His master stood in terror of him. He alone, the one boy, made the whole of the fourth form that had always been so exemplary run wild. And still one could not really be downright angry with him. When the tired man, who had had to give the same lessons year after year, sit at the same desk, give the same dictations, set the same tasks, hear the same pieces read, repeat the same things, had to reprove the boy, something like a gentle sadness was mingled with the reproof, which softened it: yes, that was delight in existence, health, liveliness, unconsumed force—that was youth.

Wolfgang did not mind the scoldings he got, he had no ambition to become head of his form. He laughed at the master, and could not even get himself to lower his head and look sad when his mother waved a bad report in his face in her nervous excitement: "So that's all one gets in return for all one's worry?"

How ambitious women are! Paul Schlieben smiled; he took it more calmly. Well, he had not had the hard work that Kate had had. As the boy had missed so many lessons owing to his illness, she had sat with him every day, and written and read and done sums and learnt words and rules and repeated them with him indefatigably, and set him exercises herself besides the schoolwork, and in this manner he had succeeded in getting his remove into the fourth form with the others at Easter, in spite of the weeks and weeks he had been away from school. She had drawn a deep breath of relief: ah, a mountain had been climbed. But still the road was not straight by any means. When the first blackbirds began to sing in the garden he became No. 15 in his form—that is to say, an average pupil—when the first nightingale trilled he was not even among the average, and when summer came he was among the last in his form.

It was too tempting to sow, plant, and water the garden, to lie on the grass in the warm sunshine and have a sun bath. And still better to rove about out of doors along the edges of the wood or bathe in the lake and swim far out, so far that the other boys would call out to him: "Come back, Schlieben, you'll be drowned."

"Be thankful that there is so much life in him," said Paul to his wife. "Who would have thought only six months ago that he would ever be like this? It is fortunate that he isn't fond of sitting indoors. 'Plenty of fresh air,' Hofmann said, 'plenty of movement. Such a severe illness always does some harm to the constitution.' So let us choose the lesser of two evils. But still the rascal must remember that he has duties to perform as well."

It was difficult to combine the two. Kate felt she was becoming powerless. When the boy's eyes, which were as bright as sloes, implored her to let him go out, she dared not keep him back. She knew he had not finished his school-work, had perhaps not even commenced it; but had not Paul said: "One must choose the lesser of two evils," and the doctor: "Such a severe illness always leaves some weakness behind, therefore a good deal of liberty"?

She suddenly trembled for his life; the horror of his illness was still fresh in her mind. Oh, those nights! Those last terrible hours in which the fever had risen higher and higher after the hot bath, the pulse and the poor heart had rushed along at a mad pace, until the ice from the lake had at last, at last brought coolness, and he had fallen into a sound sleep, which, when the sky commenced to glow in the east and a new day had looked in through the window, had turned into a beneficial, miraculous perspiration.

So she had to let the boy run about.

But that he hung on Cilia's arm when she had to go an errand in the evening, that he hurried after her when she only took a letter to the box, or that he brought her a chair when she wanted to sit with her mending-basket under the elderberry bush near the kitchen door was not to be tolerated. When Kate heard that Cilia had not gone further than the nearest pines on the edge of the wood when it was her Sunday out, and had sat there for hours with the boy on the grass, there was a scene.

Cilia wept bitter tears. What had she done? She had only told Woelfchen about her home.

"What's your home to him? He is to mind his own business and you yours." Kate was about to say still more, to cry out: "Leave off telling him your private concerns, I won't have it," but she controlled herself, although with difficulty. She could have boxed this round-cheeked girl's ears, as she looked at her so boldly with her bright eyes. Even Frida Laemke was preferable to her.

But Frida did not show herself very often now. She already wore a dress that reached to her ankles, attended a sewing class out of school-hours, and after her confirmation, which was to be a year next Easter she was to go "to business," as she said very importantly.

"I shall give her notice," said Kate one evening, when Cilia had cleared the table and she was sitting quite alone with her husband.

"Oh!" He had not really been listening. "Why?"

"Because of her behaviour." The woman's voice vibrated with suppressed indignation more than that, with passionate excitement. Her eyes, which were generally golden brown and gentle, became dark and sombre.

"Why, you're actually trembling! What is the matter now?" He laid the paper he was about to read aside, quite depressed. There was some trouble with the boy again; nothing else excited her in that manner.

"I can't have it any longer." Her voice was hard, had lost its charm. "And I won't stand it. Just think, when I came home to-day I was away an hour towards evening, hardly an hour good gracious, you cannot always be spying, you demean yourself in your own eyes." Her hands closed over each other, gripped each other so tightly that the knuckles showed quite white. "I had left him at his desk, he had so much to do, and when I returned not a stroke had been done. But I heard—heard them downstairs, at the back of the house near the kitchen door."

"Heard whom?"

"Wolfgang and her, of course—Cilia. I had only been away quite a short time."

"Well—and then?"

She had stopped and sighed, full of a deep distress which drove away the anger from her eyes.

"He put his arms round her neck from behind. And he kissed her. 'Dear Cillchen,' he said. And she drew him towards her, took him almost on her lap—he is much too big for that, much too big—and spoke softly to him the whole time."

"Did you understand what she said?"

"No. But they laughed. And then she gave him a slap behind—you should only have seen it—and then he gave her one. They took turns to slap each other. Do you consider that proper?"

