“Do you believe that any one has ruled it before? Do you believe in that Providence which looks after sparrows and the hair of your head? No one has ruled it, no one shall rule it.” “But we, we people, what will we become—” “The same which we have been—dust. That which is burned out can burn no longer; it is dead. We about whom the fire of life flickers are only fuel. Life’s sparks fly from one to another. We are lighted, flame up, and die out. That is life.” “Oh, Eberhard, is there no life of the spirit?” “None.” “No life beyond the grave?” “None.” “No good, no evil, no aim, no hope?” “None.” The young woman walks over to the window. She looks out at the autumn’s yellowed leaves, at dahlias and asters which hang their heavy heads on broken stalks. She sees the Löfven’s black waves, the autumn’s dark storm-clouds, and for a moment she inclines towards repudiation. “Uncle Eberhard,” she says, “how ugly and gray the world is; how profitless everything is! I should like to lie down and die.” But then she hears a murmur in her soul. The vigor of life and its strong emotions cry out for the happiness of living. “Is there nothing,” she breaks out, “which can give life beauty, since you have taken from me God and immortality?” “Work,” answers the old man. But she looks out again, and a feeling of scorn for that poor wisdom creeps over her. The unfathomable rises before her; she feels the spirit dwelling in everything; she is sensible of the power which lies bound in seemingly dead material, but which can develop into a thousand forms of shifting life. Dizzily she seeks for a name for the presence of God’s spirit in nature. “Oh, Eberhard,” she says, “what is work? Is it a god? Has it any meaning in itself? Name another!” “I know no other,” answered the old man. Then she finds the name which she is seeking,—a poor, often sullied name. “Uncle Eberhard, why do you not speak of love?” A smile glides over the empty mouth where the thousand wrinkles cross. “Here,” says the philosopher, and strikes the heavy packet with his clenched hand, “here all the gods are slain, and I have not forgotten Eros. What is love but a longing of the flesh? In what does he stand higher than the other requirements of the body? Make hunger a god! Make fatigue a god! They are just as worthy. Let there be an end to such absurdities! Let the truth live!” The young countess sinks her head. It is not so, all that is not true; but she cannot contest it. “Your words have wounded my soul,” she says; “but still I do not believe you. The gods of revenge and violence you may be able to kill, no others.” But the old man takes her hand, lays it on the book, and swears in the fanaticism of unbelief. “When you have read this, you must believe.” “May it never come before my eyes,” she says, “for if I believe that, I cannot live.” And she goes sadly from the philosopher. But he sits for a long time and thinks, when she has gone.