An hour later Doctor Birkenhain had driven up before the Kurhaus with the old servant by his side; he had gone up to the lady in her parlor, and had been engaged with her in a long conversation, which could not have been very satisfactory, for Jean, the waiter attached to those rooms, had seen, when he carried the tea-things into the parlor, that the lady had been weeping, and was trying to wipe her eyes. Doctor Birkenhain had, after the conversation was ended, walked up once more to the bed of the boy, who was fast asleep, had put his hand on his heart, bent over him, and pressing his ear on the boy's bare breast, listened attentively for some time. Then he raised himself again, carefully covered the sleeper, pushed the abundant curly hair from the fair, pale brow, and turning to the lady with a smile on his lips which positively lighted up the stern, serious features of the man, said to her, while she held a light in her hand and looked up to him with the strained expression of painful uncertainty, "Calm yourself, madame; I can, of course, not decide positively, but all that I have seen so far gives me great hope that matters are not half as bad with our little patient there as my colleagues in Grunwald seem to have fancied." A beam of joy lighted up the lady's face, and her large eyes filled with tears. Doctor Birkenhain took the light from her hand and escorted her back to the parlor. "I shall come again to-morrow morning," he said, taking his hat and cane; "if it comforts you, you can let old Baumann sit up with the boy. But you yourself must go to bed early, and take one of these powders. You are very much exhausted and require rest." "Stay another moment, doctor!" said the lady. "I have one more question to ask." Her features betrayed great emotion, her bosom rose and sank with agitation; she seemed to be about to give utterance to a thought which she was unable from great fear to clothe in words. Doctor Birkenhain laid dawn again his hat and cane. "Sit down, madame, I pray you!" he said, sitting down by her side on the sofa. "I know what you are about to ask. I have read the question all this evening in your anxious eyes and upon your trembling lips. You do not believe in the disease of the heart, of which the physicians at Grunwald have said so much; if you did you would not have come to me, however kindly you may think of my modest knowledge and my experience. You fear the evil is more serious--in fact, that it is a hereditary disease, the first germ, the beginning, of an affection which has already once been so fatal for you. Am I right?" The lady's answer was a flood of tears, which broke irresistibly from her eyes, like a long pent-up torrent. Sobbing, she pressed her handkerchief to her face.