Paul (goes back and forth excitedly). I say ... I say ... Ten years! Horrible!
Aunt Clara. And you see, my boy, all this time these candles have not been lighted! (She points to the chandelier.) Just as they were put out on Christmas Eve, they are in their places today.
Paul (gloomily). So that is why you lighted the chandelier, Auntie?
Aunt Clara. Yes, now that you are here again, it occurred to me that the candles ought to be lighted again.
Paul. I think we shall let that suffice. Broad daylight is already peering through the shutters. (He points to the background where broad daylight comes in through the heart-shaped apertures of the shutters, then slowly puts out the candles, one by one.) Now then, let us put them out!
Aunt Clara (goes to the background and unscrews the shutters, opens them, letting the daylight stream in, and puts out the lamp on the commode). Praise the Lord! After all it has become daylight once more.
Paul (has put out the candles and looks over at her). What do you mean by that. Aunt Clara?
Aunt Clara (having opened the shutters, comes forward again and whispers). I was forced to think so much, because it was the first night that your father has been dead and has been lying there in the corner room.
Paul (with suppressed feeling, after a short struggle). Will you not tell me how father died?
Aunt Clara. Oh, Paul what is there to tell about that? Didn't I telegraph to you? Heart failure, is what Doctor Bodenstein said. He went to bed at ten o'clock that night, as always; it was night before last, the first holiday.