He left with an earnest farewell, and Ilse saw how deeply moved he was. The Doctor had touched a chord, the vibration of which, midst all her happiness, she felt with pain. Her household affairs gave her little trouble, and all went so smoothly that she took no credit to herself for her management. But still it pained her to see how little her work was appreciated by her husband, and she thought to herself, "What I am able to do for him makes no impression on him, and when I cannot elevate my mind to his, he probably feels the want of a soul that can understand him better." These were transient clouds which swept over the sunny landscape, but they came again and again as Ilse sat brooding alone in her room. One evening, Professor Raschke having looked in late, showed himself disposed to pass the evening with them, and Felix sent the servant to the Professor's wife, to set her mind at rest as to the absence of her husband. As Raschke, among all her husband's colleagues, was Ilse's favorite, she took pains to order something that would please him. This order doomed to death some chickens that shortly before had been brought in alive. The gentlemen were sitting in Ilse's room when a dreadful scream and clamor issued from the kitchen, and the cook, pale as death, opened the door and appealed to her mistress. It appeared that the girl's heart failed her in attempting to kill the fowls and as Gabriel, who had hitherto performed all such necessary slaughter, was absent, she did not know what to do, so Ilse herself had to perform the indispensable act. When she returned, Felix unfortunately asked why she had left the room, and Ilse told him what had occurred. The chickens were placed upon the table and did the cook no discredit. Ilse carved and served them, but her husband pushed back his plate, whilst Raschke, out of politeness, picked at the breast, but forbore to eat a morsel. Ilse regarded the two gentlemen with astonishment. "You do not eat anything, Professor?" she at last said to her guest, anxiously. "It is only a morbid weakness," replied Raschke, "and it's very foolish indeed, but the screams of the poor bird still linger in my ear." "And in yours, too, Felix?" asked Ilse, with increasing wonderment. "Yes," rejoined he. "Is it not possible to have these things done quietly?" "Not always," answered Ilse, mortified, "when the house is so small, and the kitchen so near." She rang and ordered the ill-fated dish to be taken away. "Those who can't bear things to be killed should eat no meat."