Seed-time and Harvest: A Novel

by Fritz Reuter

CHAPTER VIII.

When Easter came, Bräsig set out for the water-cure, and the Kammerrath arrived at Pumpelhagen, with his three daughters, Albertine, Bertha, and Fidelia.

"He will never go away again, he is near his end," said Habermann to himself, and Franz thought the same, and they spoke sadly of it to each other as they sat together the evening after his arrival. Franz naturally took his meals after this with his uncle and cousins, and Habermann found himself very lonely in the old farm-house, he had become so accustomed to the young man's society, and found it so pleasant.

During the first week the Kammerrath had a visitor. Pomuchelskopp came, in his blue dress-coat with bright buttons, and in his new coach, which was rendered more splendid than ever, since it was adorned with a coat of arms, which he had ordered from Vienna for half a louis-d'or. It represented a haddock's head (Dorsch Kopp) on a blue field (Fell), which the stupid laborers, who understood nothing about haddocks and blue fields called "a block head (das Kopp) in a blue coat" (Fell); having possibly discerned a personal resemblance between the escutcheon and their master.

He had given up the idea of intercourse with Bräsig's Herr Count, and no other families of nobility lived in the neighborhood, so he found the Kammerrath's arrival quite apropos. But the man was unfortunate. As he made known his errand to Daniel Sadenwater, the Kammerrath's old servant, in a melancholy tone--that he felt constrained to make personal inquiries after the Herr Kammerrath, and added that he had known the Herr Kammerrath very well at Rostock,--old Daniel went off with a peaceful face to announce him, but came back with a face quite as placid to say that the Herr Kammerrath regretted he was not in a state of health to receive callers. That was truly vexatious for Pomuchelskopp, and he sat all the afternoon sulking in the sofa-corner, and his dear wife, who always became so cheerful and affectionate on such occasions, called him "Pöking" incessantly, which certainly should have amply compensated for his disappointment.

The Kammerrath, in his illness, felt the need of no other society than he found at home. His two oldest daughters thought of nothing else from morning to night but to amuse and comfort him, and the youngest, who was the pet child of the whole family, and who continued a little too young to suit her elder sisters, and perhaps prided herself a little upon her childlike joyousness, sought for means to enliven him. Franz, in the kindness of his heart, had assumed the office of secretary to his uncle, and took upon himself all the little annoying cares, which are not wanting in a household where sickness has entered; but the Kammerrath took especial pleasure in the society of Habermann, and consulted him not only about farming matters, but in all his affairs and perplexities.

Habermann had little time, now, to visit at the parsonage, and if Louise wished to speak to her father, she must seek him in the fields, or at noon in the farm-house. So it happened that she often came in the way of the Fräulein Fidelia, and as it is an old story that young girls who are growing to be rather old girls, hovering on the line between youth and age, always incline to the youthful side, and enjoy the society of those younger than themselves, it was quite natural that Fräulein Fidelia should take a great fancy to Louise, and in a little while they were the closest friends.

It is generally a good thing for a young girl to have such a friend, older than herself, but I would not say it is always so. It depends greatly upon the circumstances of the older lady. Louise took no harm from the intimacy, for Fräulein Fidelia was very kind-hearted; she was also a little tired of the frivolity and ceremony of high society, and when her blessed mama--the gracious old lady, as Daniel Sadenwater called her,--had endeavored to make her more ceremonious and dignified, the Kammerrath had always taken his darling's part. He was a little to blame for her childishness; she had always frolicked with him, from her babyhood, and had laughed away his cares and troubles, and she kept on doing so from force of habit.

She spoke of this daily task of amusing her father in such a manner that Louise thought of nothing but how to comfort and assist her; and what might have been dangerous under different circumstances became now rather a preventive of contagion. Louise had too much good sense to look among Fräulein Fidelia's little fripperies of behavior for manners suitable to herself. But she not only received benefit, she gave it. If Louise had little knowledge of the world of fashion, Fräulein Fidelia had as little of the world in which she lived and moved--and there Louise could give the best instruction.

But a vexatious thing was first to occur, which gave Fräulein Fidelia great annoyance. It happened in this way. The Kammerrath had sent to Schwerin for a beautiful dress, for her birth-day present, Fräulein Albertine had given her a new summer hat, and Fräulein Bertha, a pretty shawl, and when the presentation was over, the two elder sisters had arrayed their pet in the new finery, and stood looking at her right and left, admiring her fine appearance, and Fräulein Bertha exclaimed, "She is a little fairy!" (fée).