"That goes too far, you are right. But it's nothing bad. She is a good girl, quite unspoilt as yet, and he a stupid boy. Surely you don't intend to send the girl away for that? For goodness' sake, Kate, think it well over. Did they see you?"

"No."

"Well, then, don't do it. It's much wiser. I'll speak to the boy some time when I find an opportunity."

"And you think I couldn't—I can't—I mustn't send her away?" Kate had grown quite dejected in the presence of his calmness.

"There's no reason whatever for it." He was fully convinced of what he said, and wanted to take up his paper again. Then he caught her eyes, and stretched out his hand to her across the table. "Dear child, don't take everything so much to heart. You're making your life miserable—your own, the boy's—and—yes, mine too. Take things easier. There! And now I'll read my paper at last."

Kate got up quietly—he was all right, he was reading. She had not given him her hand. His calmness hurt her. It was more than calmness, it was indifference, slackness. But she would not be slack, no, she would not get tired of doing her duty.

And she went after her boy.

Wolfgang was already upstairs in his room. But he had first crept softly up to Cilia, who was drying the plates and dishes in the kitchen, from behind, had given her a pinch and then thrown both arms round her and begged for a story: "Tell me something"—but she would not.

"I don't know anything."

"Oh, do tell me something. About the procession. Or even if it's only about your sow. How many little ones did she have last time?"

"Thirteen." Cilia could not resist that question, but still she remained taciturn.

"Is your cow going to calve this year too? How many cows has the biggest farmer near you? You know, the one down near the Warthe, Haulaender. Do tell me." He knew all about everything, knew all the people at her home and all the cattle. He could never get tired of hearing about them and about the country where the bells tinkle for matins and vespers or call with a deep, solemn sound for high mass on Sundays. He was so very fond of hearing about the country, about the large fields in which the blue flax and golden rye grow, about the bluish line of forest on the horizon, about the wide, wide stretches of heath, where the bees buzz busily over the blooming heather and the fen-fowls screech near the quiet waters in the evening, when the sky and the sun are reflected red in them.

"Tell me about it," he begged and urged her.

But she was reluctant and shook her head. "No, go away; no, I won't. The mistress has been looking at me like that again this evening—oh, like—no, I can't explain. I believe she's going to give me notice."

He had crept up to his room in a sulk and undressed himself. He had grown so accustomed to it that he could not sleep now when Cilia did not tell him something first. Then he fell into such a quiet sleep, and dreamt so beautifully of wide stretches of heather covered with red blossoms, and of quiet waters near which the fen-fowls screeched, which he went out to shoot.

Oh, that Cilia, what was the matter with her to-day? How stupid! "The mistress is going to give me notice." Nonsense, as if he would stand that. And he clenched his hand.

Then the door creaked.

He craned his neck forward: was it she? Was she coming, after all? It was his mother. He slipped hastily into bed and drew the covering up to his forehead. Let her think he was already asleep.

But she did not think so and said: "So you're still awake?" and she sat down on the chair near his bed on which his things were. Cilia always sat there too. He compared the two faces in silence. Oh, Cilia was much prettier, so white and red, and she had dimples in her fat cheeks when she laughed, and she was so jolly. But his mother was not ugly either.

He looked at her attentively; and then suddenly a hitherto quite unknown feeling came over him: oh, what narrow cheeks she had. And the soft hair near her temples—was—was——

"You're getting quite grey," he said all at once, quite dismayed, and stretched out his finger. "There, quite grey."

She nodded. A look of displeasure lengthened her delicate face, and made it appear still narrower.

"You should laugh more," he advised. "Then people would never see you had wrinkles."

Wrinkles—oh yes, wrinkles. She passed her hand over her forehead nervously. What uncharitable eyes children had. Youth and beauty had no doubt disappeared for ever—but it was this boy who had deprived her of the last remnant of them. And it sounded like a reproach as she said: "Sorrow has done that. Your serious illness and—and——" she hesitated: should she begin now about what troubled her so?"—and many other things," she concluded with a sigh.

"I can understand that," he said naively. "You're so old, too."

Well, he was honest, she had to confess that; but he said it without a trace of tender feeling. She could not suppress a slight irritation; it was not pleasant to be reminded of your age by your child. "I'm not so old as all that," she said.

"Oh, I don't mean either that you're very old. But still much older than Cilia, for example."

She winced—he always brought in that person.

"Cilia is a pretty girl, don't you think so, mother?"

She got so angry that she lost control of herself. "Do you think so?" she said curtly, rising. "She's leaving on the first of October."

"She's leaving? Oh no!" He stared at her incredulously.

"Yes, yes." She felt she was cruel, but could she be otherwise? His disbelieving tone expressed such terror. "She's leaving. I'm going to give her notice."

"Oh no, you won't." He laughed. "You won't do that."

"Yes, I will." She emphasised each word; it sounded irrevocable.

He still shook his head incredulously: it could not be. But then he suddenly remembered Cilia's depression and her words that evening: "I suppose she's going to give me notice." "No, you shan't do so." He started up in bed.

"I shall not ask you."

"No, you shan't, you shan't," he cried. All at once Cilia moved across his mental vision, her ingenuous eyes looked at him so sadly—he liked her so much—and she was to go? He was seized with fury.

"She shan't go, she shan't go," he howled, and shouted it louder and louder: "She shan't go." He was in a mad, indescribable frame of mind. He threw himself back, stretched himself out and struck the bedstead with his feet, so that it creaked in all the joints.

