“So with that you want to make gold?” she asked.
“Yes, mother,” he answered, confusedly, for the return of fever made him anxious.
“How will you do it?”
“You will see in good time,” he answered, as usual.
But this time she would not be put off. “Tell me, my boy,” she pleaded, “tell me now.... Who knows what may happen?... I should like at least to have that little bit of comfort before I fall asleep forever.”
“Mother!” he cried, terrified.
“Be still, my boy,” she said; “what does it matter? But tell me, tell me!” she pleaded with growing anxiety, as if in the next moment it might already be too late.
With bated breath and confused words he spoke of the plans which he had in his head: how he wanted to reawaken “Black Susy” to life, so that the moor could be utilized to its innermost depths; but in the middle of his speech, anxiety overcame him; he fell sobbing on his knees before the bed with his face on her breast.
She bade him look up, and said: “It was not right of me to make you anxious. If God so wills it, all may turn out differently yet. What you tell me has given me great joy. I know that if you take anything in hand, you do not soon let it drop. I only wish I could live to see it.”
So, gently, imperceptibly, she restored his courage; as to herself, she had nothing left to hope for.