Corlin Kegels, one of the maids, was going through the room at the moment, and had nothing better to do than to say in the kitchen: "What do you think, girls? Fräulein Bertha says that our little Fräulein looks like a little cow (vieh)." The joke took, and Fräulein Fidelia was soon known among the servants only as "the little cow." Of course it must come to her ears, sooner or later, and then there was a great uproar and a great investigation, and Corlin Kegels, in spite of her weeping and begging, was turned out of doors. Louise came in just then, and met Corlin crying on the door-steps, and found Fräulein Fidelia crying in the parlor. One word led to another, and when Louise knew the whole affair, she said, placing her hands compassionately on the Fräulein's shoulders, "Ah, the poor things didn't mean any harm."

"Yes, indeed they did," cried the Fräulein, hastily. "The rough, unmannerly common people!"

"No, no! Don't say that!" exclaimed Louise, really distressed. "Our people are not rough; they have as much feeling as distinguished people. My father says one must learn to know them, and that is not so easy, their language separates them from their masters."

"Very likely," said Fidelia. "I call 'little cow' a rough, coarse expression."

"It was a misunderstanding," said Louise. "The word 'fée' is unknown to them, and this sounds like it, and seemed comical to them. They had no idea of offending you. Dear Fräulein, you are the idol of all your servants."

This last sugar-plum, which Louise administered with no thought of flattery, pacified the Fräulein, and at last, in the kindness of her heart, she resolved upon a nearer acquaintance with her people, and Corlin Kegels was taken again into favor.

The Fräulein made inquires of Franz, and he praised the Pumpelhagen people highly, the Kammerrath, also, gave them a good character, and said that their ancestors had lived on the estate since the memory of man. "The first Herr von Rambow of whom we have intelligence," said he, "bad two servants, one of whom was called 'Asel' and the other 'Egel.' These had many namesakes, and in time a great confusion arose among the different 'Egels' and 'Asels.' One Egel would take home the bushel of wheat, which another Egel should have had, and one Asel would get the load of hay which properly belonged to another. This confusion had reached such a point under one of my forefathers, who--I am sorry for the family to confess--had a very short memory, that the Frau von Rambow, who was a good deal quicker-witted than her husband, undertook to remedy matters. She had an idea, and as she had the rule she could carry it out. All the fathers of families in the village were called together, One Sunday morning, and every one must tell his christened name and his father's name, and she wrote them down,--for she knew how to write,--and then took the first letter of the christened name, and the father's name together, and baptized the whole village. So 'Karl Egel' became 'Kegel,' and 'Pagel Egel' 'Pegel' and 'Florian Egel' 'Flegel,' and 'Vullrad Asel' was changed to 'Vasel,' and 'Peter Asel' to 'Pasel,' and 'David Asel' to 'Däsel,' and so on. And, it is a thing to be noted, the old story said the ancestor of the Egels was a flax-head, and that of the Asels a black-head, and so it is among their namesakes to this day. And the resemblance was not merely external, they inherited mental peculiarities as well; for the first Egel was greatly skilled in cutting spoons and ladles, and making rakes and wooden shoes, while the first Asel was an uncommonly fine singer, and the gifts have remained in the families,--the night-watchmen have always been chosen from the Asels, and the wheelwrights from the Egels; you know at this day, Fidelia, David Däsel is the watchman, and Fritz Flegel is the wheelwright."

Fräulein Fidelia was excessively pleased with this story, and in her restless and frolicsome humor she ran about to all the laborer's cottages, chatting with the housewives by the hour, and keeping them from their work, and bestowing cast-off finery upon the children. If Louise Habermann had not been with her, she would have given Pasel's eleven-year-old Marie a riding-hat with feathers and veil, and Däsel's Stina, who watched the goslings in the duck-pond, would have got a gorgeous pair of light blue satin slippers. The old fathers of the village shook their heads over such doings; but the old mothers defended her, saying that if she were not so sensible as she might be, yet she meant well; and instead of calling her merely "little cow," as before, they called her "a nice good, pretty little cow."

