I, of course, advised her to depart at once; and thus we were again left to ourselves. We all felt the void that Annette's departure had made, but soon after new and heavy troubles fell upon us. CHAPTER XII. Days have passed in which I did not once take my pen in hand; I could not. Must I indeed write of this? What forces me to do so? "Above all things, leave nothing unfinished that you have once begun," was a maxim of hers; and I must therefore tell of her death. When the fogs of autumn and the frosts of winter scatter the foliage of the trees, a branch may here and there be seen to which a few leaves are still clinging. Why should those alone have remained? My memory has remained true to me; but of that grief which seemed to divide my life I have but little recollection. I constantly thought of the saying of Carl's mother, "You are a good child: you cannot be so cruel as to die before me." From the garret, I looked on while they were filling up her grave. The spade shone in the sunshine. No one knew that I was looking on. Shall I again renew the feelings that then passed through my soul? Let it be so. My wife was ill. She uttered no complaint, but she was feeble, and took no interest in what was going on about her. During the day, she would sleep for hours; and at night, when she awoke, would seem surprised by the surrounding objects. During her sleeping hours, she may have dwelt in quite a different region; but she never alluded to it. The physician gave her but little medicine, and consoled us with the hope that the return of summer, and a visit to a watering-place, with cheerful companions, would help her. Annette soon returned to us. She was followed by my daughter Johanna, who had, in the meanwhile, lost her husband, and was accompanied by her daughter Christiane. She took up her abode with us. Her only son was living as a vicar in the Unterland. Assisted by Balbina, Johanna took charge of our entire household. When my wife told Martella that she had better submit to Johanna in all things, she replied, "I shall gladly do so; this was her home before it was mine; and I shall thus be better able to spend all of my time with mother." My wife indeed preferred to have this stranger-child about her; for Johanna could not help treating us in a patronizing, pitying manner, because we were not as pious as she would have us be. Spring returned, and my wife's health seemed to improve. I was quite happy again. At that time, I did not understand what the prudent and sensible physician meant, when he told me that it would be better for me to moderate my joy. All preparations for a journey to the springs had been made. Bertha had promised to join us there, and bring her daughter with her.