“I beseech you, Elsie, my poor darling, don’t talk of graves and such things,” the countess exclaimed in a whining voice. “My appetite will be gone for a week. If you’ll only fling the medicine bottles out of the window, and tell all quacks to go to the devil, you’ll be well by day after to-morrow. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t make a confession. It reminds one of quite dreadful things.” But Frau von Febronius went on: “It’s no use, Marion. I must tell you this. The reason I turn to you is because you’ve really been so very good and kind to Letitia, and because Hilde, sensible and faithful as she is, wouldn’t quite understand. Her notions are too conventional.” In whispers she now related the story of Letitia’s birth. An illness of his earlier years had deprived her husband of the hope of posterity; but he had yearned for a son, a child. This yearning had finally silenced all scruples and all contradictory emotions to such an extent that he had chosen a congenial stranger to continue his race. He had persuaded her, his wife, whom he loved above all things, after a long struggle. Finally she had yielded to his unheard-of demand. But when the child was born, a progressive melancholy had seized upon her husband. It had become incurable, and under its control he had ruined his estate and in the end himself. He had felt nothing of the happiness he had expected. He had, on the contrary, always shown a contemptuous dislike of Letitia, and had avoided her as far as possible. “It doesn’t surprise me a bit,” the countess remarked. “You were uncommonly naïve to be astonished. A strange child is a strange child, no matter how it got into the nest. But it’s really like a fairy tale. I confess I underestimated you. Such delightful sophistication! And who is the child’s father? Who is responsible for the life of that darling angel? He deserves great credit for his achievement.” Frau von Febronius mentioned the name. The countess screamed, and leaped up as though she had been stung. “Crammon? Bernard von Crammon?” She clasped her hands in agony. “Is that true? Aren’t you dreaming? Consider, my dear! It must be the fever. Oh, certainly, it’s sheer delirium. Take a little water, I beg of you, and then think carefully, and stop talking nonsense.” Frau von Febronius gazed at her sister in utter amazement. “Do you know him?” she asked. The countess’ voice was bitter. “Do I know him? I do. And tell me one more thing: Does this--this--creature know? Has he always known?” “He knows. Two years ago he saw Letitia at our old home. Since that time he has known. But you act as if he were the fiend incarnate, Marion. Did you have a quarrel with him or what? You always exaggerate so!”