Pastor Behrens shook his head, also, when he heard of this new sort of beneficence. The Pumpelhagen people were the best in his parish, he said, and they had good reason to be, in having such a good old master, the Gurlitz people had suffered greatly from the change of proprietors; but nothing was so bad for people as indiscriminate and unmerited beneficence,--he must talk to the Fräulein about it.

He did so at the next opportunity; he told her that the Pumpelhagen people were so situated that unless in case of sickness, or the death of a cow, or some other misfortune, an industrious fellow and a tidy housewife could take care of themselves, and that unnecessary favors only taught them to look too much to others for assistance. These people must go their own, free way, just like others and one must be careful of intruding into their concerns, even to benefit them.

I am glad to say that Fräulein Fidelia saw the justice of these remarks, and limited her benefactions in future to the people who could no longer help themselves, to the old and the sick, and for these she was changed from a little "vieh" to a little "fée." Louise helped her in these Good-Samaritan labors, and as Franz now and then met them in the cottages, he saw to his surprise that the little maiden had a good deal of experience, and was both wise and skilful in action, and that the lovely eyes rested with as much sweetness and compassion upon a poor old sick laborer's wife, as upon him, that Christmas eve. He rejoiced at this, without rightly knowing why.

The spring was over, summer had come, and one Sunday morning Habermann received a letter from Bräsig, at Warnitz, saying that he must stay at home that day; Bräsig had returned from the water-cure and was coming to see him in the afternoon. So it happened; Bräsig came on horseback, and dismounted with a spring, as if he would send both feet through the causeway.

"Ho, ho!" cried Habermann. "How active you are, you are as quick as a bird!"

"Freshly sharpened, Karl! I have made a new beginning."

"Well, old fellow, how did it go?" asked Habermann, when they were established on the sofa, and had started their pipes.

"Listen, Karl! Damp, cold, soaking wet, that is only the beginning. They make a man into a frog, and before human nature changes to frog-nature a man suffers so much that he wishes he had come into the world as a frog, to begin with; but it is good, for all that. You see, the first thing in the morning is generally sweating. They wrap you up in cold, wet cloths, and then in woolen blankets, so tightly that you can move nothing but your toes. After that they take you into a bathing room, ringing a bell to keep the ladies away, and then they put you into a bathing-tub, and pour three pailfuls of water over your bald head, if you happen to have one, and then you may go where you please. Do you think that is the end? You may think so, but it is only the beginning; but it is good, for all that.

"Well, then you go walking, for exercise. I have done a good deal of walking in my time, raking and harrowing and sowing peas, and so forth; but I always had something to do. Here, however, I had nothing at all. And then you drink water from morning to night. It is just like pouring water through a sieve, and they stand there and groan, and say, 'Ah, the beautiful water!' Don't you believe them, Karl, they are hypocrites. Water is bad enough, outside, but inside it is fearful; it is good, though, for all that.

"Then you take a sitz-bath--can you imagine how that feels, four degrees above freezing point? Just as if the devil had got you on a red-hot iron stool, and kept putting fresh fire under; but then it is good for you. Then you walk again, till noon, and then you eat your dinner.

"But you have no conception, Karl, how people eat at a water-cure! The water must sharpen the stomach famously. Karl, I have seen ladies, as slender and delicate as angels, who would eat three great pieces of steak, and potatoes--preserve us! enough to plant half an acre! The water-doctors are to be pitied, for one must eat them out of house and home. After dinner, you drink water again, and then you can talk with the ladies; for in the morning they won't speak to you, they go about in strange disguises, some with wet stockings, as if they had been crabbing, others with their heads tied up in wet cloths, and their hair flying. You can talk to them as you please, but you will find it hard to get answers, unless you inquire about their diseases, whether they have had an eruption, or swellings or boils, for that is polite conversation at a water-cure. After you have amused yourself in this manner, you must go to the 'Tüsche,'[^[2]] but don't think that it is black,--no, nothing but clear cold water; it is good, though. You must take notice, Karl, everything that is particularly disagreeable and a man's especial horror, is good for the human body."

"You should be cured of your gout, then, Bräsig, for you have a special horror of cold water."

"One may see very well, Karl, that you have never been at a water-cure. You see, the doctor explained it to me at length, this confounded Podagra is the chief of all diseases,--it is the mother of all mischief,--and it comes from the gout-stuff that lodges in the bones and ferments there, and the gout-stuff comes from the poison stuff that you swallow by way of nourishment, for example, Kümmel and tobacco, or the things you get from the apothecary. And if you have the gout you must be sweated in wet sheets, till all the tobacco which you have ever smoked, and all the Kümmel you have ever drank, is sweated out. So you see the poison-stuff goes away, and then the gout-stuff, and then the cursed Podagra itself."

