Nothing had leaked out here of the misfortune which had befallen Uhlenfelde. Even Ulrich's sudden departure had called for no remark, because, as one of the social magnates of the district, his absences were frequent. The only person who knew was Dr. Senftleben, who attended Felicitas. This taciturn old bachelor, who enjoyed the reputation of being a cynic, and was much feared in consequence, was in the habit of devouring his supper in a corner of the Prussian Crown, and going away without saying good night to any one. Leo, however, ventured to speak to him one night, and asked what was the matter with Felicitas. "Nothing," answered the doctor, and seized his hat. "But she is in bed, and you see her every day." "She has what you call 'anxious' fever, Herr von Sellenthin. She is taking morphine in raspberry syrup--plenty of raspberry, but no bromide; that is too depressing. Good evening, Herr von Sellenthin." On the morning of the fifth day, when Leo was dressing, Lizzie's old factotum rushed in upon him, sobbing and wringing her hands. "What has happened, Minna?" "Misfortune upon misfortune! Paulchen is dead, the gnädige Frau has taken poison in her despair, and, though still alive, is unconscious. The doctor has been sent for, but for God's sake come, gnädiger Herr, for everything is topsy-turvy, and I don't know what to do." Leo felt as if cold water were running down his back, and he reeled against the wall. "It can't be true, it can't be true," was his first thought. Then he said to himself, "You must put on your boots;" and he went about the simple task with a feeling as if in another minute he would lack the strength to accomplish it. Suddenly he burst into a loud derisive laugh, and the old woman crept into a corner, frightened at the sound. After all it was only what was to be expected. It was fate. The child dead; Felicitas dying; Ulrich, with his weak heart, unable to bear the blow; and then it would be his own turn. He glanced at the spot where his weapons hung. The bullet that would do the work was waiting for him. He stretched himself, and a murderous lust overcame him for a moment; then he finished his dressing, and, leaving the old woman panting behind, he tore across the snow-covered fields and over the frozen river to Uhlenfelde, and as he ran he asked himself, "Do I love her?" and the answer was, "No; love isn't like this. I am not even sorry for her. My guilt, if she dies, seems far worse than her death itself." But the child, and Ulrich--in thinking of them too, the hideous spectre of his own guilt reared itself, grimacing, before him. Everything in the courtyard at Uhlenfelde was the same as usual, which surprised him. He expected, at least, that the barns would be on fire. A two-horsed sleigh was waiting at the door. "Who is there?" he inquired of old Wilhelm, who, red and half frozen, touched his fur cap with his customary imperturbable air of deference. "The doctor, gnädiger Herr."