"Master, why are you sitting at your own threshold like a strange beggar?" were the words with which Rothfuss surprised me. "I have already heard what our madcap Ernst has done; do not let that grieve you to death--that will do you no good. In this world, every one must carry his own hide to market. It is bad enough in all conscience, but there is courage in it for all. There are hundreds and thousands of them who would like to do what he has done; but they follow the drum with its rat-tat-tat, and put on airs into the bargain. Do you know what I think of this matter?--Do not interrupt me, Heir Professor; I know what I am talking about--I say that every large family must have its black sheep, and I would rather a thousand times have a good-for-nothing than an idiot, the very sight of whom makes one's hair stand on end. "Yes, indeed; my mother was right. Her favorite maxim was: 'Better sour than rotten,' and 'To be hard of hearing is not half so bad as to have poor eyes.' "In every family there is something; or, as the poor woman once said: 'There is something everywhere,--except in my lard-pot, where there is nothing at all.'" Rothfuss would not rest until I got up again. I went up the steps with him and into the room. He drew off my boots, and was full of kind attentions. Addressing me in a whisper, he offered to tell the news to his mistress in the morning, as he thought that he was best fitted for the task. He meant to speak of it in such a way that she would take it as his stupid talk and give him a thorough scolding, and thus wreak her anger on him. He thought that would be the best way, because that would help to break the first shock of the news, and then it would be easier to endure the rest. The only other thing that troubled Rothfuss was how he might stop Funk's evil tongue. He felt sure that with the exception of Funk, others would be as much grieved as we were. That was the trouble. The news would enlist the attention of the busy world, those who pitied as well as those who rejoiced in the sufferings of others. But what matters the world: it can neither help nor hinder our griefs. I have experienced much bitter suffering:--I have gazed into the grave that had received all that had been dearest to me on earth, but no pain can be compared to that of grief for a son, who, though living, is lost. Morning had already dawned. The birds were singing in the trees; the sun had returned; all life seemed to awake anew; and at last I found an hour's sleep. "Destroyer of sleep!" were the first words I uttered when I awoke. How can he enjoy a moment's rest, or swallow a morsel of food while he knows that his parents are sorrowing for him. I have often been advised--it is easy enough to say the words--"Make up your mind to blot his name from your memory." But it is not so easy to follow such counsel. My wife softly slumbered through the whole night. Will she ever again have so refreshing a sleep?