Kate was terrified; she had never seen him so violent before. But how right she was. His behaviour showed her that plainly. No, she must not call herself cruel even if his tears flowed; it was necessary that Cilia went. But she was sorry for him.

"Woelfchen," she said persuasively, "why, Woelfchen. She tried to soothe him, and drew up his cover that had fallen down with gentle hand. But as soon as she touched him he pushed her away.

"Woelfchen—Woelfchen—you with your Woelfchen! As if I were a baby still. My name is Wolfgang. And you are unjust—envious—you only want her to go away because I like her better, much better than you."

He shouted in her face, and she became deathly white. She felt as though she must scream with pain. She who had suffered so much for his sake was of less account than Cilia in his opinion? All at once she remembered all the burning and ineffaceable tears she had already shed for his sake. And of all the hard hours during his illness none had been so hard as this one.

She forgot that he was still a child, a naughty boy. Had he not said himself: "I'm not a child any longer"? His behaviour seemed unpardonable. She left the room without a word.

He followed her with eyes full of dismay: had he hurt her? All at once he was conscious that he had done so—oh no, he did not want to do that. He had already got half out of bed to run after her on his bare feet, to hold her fast by her dress and say: "Are you angry?"—when he suddenly remembered Cilia again. No, it was too bad of her to tell her to go.

He wept as he crept under the bed-clothes and folded his hands. Cilia had told him he was to pray to the Holy Virgin, to that smiling woman in the blue mantle covered with stars, who sits on a throne over the altar with the crown on her head. She healed everything. And when she asked God in Heaven for anything, He did it. He would pray to her now.

Cilia had once taken him to her church, when his mother was at the baths and his father in the Tyrol. He had had to promise her not to tell anybody about it, and the charm of the secrecy had increased the charm of the church. An unconscious longing drew him to those altars, where the saints looked so beautiful and where you could see God incarnate, to whom he had been told to pray as to a father. He had never liked the church so much which his mother sometimes went to, and in which he had also been.

That longing, which had clung to him ever since like a fairy tale, now came over him forcibly and vividly. Yes, it was beautiful to be able to kneel like that before the Holy Virgin, who was lovelier than all women on earth, and hardly had you laid your request before her when its fulfilment was insured. Splendid!

"Hail Mary!" Cilia's prayer began like that. He did not know any more, but he repeated the words many times. And now he smelt the incense again, which had filled the whole church with perfume, heard again the little bell announcing the transubstantiation, saw the Lord's anointed with the splendid stole over his chasuble bow first to the left of the altar, then to the right. Oh, how he envied the boys in their white surplices, who were allowed to kneel near him. Blessed harmonies floated under the high, arched dome:

"Procedenti ab utroque Compar sit laudatio——"

They had sung something like that. And then the priest had raised the gleaming monstrance on high, and all the people had bowed deeply: Qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum. Yes, he had remembered that Latin well. He would never forget it all his life.

Cilia had had to nudge him and whisper: "Come, we're going now," otherwise he would have remained kneeling much longer in the magnificent and still cosy church, in which nothing was cold and strange.

If only he could go there again. Cilia had certainly promised to take him if she found an opportunity—but now she was to go away, and the opportunity would never come. What a pity. He was filled with a great regret and defiance at the same time; no, he would not go to the church his mother went to, and where the boys from his school went.

And he whispered again, "Hail, Mary!" and the hot and angry tears that had been running down his cheeks ceased as he whispered it.

He had climbed out of his bed, and was kneeling by the side of it on the carpet, his clasped hands raised in prayer, as he had seen the angels do in the altar-piece. His eyes sparkled and were wide open, his defiance melted into fervour.

When he at last got into bed again, and his excessive fatigue had calmed his agitation and he had fallen asleep, he dreamt of the beautiful Virgin Mary, whose features were well known to him, and he felt his heart burn for her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a fortnight later, the first of October, that Cilla left her situation. Kate had given her a good character; it was still not clear to the girl why she had been dismissed, even when she stood in the street. The lady wanted an older, more experienced maid—that was what she had said—but Cilia did not quite believe that, she felt vaguely that there was another reason: she simply did not like her. She would go home for a short time before taking another situation, she felt homesick, and it had been difficult for her to leave the place—on account of the boy. How he had cried, even yesterday evening. He had hung on her neck and kissed her many times like a little child, that big boy. And there was so much he still wanted to say to her. They had been standing together upstairs in the dark passage, and then the mistress's step as she came up the stairs had driven them away; he was just able to escape to his room.

And she had not even been able to say good-bye to him to-day, the good boy. For he had hardly gone to school when her mistress said: "There, now you can go." She was quite taken aback, for she had not reckoned on getting away before the afternoon. But the new housemaid, an elderly person with a pointed face, had already come, so what was there for her to do? So all she had done was to wrap up all the pictures of the saints she kept in her prayer-book quickly in paper, and stick them into the drawer in the table that stood at the boy's bedside—he would be sure to find them there—after she had written "Love from Cilia" on them. Then she had gone away.

Cilia had sent her basket on by goods train, and she had nothing to carry now but a little leather bag and a cardboard box tied with string. So she could get on quickly. But on her way to the station she stopped all at once: the school would be over at one o'clock, it was almost eleven now, it really did not matter if she left somewhat later. How pleased he would be if she said good-bye to him once more and begged him not to forget her.

She turned round. She would be sure to find a bench near the school, and there she would wait for him.

