The physician declared that neither her blood nor that of her child would serve the purpose. The choice now lay between Martella and Annette, and when the physician decided in favor of Martella, her face brightened, and she exclaimed: "Take my blood--every drop of it--all that I have." Some of Martella's blood was injected into my wife's veins, and during the night, she gained in strength. But it was very sad to find that she had almost lost her hearing, and that the only medium of pleasure yet left her was the sense of sight. Martha, the eldest daughter of the kreis-director, had painted a picture of the view from our balcony, looking towards the woods down by the stone wall, and now brought it to my wife, who was delighted with it. The only figure was a hunter coming out of the woods. Martha told us that she could not draw figures, and that Annette had been kind enough to sketch the huntsman for her; and she kissed my wife's hands on hearing her say, "I think the hunter looks like our grandson, Julius." It was on the 22d of July, when she said, "Have a little pine-tree brought for me, from my woods, and placed here beside my bed." I sent Rothfuss out to the woods; he brought a little pine, placed it in a flower-pot, and I observed, while he was leaning over it, how his tears dropped upon the branches. He turned around to me and said, "I hope that will not harm the little tree." When I placed the tree at her bedside, she smiled and moved her left hand among its branches, but the hand soon fell down by her side. What wonderful powers of memory lie in a mother's heart! She would tell us of a thousand and one little stories and sayings of Ernst, and of his bright, clever freaks, with as much detail as if they had happened but the moment before; but, strangely enough, she did all this without mentioning his name. She praised his flaxen hair, and moved her hand as if passing it through his locks. "Do you not recollect how he once said, 'Mother, I cannot imagine how you could have been in the world without me: of course I have never been in the world without you'?" She repeated the words, "without you--without me," perhaps a hundred times during the night: and she was almost constantly humming snatches of old songs. In the morning, just as day was breaking, she turned around to me, and said with a smile, "This is his birthday." And that was her last smile. "This is Ernst's birthday." And when the lost son returned, there was no mother to receive him. Her silent thoughts had always been of him, but now they were deeper than ever. She had lost her hearing. Suddenly she exclaimed in a loud voice, "God be praised; Richard will marry her after all!" and then--I cannot go on with the story--I must stop. It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards the clock that day) when she said, "Water from my spring." Richard hurried to bring it. What must his thoughts have been while on his way there and back!