He looked at the table. The cloth was spread over the tiny corpse. Oh, how quick! he thought bitterly. Am I never to see it again? I suppose I may be allowed to, once. He drew the cloth a little away from the body and held it high up. He saw a pale child-face which was quite familiar to him, only since then some one had closed the eyes. The old grandfather's clock in the corner ticked. Six o'clock. Scarcely an hour had passed since his child had been born and died: the fact was already as indisputably certain as though it could never have been otherwise. He felt a light touch on the shoulder. "She took it quietly," said Doctor Stauber, standing behind him. George dropped the cloth over the child's face and turned his head towards the side. "She already knows, then...?" Doctor Stauber nodded. Frau Golowski had turned away. "Who told her?" asked George. "It wasn't necessary to tell her," replied Doctor Stauber, "was it?" He turned to Frau Golowski. The latter explained: "When I went in to her she just looked at me, and then I saw at once that she already knew." "And what did she say?" "Nothing--nothing at all. She turned her eyes towards the window and was quite still. She asked where you had gone, Herr Baron, and what you were doing." George breathed deeply. The door of Anna's room opened. The Professor came out in a black coat. "She is quite quiet," he said to George. "You can go in to her." "Did she speak to you about it?" asked George. The Professor shook his head. Then he said: "I am afraid I must go into town now; you'll excuse me, won't you? I hope things will go on all right. I shall be here early to-morrow any way. Good-bye, dear Herr Baron." He pressed his hand sympathetically. "You'll drive in with me, Doctor Stauber, won't you?" "Yes," said Doctor Stauber, "I only want to say good-bye to Anna." He went. George turned to the Professor. "May I ask you something?" "Please do." "I should very much like to know, Herr Professor, whether this is simply imagination. It seems to me, you know"--and he again lifted up the cloth from the tiny corpse--"as though this child did not look like a new-born one, more beautiful, so to speak. I feel as though the faces of new-born children were bound to be more wrinkled, more like old men. I can't tell you whether I have ever seen one or whether I've only read about it." "You are quite right," replied the Professor. "It is just in cases of this kind, and also of course when things turn out more fortunately, that the features of the children are not distorted, are frequently, in fact, quite beautiful." He contemplated the little face with professional sympathy, nodded a few times: "Pity, pity" ... let the cloth fall down again, and George knew that he had seen his child's face for the last time. What name would it have had? Felician.... Good-bye, little Felician!