"Who can say? How long have you known this friend--and whom of the people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning? Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?" Johannes was perplexed. "I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna." "But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?" Johannes was silent. "You see, Johannes...." continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her voice--not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray--"I never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to God's will. But since ... for a few months ... you ... I thought it a blessing--a dispensation from God...." Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket. Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity. "My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an--another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend--my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?" Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied: "No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well." "I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes. * * * * * Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best." He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?" Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.