Sonnenkamp shrugged his shoulders at these words, and said to Pranken, by whom he was standing:—
"How this woman is always trying to say something out of the common course! She has actually forgotten at last how to say a simple good-morning."
"Let us be thankful," rejoined Pranken, "that she has not yet remarked,—As my departed husband, Professor Mummy, used to say."
The two men spoke without any change of expression, so that no one heard or observed them.
Upon a great table lay a number of packages, each inscribed with a name. The Professorin, with Fräulein Milch, had made a list of the boys in the neighborhood of Roland's own age, who were to have presents given them on his birthday. They were mostly apprentices about to set out on their travels, laborers on the Rhine boats, or in the vineyards: some poor and needy persons had also been thought of, and for every one a suitable gift was provided. In the middle of the table lay a large envelope which Sonnenkamp had hastily placed there on his entrance, and on which was written: "For my friend and teacher. Captain Doctor Eric Dournay."
Roland's quick eye soon discovered the envelope, and he handed it to Eric, who, on opening it, found a package of banknotes to a considerable amount. His hand trembled; for a moment he looked about him, then replaced the bills in the envelope, and advancing to Sonnenkamp, who was standing by Manna and Pranken, and had just spoken some words in a low tone to the latter, held the envelope towards him, and, in a voice so agitated that he could scarcely enunciate a word, begged him to take back his gift.
"No, no; do not thank me; it is I who should thank you."
Eric's eyes were cast to the ground, but he raised them and said,—
"Excuse me, I have never in my life accepted any present, and am unwilling—"
"A man of independence like you," interrupted Pranken, "should waste no words on the matter. Take the gift as cordially as it was given."