It was on Christmas Eve, shortly before twilight. The heath lay deep in snow, and from the leaden sky fresh masses of flakes were descending. Then Paul saw that his sisters secretly took their hats and cloaks, and tried to make their escape by the back door.
He hastened after them. “Where do you want to go?”
Then they began to cry, and Kate said, “Please, please do not ask us.” But he felt a dreadful anxiety arise within him, and, grasping their arms, he said, “I shall follow you if you won’t confess.”
Then Kate gasped out, sobbing, “We are going to mother’s grave.”
Horror overcame him that they should go to that holy place; but he took care not to let them see it.
“No, children,” he said, stroking their cheeks, “I can’t allow that; it would excite you too much; the snow is so deep, too, on the heath, and it will soon be dark.”
“But some one must go there,” said Kate, timidly, “it is Christmas Eve to-day.”
“You are right, sister,” he replied, “I will go myself. You stay with father and light a few candles for him. Please God, I shall bring you home some comfort.”
They let themselves be persuaded, and went back into the house.