her brother. He wrote this to his brother in the letter which announced his intention to obey and named the day on which they might expect him. He was able to assure him that recollections of the time that was gone would not torture him, that his brother's anxiety was groundless. It had come to that--the thought of her did not awaken any of the old hopes. When he looked down from the height he asked himself: "Shall I succeed in becoming a brother to her who is now my sister?" He has arrived at the door of the paternal home. In vain he has scanned the windows, seeking for some familiar face. Now a thickset man in a black coat comes rushing out. He dashes out so hastily, embraces him so wildly, presses him so close to his white waistcoat, lays his cheek so near his cheek and keeps it there so long that one must choose to believe either that he loves his brother to the utmost or--that he does not want him to look into his eyes. But at last he has to let go of him; he takes him by the right arm and draws him into the door. "It's fine that you've come! It's grand that you've come! It really wasn't necessary--simply an idea of the old man's, and he has nothing more to say about the business. But it really is splendid of you; I'm only sorry that you're making your betrothed's eyes red for nothing." He said the words "your betrothed" so distinctly and in such a loud tone that they could be heard and understood in the living room. Apollonius searched his brother's face with moist eyes, as if to check off, point by point, whether everything was still there that had been so dear to him. His brother did nothing to help him; he looked only at what lay between Apollonius' chin and toes. "Father wanted it," said Apollonius easily; "and what you say of a betrothed--"