The passers-by looked curiously at the young girl who had posted herself near the school like a soldier, stiff and silent. Cilia had not found a bench; she dared not go far from the entrance for fear of missing him. So she placed the cardboard box on the ground, and stood with her little bag on her arm. Now and then she asked somebody what time it was. The time passed slowly. At last it was almost one. Then she felt her heart beat: the good boy! In her thoughts she could already see his dark eyes flash with joy, hear his amazed: "Cillchen! You?"

Cilia pushed her hat straight on her beautiful fair hair, and stared fixedly at the school-door with a more vivid red on her red cheeks: the bell would soon ring—then he would come rushing out—then—. All at once she saw the boy's mother. She? Frau Schlieben was approaching the door with quick steps. Oh dear!

A few quick bounds brought her behind a bush: did she intend fetching her Wolfgang herself to-day? Oh, then she would have to go. And she stole away to the station, full of grief. The joy that had made her heart beat had all disappeared; but she still had one consolation: Wolfgang would not forget her. No, never!

Wolfgang was much surprised to see his mother. Surely he need not be fetched? She had never done that herself before. He was disagreeably impressed. Was he a baby? The others would make fun of him. He felt very indignant, but his mother's kindness disarmed him.

She was specially tender that day, and very talkative. She inquired about everything they had been doing at school, she did not even scold when he confessed he had had ten faults in his Latin composition; on the contrary, she promised he should make an excursion to Schildhorn that afternoon. It was such a beautiful, sunny autumn day, almost like summer. The boy sauntered along beside her, quite content, dangling his books at the end of the long strap. He had quite forgotten for the moment that Cilia was to leave that day.

But when they came home and the strange maid answered the door, he opened his eyes wide, and when they sat down at table and the new girl with the pointed face, who did not look at all like a servant, brought in the dishes, he could not contain himself any longer.

"Where's Cilia?" he asked.

"She has gone away—you know it," said his mother in a casual tone of voice.

"Away?" He turned pale and then crimson. So she had gone without saying good-bye to him! All at once he had no appetite, although he had been so hungry before. Every mouthful choked him; he looked stiffly at his plate—he dared not look up for fear of crying.

His parents spoke of this and that—all trivial matters—and a voice within him cried: "Why has she gone without saying good-bye to me?" It hurt him very much. He could not understand it—she was so fond of him. How could she have found it in her heart to go away without letting him know where he could find her? His Cillchen to leave him like that! Oh, she could not have done so—not of her own free will, oh no, no. And just when he was at school.

He was seized with a sudden suspicion: he had not thought of such a thing before, but now it was clear to him—oh, he was not so stupid as all that—she had had to go just because he was at school. His mother had never liked Cilia, and she had not wanted her to say good-bye to him.

The boy cast angry glances at his mother from under his lowered lashes: that was horrid of her.

He rose from the table full of suppressed wrath, and dragged his feet up the stairs to his room. He found the pictures of the saints that had been stuck into his drawer at once—"With love from Cilia"—and then he gave way to his fury and his grief. He stamped with his feet and kissed the gaudy pictures, and his tears made lots of dark spots on them. Then he rushed downstairs into the dining-room, where his father was still sitting at the table and his mother packing cakes and fruit into her small bag. Oh, she had wanted to go for a walk with him. That would be the very last thing he would do.

"Where has Cilia gone? Why haven't you let her say good-bye to me?"

His mother gazed at him, petrified; how did the boy guess her innermost thoughts? She could not utter a word. But he did not let her speak either, his boy's voice, which was still high, cracked and then became deep and hoarse: "Yes, you—oh, I know it quite well—you did not want her to say good-bye to me. You've sent her away so that I should not see her any more—yes, you! That's horrid of you! That's—that's vile!" He went towards her.

She shrank back slowly—he raised his hands—was he going to strike her?

"You rascal!" His father's hand seized him by the scruff of his neck. "How dare you? Raise your hand against your mother?" The angry man shook the boy until his teeth chattered, and did so again and again. "You—you rascal, you good-for-nothing!"

"She didn't let her say good-bye to me," the boy screamed as an answer. "She's sent her away because—because——"

"You still dare to speak to——"

"Yes! Why didn't she let Cilia say good-bye to me? She never did anything to her. I loved her and it was for that, only for that——"

"Silence!" He gave the boy a violent blow on the mouth. The man no longer recognised himself; his calmness had abandoned him, the boy's obstinacy made him lose his temper. How he struggled against the hand that was holding him, how he stared at him with his bold eyes. How dared he shout at him like that? "You"—he shook him—"so you are so insolent? So ungrateful? What would have become of you? You would have died in misery—yes—it's she who has made something out of you—who picked you up out of——"

"Paul!" His wife's scream interrupted the man. Kate seized hold of his arm as though she were out of her mind: "No, no, leave him. You are not to—no!" She held her hand in front of his mouth. And when he pushed her away angrily and seized hold of the boy more firmly, she tore him away from him and pressed his head against her dress as if to protect him. She held her hand before his ears. Her face was deathly white, and, turning her dilated eyes to her husband, she implored him full of terror: "Not a word! I beseech you, I beseech you!"

The man's anger had not yet cooled. Kate must really have lost her senses. Why did she take the boy away from the punishment he so richly deserved? He approached the boy once more with a hard: "Well, really, Kate I'm not going to condone this."

Then she fled with him to the door and pushed him outside, bolted it and then placed herself in front of it, as though to bar her husband's egress.

Now Wolfgang had gone. They were both alone now, she and her husband, and with a cry full of reproach: "You had almost betrayed it to him," she tottered to the sofa. She fell rather than sat down on it, and broke out in hopeless weeping.

