He drew his wife, who was standing as if transfixed, nearer to him. "Think of the text: 'In my father's house are many mansions.' He who so spoke knew that man and wife are one through the strongest of earthly feelings, which bears all and suffers all." "But what can I be to you to whom the individual is so little?" asked Ilse, faintly. "The highest and dearest being on earth, the flower of my nation, a child of my race in whom I love and honour what was before and will survive us." Ilse stood alone among the strange books; without, the wind howled round the walls, the clouds flitted across the face of the moon; soon the room became dark, and then was lighted up by a pale glimmer. In the flickering light the walls seemed to spread and rise to an immeasurable height; strange figures rose from among the books, they glided by the walls, and were suspended from the ceiling, an army of grey shadows, which by day were banished to the bookshelves, now came trooping towards her, and the dead who continued to live as spirits on earth stretched out their arms to her and demanded her soul for themselves. Ilse, with head erect, raised her hands on high, and called to her aid the beautiful images, which from her childhood had surrounded her life with blessing, white figures with shining countenances. She bent her head and prayed: "O guard the peace of my soul." When Ilse entered her room she found a letter from her father on her table; she opened it hastily, and, after reading the first lines, sank down sobbing. Her father had informed her of the death of an old friend. The good pastor had been borne away from the narrow valley to the place of rest, which he had chosen in the churchyard, near his wife. He had never recovered from the disquiet which the departure of Ilse had caused him; he had passed the winter in lingering illness, and one warm spring evening death came upon him while sitting before his peach-tree in the garden. There the faithful servant found him, and ran with the terrible news to the manor. A few hours before he had requested Clara to write to his dear child in the city, that all was well with him. Ilse had often been anxious about the life of her friend during the winter, so the account was not a surprise to her. Yet now she felt his loss as a terrible misfortune; it was a life which had been firmly and faithfully devoted to her; she well knew that in later years she had become almost exclusively the object of his thoughts and fond affections. She had abandoned one who had been part of her life, impelled by a stronger feeling, and it now appeared as if she had done wrong in parting from him. She saw the staff broken which had bound her firmly to the feelings of her childhood. It seemed as if the ground tottered beneath her, as if all had become insecure, the heart of her husband, and her own future.