"Was it so with you?"

"No."

"No? why didn't you stay longer, then? I would have held out till the end."

"Karl, you may talk. Nobody holds out,--no human being could. They had one man there who was sweated till he smelt so strong of tobacco that the doctor called the patients in, that their own noses might testify, and it was put down in the books; but it came out afterward that the rogue had been smoking a cigar, which is forbidden,--and Kümmel is forbidden also. But to go on with the daily life. After the Tüsche, you walk again, and by that time it is evening. You may still walk about in the twilight, if you please, and many of the gentlemen and ladies do so, or you may amuse yourself in the house, with reading. I used to read the water-books which a certain Russian has written, his name is Frank, one of the chiefs of the water-doctors. Karl, there is everything in those books, everything in brief. But it is hard for a man to understand, and, on that account, I did not get beyond the second page. That was quite enough for me, for after I had read it I was as dizzy as if I had been standing on my head half an hour. Do you think, Karl, that fresh air is fresh air? Not a bit of it! And do you think that water out of your pump is water? You are quite mistaken! You see, fresh air is composed of three parts, oxygen and nitrogen and carbonic acid gas. And the pump water is composed of two parts, oxygen and hydrogen. The entire water-cure system is founded upon fresh air and water. And you see, Karl, how wisely nature has provided; we go about in the open air, and we breathe in the black carbonic acid, and the nitrogen, for they cannot be separated, and then comes the water-cure and turns these ugly things out of doors, for the oxygen of the water unites with the carbonic acid, and the hydrogen drives out the nitrogen from the body, in the sweating process. Do you understand, Karl?"

"No," said Habermann, laughing heartily, "not a word of it."

"You shouldn't laugh at things that you don't understand, Karl. You see. I know the nitrogen is driven out, I have smelt it myself; but what becomes of the black carbon? That is the point, and I never could get beyond it, in my water-cure science, and do you suppose Pastor Behrens understands it? I asked him yesterday, and he knows nothing at all about it. But you will see, Karl, the black carbonic acid is still in my body, and so I shall have the cursed Podagra again."

"But, Zachary, why didn't you stay a little longer, until you were thoroughly cured?"

"Karl," said Bräsig, dropping his eyes, with a confused expression, "it wouldn't do! Something happened to me, Karl," looking Habermann in the face again. "You have known me since I was a child, have you ever noticed any disrespectful behavior to the ladies?"

"No indeed, Bräsig, I can testify to that."

