"And then suddenly his head sank down on my shoulder and remained there. "My body trembled as if an incredible happiness had befallen me, I was seized with an irresistible desire to stroke the bushy hair that fell over my face. Close to my eyes I saw a few silver threads. 'He is beginning to get grey,' I thought, 'it is high time that he should know what happiness means,' and then I actually stroked his hair. "He sighed in his sleep and tried to place his head more comfortably. "'He is lying uncomfortably,' I said to myself 'you must get close to him.' I did so. His shoulder lay against mine, and his head sank down on my bosom. "'You must put your arm round him,' something within me cried out, 'otherwise he cannot find rest! "Twice, thrice, I tried to do so, but as often drew back. "If Martha should suddenly wake! But her eyes saw nothing, her ears heard nothing. "And I did it. "Then a wild joy took possession of me, and stealthily I pressed him to me; something within me shouted joyously: 'Oh! how I would cherish and protect you; how I would kiss away the furrows misery has made in your brow, and the cares from your soul! How I would toil for you with all my young strength, and never rest till your eyes were fill of gladness, and your heart of sunshine. But to do that----' "I glanced over at Martha. Yes, she lived, still lived. Her bosom rose and sank in short, quick sobs. She seemed more alive than ever. "And suddenly there flamed before me, and it was as if I read written clearly on the wall the words: "'If only she were to die!' "'Yes, that was it, that was it. Oh! if only she were to die! Oh! if only she were to die!'" We have only to read Jean Ricard's _S[oe]urs_, a novel lately published in Paris, and dealing with the same theme, to recognise how very far superior is Sudermann's treatment of it.