"Certainly it is," he replied, "but pray eat your own breakfast." And he listened to be sure that she did so. Then, when he had drank his coffee, he felt for the table before he put down his cup.
His wife looked at him with anxiety. "Bernhard, I think your eyes are worse again to-day."
"I think they are," he replied quietly. "Have you breakfasted?"
"Yes, I have finished."
"Well, come then and sit here beside me. I want to tell you something. Give me your hand, my dear wife, and listen quietly to what I have to say."
Frau Brigitta looked at him wonderingly, and her heart beat so quickly--she knew not why--that it almost took away her breath.
Herr Leonhardt stroked her hand, and spoke with the tenderness with which one speaks to a child. "During all these eighteen years that I have been such a care to you, and in all the thirty years of our marriage, you have never caused me an hour of suffering, and I have done what I could to aid and support you. You have borne bravely all our common misfortunes, followed our first children to the grave with me, and comforted me when I was overcome by despair. Do not let your courage fail you now, for I must give you pain. I cannot help it. Try, as you always have done, to spare me the pang of seeing you sink under it. Promise me this!"
"For Heaven's sake, my husband, speak! I will promise you everything!"
"What we have so long feared, dear wife, has at last come upon us!" He drew her nearer to him. "This morning when I awoke there was no daylight for me!"
A dull, half-suppressed moan was heard at these words; then silence ensued. The old woman's hands slipped from her husband's,--he put his own out towards her, but she was not at his side. She had sunk down from her seat and buried her face in her arms, that he might not hear her sob.