"What do you want?" answered Robert, with a sigh that broke from him like a cry of anguish. "I am calm, quite calm." Then he once more rested his bushy head upon his two hands, and fell again to brooding. The old man sat down at his side and began to remonstrate with him. He forgot no single thing that one is won't to say in such cases, and added many a comforting, strengthening word of his own making. Robert sat there motionless, he hardly gave any sign of interest. But when the old man came to no stop, he interrupted him, and said: "Leave that, uncle, that is sweet stuff for little children. To the one question on which for me depends life and death, you, too, can give me no answer." "What question?" "Uncle, see, I am calm now--wonderfully calm--no fever, no frenzy is upon me as I speak, and so you will believe me when I tell you that I do not know--how I shall live through this night!" "For God's sake, what are you about to do?" Robert shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know," he said, "whatever suggests itself at the moment will do for me. I am only sorry for the poor little mite that will have to go on living without a father--perhaps I shall take it with me on my journey--I do not know. I only know the one thing, that I cannot go on like this any longer!" The old man, trembling with fear in every limb, heaped reproaches upon him. That would be cowardly, that would be unmanly, and only worthy of a miserable weakling. Robert listened to him calmly, then he said: "You would be right, uncle, if it were her death which made me despair of myself and of my happiness! But, good heavens!"--he laughed harshly and bitterly--"I have long since accustomed myself to lay no claim to happiness. As for me, I would quietly bear my affliction,--(I have experience in that, as you know, for I have already lowered one loved being into the grave),--and go on raking and scraping money together, as I have been doing for so long, and doing in the midst of the deepest sorrow; for the interests, you know, they take little notice of the state of one's feelings, and even if one's hand grows numb with pain and despair--they have to be paid! But that is not what makes my brain so disorganised--for I am disorganised, you may believe me; before my eyes sparks are constantly dancing, my body is convulsed, and my blood rushes like fire through my veins. And yet I am quite calm with it all, and see everything all around as clearly as if I could look right through it. Only the one thing I cannot comprehend--it haunts me like a terrible phantom by day and by night, and when I seek to grasp it, it escapes me--this one thing: _Wherefore_ did she die?" The old man started. He thought of the letter and the promise that the dead girl had therein required of him.