With radiant eyes Ruth looked into space. Then she arose, and from her single shelf of books she took down a narrow yellow volume, turned to a familiar page, and read out with childlike emphasis: “Concerning the joy of the fishes. Chuang-tse and Hui-tse stood on a bridge that spans the Hao. Chuang-tse said: ‘Look how the fishes dart. It is the joy of the fishes.’ ‘Thou art no fish,’ said Hui-tse, ‘how canst thou know wherein the joy of the fishes consists?’ And he continued: ‘I am not like thee and know thee not, but this I know, that thou art no fish and canst know naught of the fishes.’ Chuang-tse answered: ‘Let us return to thy question, which was: How can I know wherein the joy of the fishes consists? In truth thou didst know that I knew and yet thou askedst. It matters not. I know from my own delight in the water.’” Christian pondered the parable. “Don’t you know it, you of all people, from your delight in the water?” asked Ruth, and bent her head forward to catch his look. Christian smiled an uncertain smile. “Won’t you go with me to Heinzen’s house to-morrow?” He nodded and smiled again. He understood suddenly what manner of human being sat beside him. VIII It was two o’clock at night when Christian got up from the table in Karen’s room and closed his books. He went to the sofa to lie down as he was. Toward evening Karen had been seized by a violent fever. The woman physician to whom Ruth had appealed had been there at noon, and had spoken of tuberculosis of the bones. Curled up in a wooden chair by the oven lay a small, white cat. She had run in a few days before, and had made herself at home since no one drove her out. Christian had always disliked cats intensely. He stopped a moment and considered whether he shouldn’t drive the cat out. Observing the animal he reconsidered. Ruth, little Ruth.... The words ran through his head. Karen slept heavily. On her dim face the muscles were taut. A dream raged behind her forehead. In her throat a fearful cry was gathering.