“It will never be warm again,” he muttered, “never again!”
Dorothea clasped him with trembling hands.
“August! do you not know me?” she cried, in an agony. “I am Dorothea. Wake up, dear—wake up! It is morning, only so dark!”
August shuddered all over.
“The morning!” he echoed.
He slowly rose up on to his feet.
“I will go to grandfather,” he said, very low. “He is always good: perhaps he could save it.”
Loud blows with the heavy iron knocker of the house-door drowned his words. A strange voice called aloud through the keyhole,—
“Let me in! Quick!—there is no time to lose! More snow like this, and the roads will all be blocked. Let me in! Do you hear? I am come to take the great stove.”
August sprang erect, his fists doubled, his eyes blazing.