"Well, then, just think how it must have troubled me! A week ago this last Friday, I had an infamous grumbling in my great toe,--for it always begins at the extremities,--and the water-doctor said, 'Herr Inspector, you must have an extra packing. Dr. Strump's confounded Colchicum is doing the mischief, and we must have it out.' So he packed me himself, and bandaged me up so tight that I could scarcely draw breath, saying I did not need air so much as water, and upon that he was going to shut the window. 'No,' said I, 'I understand enough to know that I must have fresh air; leave the window open,' and he did so, and went off. I lay there quietly, thinking no harm, when suddenly I heard a humming and a buzzing, and as I looked up, a whole swarm of bees came in at the window, and the leader,--for I knew him, Karl, you know I am a bee-master, I went out one spring at Zittelwitz with the schoolmaster, and took seven and fifty hives--and this leader made straight for the blanket which the doctor had drawn over my head. Well, what was I to do? I could not stir,--I blew and blew at him, till I had no breath left; not the slightest use. The beast fastened himself on my bald head,--for I always left off my peruke, in order not to injure it--and the whole swarm came hovering over my face. I rolled myself out of bed, fell on the floor, struggled out of the blankets and wet sheets, and ran out of the door, with the devils after me, and cried for help. God be praised, the assistant of the water-doctor--the man's name is Ehrfurcht,--met me, and took me to another room, and got me necessary clothing, so that after resting awhile I could go down into the dining-room, that is to say, with half a score bee-stings in my body. I began to talk to the gentlemen, and they laughed. I turned to one of the ladies, and made a friendly remark about the weather, and she blushed. Why should the weather make her blush? I don't know, nor you either, Karl. Why do you laugh? I turned to another lady, who was a singer, and asked her very politely to sing a song, that she had sung every evening. What do you think she did, Karl? She turned her back on me. As I stood there wondering what it all meant, the water-doctor came to me, and said, 'Herr Inspector, don't take it ill, but you made yourself quite noticeable this afternoon.' 'How so?' said I. 'Yes,' said he, 'when you sprang out of the door, Fräulein von Hinkefuss was crossing the corridor, and she has told it in confidence to all the rest.' 'And on that account, am I to be deprived of all pity? Shall the gentlemen laugh, and the ladies turn their backs on me? I did not come here for that! If Fräulein von Hinkefuss had got half a score of bee-stings in her body, I should inquire after her every morning, with the greatest interest. But let her go! One cannot buy sympathy in the market. But now come, Herr Doctor, and take the bee-stings out of me.' If you believe me Karl, he couldn't do it. 'What,' said I, 'not take a bee-sting out of my skin?' 'No,' said he, 'I could, to be sure, but I dare not, it would be a surgical operation, and according to the Mecklinburg laws I am not qualified for it.' 'What?' said I, 'you can drive the poison out of my bones, and not draw the stings out of my body? You dare not touch the skin of the outer man, and you clear out his inside with your confounded water? I am obliged to you!' and from that moment, Karl, I lost confidence in the whole concern, and without that it could do me no good, they say so themselves to everybody, when he first arrives. So I came away, and had the stings taken out by old Surgeon Metz, at Rahnstadt. And so ends my story of the water-cure. It is a good thing, though; one gets quite a different view of things, and even if the cursed Podagra is not cured, one gets an idea of what a human being can endure. And, Karl, I brought you home a water-book, you can study the science in the winter evenings."

Habermann thanked him, and the conversation turned to farming matters, and so, by degrees, to the apprentices.

"How does your young gentleman get along?" inquired Bräsig.

"Very well indeed, Bräsig, he is equally good at everything. I am only sorry that cannot see more of him. He does his duty, wherever he is, and Daniel Sadenwater tells me that he watches many a night with our poor, sick master, though he is very tired. He is a model young man. He has interest in his work, and a kind heart for his friends."

"Well, Karl, and your greyhound?"

"Oh, he is not so bad; he has a good many maggots in his head, but the youth is not vicious. He does what he is told, when he doesn't forget it. Well! we were young once ourselves."

"The best of your young folks is that they are so hearty. I was at Christian Klockmann's, you see, lately, he has a son, fourteen years old, just confirmed. He is tired all day, falls asleep while he is walking, when he ought to eat he won't eat, and if he is sent to the field he perishes with cold."

"Ah, no! my two are not like that," said Habermann.

"And the young gentleman watches at night by the old master?" said Bräsig. "It is sad for the young man! The Herr Kammerrath is then very feeble? Give him my respects, Karl, I must say adieu, I have an appointment to meet my gracious Herr Count." Whereupon Bräsig departed.

The Kammerrath had indeed grown very feeble, of late; he had suffered another slight shock, but had fortunately retained his speech, and this evening Franz came to ask Habermann to go over and see his uncle, who wished to speak with him.

When the Inspector entered the room, Fidelia was there, chattering to the old gentleman of this and that; the poor child knew not how long she might be able to talk with her good father. The Kammerrath bade her leave him alone with Habermann, and when she was gone he looked at the inspector with deep sadness, and said, feebly, "Habermann, dear Habermann, when that which has always given us pleasure pleases us no longer, the end is near." Habermann looked at him, and could not conceal from himself the sad truth, for he had seen many death-beds; his eyes fell, and he asked, "Has the doctor been here to-day?"

"Ah, dear Habermann, what good can the doctor do me? I would rather see Pastor Behrens once more. But I must speak to you first of other affairs. Sit down here, near me."

He went on hastily, yet with frequent interruptions, as though time and breath were both growing short for him. "My will is at Schwerin. I have thought of everything, but--my illness came so suddenly--my wife's death--I fear my affairs do not stand quite so well as they should." After a short pause, he resumed, "My son will have the estate, my two married daughters are provided for, but the unmarried ones--poor children! they will have very little. Axel must take care of them--God bless him, he will have enough to do to take care of himself. He writes me that he wishes to remain another year in the army. Very well, if he lives carefully, something may be saved to pay debts. But the Jew, Habermann, the Jew! Will he wait? Have you said anything to him?"

