His mother’s grave was overgrown with ivy and wild myrtle, and at its head rose the radiant blossom of a golden-rod. Between the leaves rust-colored ants were creeping, and a lizard rustled down into the green depths.
Silently they both stood there, and Paul trembled. Neither dared to interrupt the solemn stillness.
“Where have they buried my father?” Paul asked at last.
“Your sisters took the body over to Lotkeim,” answered Elsbeth.
“That is as well,” he replied. “She has been lonely all her life; let her be so in death, too. But to-morrow we will also go over to him.”
“Will you go and see your sisters?”
He shook his head sadly. Then they relapsed into silence.
He leaned his head on his hands and cried.
“Do not cry,” she said, “each one of you has now a home.” And then she took the little parcel that she held under her arm, unfastened the white paper of the cover, and there appeared an old manuscript-book with torn cover and faded leaves.
“See,” she cried, “she sends you this, her greeting.”