"At four o'clock this morning; and how beautiful she still looks in death! You would think she is only sleeping. If you wish to see her, just go up to the same room in which you were yesterday."
After some hesitation, Frank ascended the stairs and entered the room. As he passed the threshold, he paused, greatly surprised at the sight that met his view. The room was darkened, the shutters closed, and across the room streamed the broken rays of the morning sun. On a white-covered table burned wax candles, in the midst of which stood a large crucifix; there was also a holy-water vase, and in it a green branch. On the white cushions of the bed reposed Eliza, a crown of evergreens about her forehead, and a little crucifix in her folded hands. Her countenance was not the least disfigured; only about her softly closed eyes there was a dark shade, and the lifelike freshness of the lips had vanished. Angela sat near the bed on a low stool; she had laid her head near that of her sister, and in consequence of a wakeful night was fast asleep. Eliza's little head lay in her arms, and in her hand she held the same rosary that he had found near the statue. Frank stood immovable before the interesting group.
The most beautiful form he had ever beheld he now saw in close contact with the dead. Earnest thoughts passed through his mind. The fleetingness of all earthly things vividly occurred to him. Eliza's corpse reminded him impressively that her sister, the charming Angela, must meet the same inevitable fate. His eyes rested on the beautiful features of the sufferer, which were not in the least disfigured by bitter or gloomy dreams, and which expressed in sleep the sweetest peace. She slept as gently and confidingly near Eliza as if she did not know the abyss which death had placed between them. The only disorder in Angela's external appearance was the glistening curls of hair that hung loose over her shoulders on her breast.
At length Frank departed, with the determination of returning to make his visit of condolence. After the accustomed walk with Klingenberg, he went immediately back to Siegwart's.
When he returned home, he wrote in his diary:
"May 21st.--Surprising and wonderful!
"When my uncle's little Agnes died, my aunt took ill, and my uncle's condition bordered on insanity; tortured by excruciating anguish, he murmured against Providence. He accused God of cruelty and injustice, because he took from him a child he loved so much, he lost all self-control, and had not strength to bear the misfortune with resignation. And now the Siegwart family are in the same circumstances; the father is much broken down, much afflicted, but very resigned; his trembling lips betray the affliction that presses on his heart, but they make no complaints against Providence.
"'I thank you for your sympathy,' said he to me. 'The trial is painful; but God knows what he does. The Lord gave me the dear child; the Lord has taken her away. His holy will be done.' So spoke Siegwart. While he said this, a perceptible pain changed his manly countenance, and he lay like a quivering victim on the altar of the Lord. Siegwart's wife, a beautiful woman, with calm, mild eyes, wept inwardly. Her mother's heart bled from a thousand wounds; but she showed the same self-control and resignation as Siegwart did to the will of the Most High.
"And Angela? I do not understand her at all. She speaks of Eliza as of one sleeping, or of one who has gone to a place where she is happy. But sometimes a spasm twitches her features; then her eyes rest on the crucifix that stands amid the lighted candles. The contemplation of the crucifix seems to afford her strength and vigor. This is a mystery to me. I cannot conceive the mysterious power of that carved figure.
"Misery does not depress these people: it ennobles them. I have never seen the like. When I compare their conduct with that of those I have known, I confess that the Siegwart family puts my acquaintance as well as myself to shame.