"What has happened?" said August, a little while later, as he opened his eyes and saw Dorothea weeping above him on the wolf-skin before the stove. He had been struck backward, and his head had fallen on the hard bricks where the wolf-skin did not reach. He sat up a moment, with his face bent upon his hands. "I remember now," he said, very low, under his breath. Dorothea showered kisses on him, while her tears fell like rain. "But, oh, dear, how could you speak so to father?" she murmured. "It was very wrong." "No, I was right," said August, and his little mouth, that hitherto had only curled in laughter, curved downward with a fixed and bitter seriousness. "How dare he? How dare he?" he muttered, with his head sunk in his hands. "It is not his alone. It belongs to us all. It is as much yours and mine as it is his." Dorothea could only sob in answer. She was too frightened to speak. The authority of their parents in the house had never in her remembrance been questioned. "Are you hurt by the fall, dear August?" she murmured, at length, for he looked to her so pale and strange. "Yes--no. I do not know. What does it matter?" He sat up upon the wolf-skin with passionate pain upon his face; all his soul was in rebellion, and he was only a child and was powerless. "It is a sin; it is a theft; it is an infamy," he said, slowly, his eyes fastened on the gilded feet of Hirschvogel. "Oh, August, do not say such things of father!" sobbed his sister. "Whatever he does, _we_ ought to think it right." [Illustration: "IT IS A SIN, IT IS A THEFT, IT IS AN INFAMY," HE SAID] August laughed aloud. "Is it right that he should spend his money in drink?--that he should let orders lie unexecuted?--that he should do his work so ill that no one cares to employ him?--that he should live on grandfather's charity, and then dare sell a thing that is ours every whit as much as it is his? To sell Hirschvogel! Oh, dear God! I would sooner sell my soul!" "August!" cried Dorothea, with piteous entreaty. He terrified her, she could not recognize her little, gay, gentle brother in those fierce and blasphemous words. August laughed aloud again; then all at once his laughter broke down into bitterest weeping. He threw himself forward on the stove, covering it with kisses, and sobbing as though his heart would burst from his bosom. What could he do? Nothing, nothing, nothing! "August, dear August," whispered Dorothea, piteously, and trembling all over,--for she was a very gentle girl, and fierce feeling terrified her,--"August, do not lie there. Come to bed: it is quite late. In the morning you will be calmer. It is horrible indeed, and we shall die of cold, at least the little ones; but if it be father's will----" "Let me alone," said August, through his teeth, striving to still the storm of sobs that shook him from head to foot. "Let me alone. In the morning!--how can you speak of the morning?"