Paul Schlieben strode up and down the room. He had indeed almost allowed himself to be carried away by his indignation. But would it have been a misfortune if he had told the boy about it? Let him know where he came from, and that he had nothing, really nothing whatever to do there. That he received everything as a favour. It was absolutely unnecessary—in fact, more prejudicial than desirable—to keep it a secret from him. But if she would not allow it on any account!

He interrupted his walk to and fro, remained standing before his wife, who was weeping in the corner of the sofa, and looked down at her. He felt so extremely sorry for her. That was the reward for all her kindness, her unselfishness, for all her devotion! He laid his hand softly on her drooping head without saying a word.

Then she started up suddenly and caught hold of his hand: "And don't do anything to him, please. Don't hit him. It's my fault—he guessed it. I did not like her, I gave her notice, and then I sent her away secretly—only because he loved her, only for that reason. I feared her. Paul, Paul"—she wrung her hands repentantly—"oh, Paul, I stand abashed before the child, I stand abashed before myself."

Wolfgang was sitting huddled up in his room, holding the pictures of the saints in his hand. Those were now his most costly, his only possessions; a precious memory. Where could she be now? Still in the Grunewald? Already in Berlin? Or much further? Oh, how he longed for her. He missed the friendly face that was always smiling secretly at him, and his longing for her increased until he could not bear it any longer. There was no one there who loved him as she did whom he loved as he had loved her.

Now that Cilia was gone he forgot that he had often laughed at her and played tricks on her, and had also quarrelled with her in a boyish manner. His longing for her grew and grew, and her figure grew as well. It became so large and so strong, so powerful that it took his eyes away from everything else that still surrounded him. He threw himself on the carpet and dug his fingers into it; he had to hold himself in that manner, otherwise he would have broken everything to bits, everything, big and small.

That was his father's step on the stairs. He shook the door-handle. Let him shake it. Wolfgang had locked himself in.

"Open at once!"

Ah, now he was to have a whipping. Wolfgang wiped his tears away hastily, gnashed his teeth and closed his lips tightly.

"Well, are you soon going to do it?" The handle was shaken louder and louder.

Then he went and opened it. His father stepped in. Not with the stick the boy expected to see in his hand, but with anger and grief written on his brow.

"Come down at once. You have hurt your poor, good—much too good—mother very much. Come to her and ask her pardon. Show her that you are sorry; do you hear? Come."

The boy did not move. He stared past his father into space with an unutterably unhappy, but at the same time obstinate expression on his face.

"You are to come—don't you hear? Your mother is waiting."

"I'm not coming," Wolfgang muttered; he hardly opened his lips at all.

"What?" The man stared at the boy without speaking, quite dismayed at so much audacity.

The boy returned his look, straight and bold. His young face was so pale that his dark eyes appeared still darker, a dense black.

"Bad eyes," said the man to himself. And suddenly a suspicion took possession of him, a suspicion that was old and long forgotten, but still had slumbered in the recesses of his heart in spite of everything and had now all at once been roused again, and he seized hold of the boy, gripped hold of his chest so tightly that he made no further resistance.

"Boy! Rascal! Have you no heart? She who has done so much for you, she, she is waiting for you and you, you won't come? On your knees, I say. Go on in front—ask her pardon. At once." And he seized the boy, who showed no emotion whatever, by the scruff of his neck instead of by his chest, and shoved him along in front of him down the stairs and into the room where Kate was sitting buried in her grief, her eyes red with weeping.

"Here's somebody who wants to beg your pardon," said the man, pushing the boy down in front of her.

Wolfgang would have liked to cry out: "No, I won't beg her pardon, and especially not now"—and then all at once he felt so sorry for her. Oh, she was just as unhappy as he—they did not suit each other, that was it. This knowledge came to him all at once, and it deepened his glance and sharpened the features of his young face so much that he looked old beyond his years.

He jerked out with a sob: "Beg your pardon." He did not hear himself how much agony was expressed in his voice, he hardly felt either that her arms lifted him up, that he lay on her breast for some moments and she stroked his hair away from his burning brow. It was as if he were half unconscious; he only felt a great emptiness and a vague misery.

As in a dream he heard his father say: "There, that's right. Now go and work. And be a better boy." And his mother's soft voice: "Yes, he's sure to be that." He went upstairs as though he were walking in his sleep. He was to work now—why? What was the object? Everything was so immaterial to him. It was immaterial whether these people praised or blamed him—what did it matter to him what they did? On the whole he did not like being there any longer, he did not want to stay there any more—no, no! He shook himself as though with loathing.

Then he stood a long time on one spot, staring into space. And gradually a large, an immeasurable expanse appeared before his staring eyes—cornfields and heather in bloom, heather in which the sun sets, quiet waters near which a lonely bird is calling, and over all the solemn, beautiful sound of bells. He must go there. He stretched out his arms longingly, the eyes that were swollen with weeping flashed.

If they were to keep him with them, keep hold of him! No, they could not hold him. He must go there.

He crept nearer to the window as though drawn there. It was high up, too high for a jump, but he would get down nevertheless. He could not go down the stairs of course, they would hear him—but like this, ah, like this.

Kneeling on the window-sill he groped about with his feet to find the water-pipe that ran down the whole side of the house close to the window. Ah, he felt it. Then he slid down from the sill, only hanging on to it by the tips of his fingers, dangled in the air for a few moments, then got the water-pipe between his knees, let go of the window-sill altogether, grasped hold of the pipe and slid down it quickly and noiselessly.

