“You poor creatures,” he said; “you have evidently had many a care. But did you endeavor to make the last days of our sainted mother as easy as possible?”
Paul assured him he had done all that was in his power.
“I am glad of that,” his brother replied, in a severe tone; “it would have been a sad neglect of your duty if you had not done so. And now come, let us go together to visit the remains of our sainted mother, that she, looking down from heaven, may see us all united.”
He took Paul’s hand and drew him into the room in which his mother rested peacefully among flowers and burning candles, and where the others were already assembled.
Paul remained standing at the door timidly. He would have given much to be alone with his dead mother for one moment, but as that was impossible he softly crept out and looked through the window from outside, as if he were one of the lookers-on from the village who were standing there.
A little later Max came to him and led him confidentially aside. “I have a favor to ask you, dear boy,” he said; “my throat is quite parched with the dust of the journey and with crying. Could you procure me a drop of beer?”
Paul answered that there were two full casks, but that they were only to be tapped next morning for the funeral.
“Just give me the tap,” Max answered; “I am an expert. The beer in the casks will be just as fresh to-morrow as it is to-day.”
And when Paul had done his bidding, he turned his back on him and went away.
At eleven o’clock the candles round the coffin were blown out—every one retired to rest.