'What is death?' said Lili to her brothers.
'It is to go and live with God, they say,' answered Bela, doubtfully.
'But how can God be happy Himself,' said Gela, 'when He causes so much sorrow?'
'Our mother will never go away from us,' said the little Lili, who listened. 'They may call her from heaven ever—ever so much; she will not leave us.'
Bela sighed; he had a heavy, hopeless impression of death as a thing that was stronger than himself.
'Pride can do naught against death, my little lord,' one of the foresters had once said to him. 'You will find your master there one day.'
A day and a night passed; puerperal convulsions succeeded to the birth of the dead boy, and Wanda was unconscious alike of her bodily and her mental torture. The physicians, whom Greswold had summoned instantly, were around her bed, grave and anxious. The only chance for her lay in the magnificent health and strength with which nature had dowered her. Her constitution might, they said, enable her to resist what weaker women would have gone down under like boats in an ocean storm.
It was towards dawn on the second day when Egon Vàsàrhely arrived.
'She lives?' he said, as he entered.
'That is all,' said Greswold, with tears in his voice.