He looked round timidly: nobody had seen him. There was nobody in the street, and there were only a few people walking in the distance. He bent his head and crept past the windows on the ground-floor—now he was in the garden behind the bushes—now over the hedge his trousers slit, that did not matter—now he looked back at the house with a feeling of wild triumph. He stood in the waste field, in which no houses had been built as yet, stood there hidden behind an elderberry-bush, of which he had planted the first shoot years before as a child. He did not feel the slightest regret. He rushed away into the sheltering wood like a wild animal that hears shots.

He ran and ran, ran even when it was not necessary to run any more. He did not stop until complete exhaustion forced him to do so. He had run straight across the wood without following any path; now he no longer knew where he was. But he was far away, so much was certain. He had not got so far into the wood on his robber expeditions with his play-fellows, and, in his walks, had never gone into the parts where there were no paths whatever and where it was quite lonely. He could rest a little now in peace.

He threw himself on the ground, where the sand showed nothing but fine grass and some bracken in small hollows. Trees in which there was not the slightest motion towered above him all around, like slender pillars that seemed to support the heavens.

He lay there for some time on his back, and let his blood, which was coursing through his veins like mad, cool down. He thought he could hear his heart throb quite distinctly, although he could not account for it—oh, it was pounding and stabbing so unpleasantly in his breast; he had never felt it do like that before. But he had never run like that before, at any rate since his illness. He had to fight for air, he thought he was going to choke. But at last he was able to breathe again more comfortably; now he had not to distend his nostrils and pant for breath any more. He could enjoy the feeling of ease and comfort that gradually came over him now.

It was not yet dusk when he set out again, but still the light began to show that it was October. There was a sweet softness, something extremely gentle and glorified about the sunshine that fell through the red branches of the pines, which also softened the wild runaway. He went in a dream—whither? He did not know, he did not think of it either, he only walked on and on, in pursuit of a longing that drew him on irresistibly, that fluttered in front of him and cooed and called like a dove seeking her nest. And the dove's wings were stronger than the wings of an eagle.

There were no people where the longing flew. It was so peaceful and quiet there. Not even his foot made any noise as it sank into the moss and short grass. The pines stood in the glow of the setting sun like slender lighted candles. No autumn leaves lay on the ground in which the wind might have rustled; the air swept noiselessly over the smooth pine-needles and the colourless cones that had dropped down from the tree-tops.

Wolfgang had never known it was so beautiful there. He looked round with amazed delight. It had never seemed so beautiful before. But it was not like this, of course, where the villas were and the roads. His eyes glanced curiously now to the right, now to the left and then in front of him into the twilight of the wood. There, where the last gold of the setting sun did not cling to the cleft bark like red blood and the light did not penetrate, there was a soft mysterious dusk, in which the mossy dark-green stems gleamed nevertheless. And there was a perfume there, so moist and cool, so pungent and fresh, that the boy drew a deep breath as though a weight had been lifted from his chest and a new strength ran through his veins.

The memory of all he had gone through during the day came back to Wolfgang now in the deep calm. He pressed his hands to his hot forehead—ah, now he noticed he had not even a cap on. But what did that matter? He was free, free! He hurried on, shouting with glee, and then he got terrified at the sound of his own loud voice: hush, be quiet! Let him only not be shut up again, let him be free, free!

He did not feel any more longing now. He was filled with a great repose, with a boundless happiness. His eyes sparkled—he opened them wide—he could not stare enough at the world, it was as though he saw it for the first time to-day. He ran up to the trunks that seemed to be supporting the heavens, and threw both arms round them; he pressed his face against the resinous bark. Was it not soft? Did it not cling to his glowing cheek like a caressing hand?

He threw himself down on the moss and stretched his limbs and tossed from side to side in high glee, and then jumped up again—he did not like being there, after all—he must look about, enjoy his liberty.

A single red stripe over the wood that was turning blue still showed where the sun had been, when he became conscious of his actual whereabouts for the first time. Here the former high-road from Spandau to Potsdam had been; ruddy brown and yellow chestnuts formed an avenue through the desolate country. The sand lay a foot deep in the ruts that were seldom used now. Ah, from here you came to Potsdam or Spandau, according to the road you took—alas, could you not already hear cocks crowing and a noise as of wheels turning slowly?

Deciding quickly, the boy turned off from the old high-road to the left, crept through a bent barbed wire fence, that was to protect a clearing which had lately been replanted, bounded like a stag over the small plants that were hardly a hand's-breadth high, and looked out for a cover.

He did not require any, nobody came there. He walked more slowly between the small trees; he took care not to tread on them, stooped down and examined them, measured them out by steps as a farmer does his furrows.

And all at once it was evening. A mist had crept over the earth, light and hardly visible at first, then it had risen and increased in size, had slipped across the piece of clearing on the night wind that was coming up, and had hung on to each gnarl like the beckoning veils of spectres.

But Wolfgang was not afraid; he did not feel any terror. What could happen to him there, where the distant whistle of a train was only heard at intervals, and where the wind carried the smoke it had torn away from the locomotive like a light cloud that rapidly vanishes?

Just as if you were on the prairie, on the steppes, the boy thought to himself, where there are no longer any huts and only the camp fires send their little bit of smoke up as a token. A certain love of adventure was mingled with the bliss of being free. He had always wished to camp out. Of course he would not be able to light a fire and cook by it; he had nothing to do it with. But he did not feel hungry. There was only one thing he needed now, to sleep long and soundly.

