"I am pleased with whatever pleases my mother," answered Philip. "It is good to see her smile once more as she used to do." "And shall you not like to go to America?" "I cannot tell that till I know a little more what America is like. His Highness says many fine things about it, and some that are not so fine—about the agues and the wild beasts and the savages." "Oh, you always look on the dark side." "And then it is a great undertaking, Greta. We think it a great thing to visit Fulda or Eisenach; and when Uncle Hans went to Frankfort last year, the whole village turned out to see him go. But America is a long way beyond Frankfort." "And, in short, you mean to spoil and hinder all you can," said Margaret, angrily. "You care for nothing but carving and flowers and making pretty things like a girl. You ought to be the woman and I the man to go out into life." "And get your head broken the first day with your tongue," said Philip. "'Men' don't talk to each other as you talk to me, Greta. If they did, there would be more quarrels than there are now. There is not a boy in the whole village who would dare to tell me I ought to be a girl." "I will take that back," said Margaret, rather ashamed. "I know I hurt people's feelings ever so many times; but oh, Philip, if you knew how I mourn for father and for the change in my mother! It makes me desperate. But you don't make any allowance for my troubles. Nobody does!" "They are not 'my' troubles, I suppose?" said Philip, in the tone which always seemed to become more measured and gentle the more deeply he was moved. "It is nothing to me to go to bed without poor little Fritz, whom I have nursed ever since he was born, who knew and loved me when he knew no one else. Oh, my baby, my innocent darling!" And Philip leaned his head against the door of the henhouse and wept bitterly with those deep, in-drawn sobs which are so dreadful to hear. Never had Margaret seen him give way so entirely. She had always given herself credit for having far deeper feeling than her brother. She had a kind of violent impatience of grief which made her rebel against it angrily, while Philip never complained and seldom gave way. She said to herself, and found some comfort in saying, that none of them, not even her mother, felt the family calamities as she did; but now she began to have an inkling that she was not, after all, so very superior to her quiet and cheerful brother. She stood silent and awkward, provoked at the pain in her conscience and at Philip for causing it, wishing to comfort him, but not knowing how. At last, she put her arm round his neck: "Don't cry so, Philip—don't! You will make yourself sick. Don't you know what Brother Gotthold said this morning? Think how happy the dear little fellow is now, and how you will see him again some day. Yes, I am sure you will."