"No, Herr Kammerrath; but Moses will wait; at least I hope so. And if not, there is a good deal of money coming in from the farm, much more than last year."

"Yes, yes, and real estate has risen. But what good is it? Axel understands nothing of farming; but I have sent him books, through Franz, books about agriculture,--he will study them; that will help him, won't it, Habermann?"

"God bless the poor old Herr!" thought Habermann. "He was always so practical and reasonable himself, he wouldn't have said that when he was strong and well; but let him take what comfort he can," so he said yes, he hoped so.

"And, dear friend, you will stay with him," said the Kammerrath earnestly, "give me your hand upon it, you will stay with him?"

"Yes," said Habermann, and the tears stood in his eyes, "so long as I can be useful to you or your family, I will not leave Pumpelhagen."

"I was sure of it," said his master, falling back exhausted upon the pillows, "but Fidelia shall write--see him once more,--see you and him together."

His strength was gone, he drew his breath with difficulty.

Habermann rose softly, and pulled the bell, and as Daniel Sadenwater came, he took him into the ante-room, "Sadenwater, our master is worse, I am afraid he cannot last long; call the young ladies, and the young Herr, but say nothing definite about him."

A shadow fell upon the old servant's face, as when the evening wind passes over a quiet lake. He looked through the half-opened door of the sick-room as if it came from thence, and said to himself as if in excuse, "God bless him, it is now thirty years----" turned away, and left the room.

Franz and the young ladies came. The poor girls had no idea that their father was failing so rapidly; they had thought surely the doctor would be able to help him, and the Lord would spare him a little longer. They had taken turns in watching by him, of late, and it struck them strangely that they should all be there at once, with Franz, and Habermann, and Daniel Sadenwater.

"What is it, what is it?" began Fidelia, to the old inspector.

Habermann took her hand, and pressed it. "Your father has become worse, he is very ill, he wishes to see your brother---- Herr von Rambow, if you will write a couple of lines, I am going to send the carriage for the doctor, and the coachman can take the letter to the post. In three days your brother can be here, Fräulein Fidelia."

"He will not last three hours," said Daniel Sadenwater, softly, to Habermann as they came out of the sick-room.

And the three daughters stood around their father's bed, weeping and lamenting, and would fain hold fast the prop that had upheld them so long, and each was thinking anxiously for something to alleviate and help, and the three hearts beat more and more anxiously and quickly, and the one heart ever more slowly and feebly.

Franz sat in the ante-room, listening to every sound, and now and then going into the sick-room. He had never before seen the departure of human life, and he thought of his own father, whom he had always imagined like his uncle, and it seemed as if his own father were dying a second time. He thought also of his cousin, who was not here, and whose place he filled, and thought that he should love him the more, all his life.

Habermann stood at the open window, and looked out into the night. It was just such a warm, damp, cloudy night as that in which his heart had come so near to breaking. Then it was his wife, now his friend; who would come next? Would it be himself, or---- No, no, God forbid! that could not be.

And Daniel Sadenwater sat by the stove, and did what he had done every evening for thirty years; he had a basket of silver forks and spoons on his lap, and on the chair near him lay a polishing cloth, and a silk pocket-handkerchief; and he rubbed alternately the spoons and forks with the handkerchief, and as he looked at his master's name on the fork which he had polished every evening for thirty years, his eyes were so dim that he couldn't see whether it were bright or not, and he set the basket down, and looked at the fork till his eyes ran over with tears.

Amid all this trouble and sorrow, the pendulum of the old clock moved steadily back and forth, back and forth, as if old Time sat by a cradle and rocked his child safely and surely to sleep.

And he slept. Two eyes closed themselves forever, the dark curtain between Here and Beyond dropped softly down, and this side stood the poor maidens, lamenting and vainly stretching their arms after that which was gone, and wringing their hands over that which was left behind. Fidelia threw herself down by her father's body, and sobbed and cried until she was taken with spasms. Franz, full of sympathy, lifted her in his arms, and carried her out of the room, and her two sisters followed, in new anxiety for their darling, and Habermann was left alone with Daniel Sadenwater. He pressed down the eyelids of the dead, and after a little turned away with a heavy heart; but Daniel sat on the foot of the bed, looking with his quiet face into the still more quiet face of his master, and he held the fork still in his hand.