He could not help thinking of his father and the long walks he had taken with him, when he followed a dozen steps behind, and his father wrote letters for him in the sand. He thought of the places under the bushes where the violets grew, and of the days when he and his father had searched for them. All night he saw the face of his father--as it was when he sat beside him evenings by the still lamp-light--watching him, and listening to the scratching of his pen. Every morning after this he asked Pluizer to be allowed to go once more to his home and to his father--to see once again his garden and the dunes. He noticed now that he had had more love for his father than for Presto and for his little room, since it was of him that he asked. "Only tell me how he is, and if he is still angry with me for staying away so long." Pluizer shrugged his shoulders. "Even if you knew, how would it help you?" Still the spring kept calling him--louder and louder. Every night he dreamed of the dark green moss on the hillslopes, and of sunbeams shining through the young and tender, verdure. "It cannot long stay this way," thought Johannes. "I cannot bear it." And often when he could not sleep he rose up softly, went to the window, and looked out at the night. He saw the sleepy, feathery little clouds drifting slowly over the disk of the moon to float peacefully in a sea of soft, lustrous light. He thought of the distant dunes--asleep, now, in the sultry night--how wonderful it must be in the low woods where not a leaf would be stirring, and where it was full of the fragrance of moist moss and young birch-sprouts. He fancied he could hear, in the distance the swelling chorus of the frogs, which hovered so mystically over the plains; and the song of the only bird which can accompany the solemn stillness--whose lay begins so soft and plaintive and breaks off so suddenly, making the silence seem yet deeper. And it all was calling--calling him. He dropped his head upon his arms on the window-sill, and sobbed. "I cannot bear it. I shall die soon if I cannot go." When Pluizer roused him the following morning, he was still sitting by the window, where he had fallen asleep with his head on his arm. The days passed by--grew long and warm--and there came no change. Yet Johannes did not die, and had to bear his sorrow. One morning Doctor Cijfer said to him: "Come with me, Johannes. I have to visit a patient." Doctor Cijfer was known to be a learned man, and many appealed to him to ward off sickness and death. Johannes had already accompanied him many times. Pluizer was unusually frolicsome this morning. Again and again he stood on his head, danced and tumbled, and perpetrated all kinds of reckless tricks. His face wore a constant, mysterious grin, as if he had a surprise all ready for the springing. Johannes was very much afraid of him in this humor. But Doctor Cijfer was as serious as ever.