He lay down without hesitating. The ground was already cool, but his clothes were thick and prevented the cold from penetrating. He made a sort of pillow for his head, and lay with his face turned towards the evening sky. Pale stars gradually appeared on it, and smiled down at him.

He had thought he would fall asleep at once, he felt tired out, but he lay a long time with open eyes. An inexplicable sensation kept him awake: this was too beautiful, too beautiful, it was like a splendid dream. Golden eyes protected him, a velvety mantle enveloped him, a mother rocked him gently.

Longing, defiance, pain, fury, everything that hurt had disappeared. Only happiness remained in this infinite peace.



CHAPTER XII

Frida Lamke had now been confirmed. She wore a dress that almost touched the ground, and when she saw Wolfgang Schlieben for the first time after a long interval, her greeting was no longer the familiar nod of childhood. But she stopped when she came up to her former play-fellow.

"Hallo, Wolfgang," she said, laughing, and at the same time a little condescendingly—she felt so infinitely superior to him—"well, how are you getting along?"

"All right." He put on a bold air which did not exactly suit the look in his eyes.

She examined him; what a fine fellow Wolfgang had grown. But he held himself so badly, he bent forward so. "Hold yourself up, for goodness' sake," she exhorted, and she straightened her own rush-like figure. "Why do you make such a round back? And you blink your eyes as if you were short-sighted. Hm, you should be with my employer—oh my, she would make you sit up." She chuckled to herself, her whole slender figure shook with a secret inclination to laugh.

"You're so happy," he said slowly.

"Well, why shouldn't I be? Do you think such an old dragon can spoil my good humour? Come, that would be stupid. When she scolds I lower my head, I don't say a word, but I laugh to myself. Ha ha!" Her clear voice sounded very gay.

How pretty she was. The boy's dark eyes were fixed on Frida Laemke as though he had never seen her before. The sun was shining on her fair hair, which she no longer wore in a long plait, but in a thick knot at the back of her head. Her face was so round, so blooming.

"You never come to see me now," he said.

"How can I?" She shrugged her shoulders and assumed an air of importance. "What do you think I have to do? Into town with the car before eight in the morning, and then only two hours for my dinner always in and out and in the evening I'm hardly ever at home before ten, often still later. Then I'm so tired, I sleep as sound as a top. But on Sundays mother lets me sleep as long as I like, and in the afternoon I go out with Artur and Flebbe. We——"

"Where do you go?" he asked hastily. "I could go with you some time."

"Oh, you!" She laughed at him. "You mayn't, you know."

"No." He bowed his head.

"Come, don't look so glum," she said encouragingly, stroking his chin with her fore-finger, and disclosing a hole in her shabby kid glove. "You go to college, you see. Artur is to be apprenticed too, next autumn. Mother thinks to a hairdresser. And Flebbe is already learning to be a grocer—his father can afford to do that—who knows? perhaps he may have a shop of his own in time."

"Yes," said Wolfgang in a monotonous voice, breaking into her chatter. He stood in the street as though lost in thought, his books pressed under his arm. Oh, how far, far this girl, all three of them, had gone from him all at once. Those three, with whom he had once played every day, whose captain he had always been, were already so big, and he, he was still a silly school-boy.

"Oh, hang it all!" He hurled his pile of books away from him with a violent gesture, so that the strap that held them together came undone. All the books and exercise-books flew apart, and lay spread out in the dust of the street.

"Oh dear, Woelfchen!" Frida stooped down, quite terrified, and gathered them all up.

He did not help her to collect them. He stared in front of him with an angry look.

"There—now you've got them again," said the girl, who had grown quite red with stooping so busily. She blew off the dust and pressed them under his arm again.

"I don't want them." He let them fall again.

"Hm, you're a nice fellow. What can you be thinking of?—those expensive books." She felt really quite angry with him. "Don't you know that they cost money?"

"Pooh!" He made a gesture as if to say, what did that matter? "Then some new ones will be bought."

"Even if your father has sufficient money," she said, firing up, "it's still not right of you to treat these good books like that."

He did not say a word to that, but took them up and fastened the strap round them again. They stood together, both feeling embarrassed. She glanced sideways at him: how he had changed. And he felt vexed that he had got into a passion: what would she think of him now?

"I shall have to go now," she said all at once, "or I shan't even get my dinner eaten ugh, how hungry I am!" She put her hand on her stomach. "How good it'll taste! Mother has potatoes in their jackets and herrings to-day."

"I shall go too." Suiting his step to hers he trotted beside her as she tripped hastily along.

She got quite red: what would her mother say if she brought Wolfgang with her? No, that would really not do, this was just the day when their room had not been tidied. And she had told a fib too: there were no herrings, only onion sauce with the potatoes in their jackets.

She felt ashamed that Wolfgang should find it out.

"No, you go home," she said, intrenching herself behind a pout. "As you've not been to see us for so long, you needn't come to-day either. I'm angry with you."

"Angry with me—me? What have I done? I wasn't allowed to come to you, I mightn't—that's not my fault, surely. Frida!"

She commenced to run, her face quite scarlet; he ran beside her. "Frida! Frida, surely you can't be angry with me? Oh, Frida, don't be angry. Frida, let me go with you. At last I've met you, and then you behave like this?"

There was sorrow in his voice. She felt it, but she was angry all the same: why should he cling to her like that? Flebbe would not like it at all. And so she said in a pert voice: "We don't suit each other and never shall. You go with your young ladies. You belong to them."

