Paul obeyed this order with hesitation, for he did not know how to word the invitation. When he stepped out onto the threshold his first glance fell on Elsbeth, who, in a mourning-dress, stood among the village women and carried a wreath of white roses. And when she saw him her eyes filled with tears.
For a moment he felt as if he would like to press his head against the folds of her dress and cry there; but others stood near her, staring at him. He made an awkward bow, and said, “My father begs you—would you like to see the dead?”
The women slowly went into the house; only Elsbeth lingered.
“Won’t you come in, too?” he asked.
“My poor dear Paul,” she said, and seized his hand.
He shut his eyes and staggered back two steps.
“Do come,” he said, mastering himself again; “look at her, she has always loved you so much.”
“Paul, my son, where are you?” sounded his father’s voice from the interior of the house.
“Paul,” she said, hesitating, with rising tears, “you must not despair; there are still others who—love you.”
“Oh yes,” he said, “I know—but come, I must pour out the wine.”