"Say that once more—dare to do it!" He shouted in a rough voice, and raised his hand as though he would strike her. "Affected creatures, what are they to me?"

He was right—she had to confess it in her heart—he had never taken any notice of the young girls who lived in the villas around him. She knew very well that he preferred them to them all, and her vanity felt flattered; she said soothingly, but at the same time evasively: "No, Woelfchen, you can't go with me any more, it's not proper any more." And she held out her hand: "Good-bye, Wolfgang."

They were among the bushes in a small public garden in which there were benches, the villas lying at a good distance from it, quite hidden behind their front gardens. There was nobody in sight in the quiet radiance of the noonday sun. But even if somebody had come, it would not have made any difference; he seized hold of her with both hands in a kind of rage. "I am going with you—I shall not let you go."

She resisted forcibly: what was the stupid boy thinking of? "Let me go," she said, spitting at him like a little cat, "will you let me go at once? You hurt me. Just you wait, I'll tell Flebbe about it, he'll be after you. Leave me in peace."

He did not let her go. He held her clasped in his arms without saying a word, his books were again lying in the dust.

Did he want to kiss or strike her? She did not know; but she was afraid of him and defended herself as best she could. "You runaway!" she hissed, "hm, you're a nice one. Runs away from home, hides himself in the wood. But they got you all the same—and it served you right."

All at once he let her go; she stood in front of him mocking him. She could easily have run away now, but she preferred to stand there and scold him: "You runaway!"

He got very red and hung his head.

"How could you think of doing such a thing?" she continued with a certain cruelty. "So silly. Everybody laughed at you. We positively could not believe it at first. Well I never, said I, the boy runs away without money, without a cap, without a piece of bread in his pocket. You wanted to go to America like that, I suppose, eh?" She eyed him from top to toe and then threw her head back and laughed loudly: "To think of doing such a thing."

He did not raise his head, only murmured half to himself: "You shouldn't laugh at it, no, you shouldn't."

"Come, what next? Cry, perhaps? What does it matter to me? Your mother cried enough about it, and your father ran about as if he were crazy. All the rangers in the district were on their legs. Tell me, didn't you get a good thrashing when they dragged you home by the collar?"

"No." He suddenly raised his head and looked straight into the eyes that were sparkling a little maliciously.

There was something in his glance—a mute reproach—that compelled her to lower her lids.

"They didn't beat me—I wouldn't have stood it either—no, they didn't beat me."

"Shut you up?" she asked curiously.

He did not answer; what was he to say? No, they had not shut him up, he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street, to school—and still, still he was not free.

Tears suddenly started to his eyes. "You—you shouldn't—shouldn't taunt me—Frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "I'm so—so——"

He wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little and in another way too much. And he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. So he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. And only his tears, which he could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the dust of the street.

They were tears of sorrow and of rage. It was already more than six months ago—oh, even longer—but it still enraged him as though it had happened the day before. He had never forgotten for a moment that they had caught him so easily. They had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere the sun had risen on a new day. And they had carried him home in triumph. What he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. His mother had certainly cried a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "Once, but not more, my son. Remember that."

Wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. Frida stood in front of him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as well—she had always been his good friend. Now she cried with him.

"Don't cry, Woelfchen," she sobbed. "It isn't so bad. People don't remember anything more about it—such things are forgotten. You certainly need not feel ashamed of it—why should you? There's no harm in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way. Simply say to them: 'Then I'll run away again,' if they won't let you come to us. Come next Sunday afternoon. Then I won't go with Artur and Flebbe—no, I'll wait for you."

She wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the other.

They stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes. The lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of May. The dark and the light head were close to each other.

"Frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though clinging to it, "Frida, are you still fond of me, at any rate?"

"Of course." She nodded, and her clear merry laugh was heard once more, although there were still traces of tears on her face. "That would be a nice sort of friendship, if it disappeared so quickly. There!" She pursed up her mouth and gave him a kiss.

He looked very embarrassed; she had never given him a kiss before.

"There!" She gave him another one. "And now be happy again, my boy. It's such beautiful weather."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You're late to-day," said his mother, when Wolfgang came home from school at two instead of at one o'clock. "You've not been kept, I hope?"

A feeling of indignation rose in him: how she supervised him. The good temper in which his friend Frida had put him had disappeared; the chains galled him again. But he still thought a good deal of Frida. When he was doing his lessons in the afternoon, her head with its thick knot of hair would constantly appear behind his desk, and bend over his book and interrupt him; but it was a pleasant interruption. What a pity that Frida had so little time now. How nice it had been when they were children. He had always been most fond of her; he had been able to play better with her than with the two boys, she had always understood him and stuck to him—alas!

He felt as though he must envy, from the bottom of his heart, the boy who had been the captain when they played at robbers in those days and roasted potatoes in the ashes, nay, even the boy who had once been so ill that they had to wheel him in a bath-chair the first time he went out into the open air. The boy who sat at the desk now, staring absently into space over the top of his exercise-book, was no longer the same. He was no longer a child. All at once it seemed to Wolfgang as though a golden time had gone for ever and lay far behind him, as though there were no pleasures in store for him. Had not the clergyman who was preparing him for confirmation also said: "You are no longer children"? And had he not gone on to say: "You will soon have your share of life's gravity"? Alas, he already had it.

Wolfgang sat with knit brows, the chewed end of his penholder between his teeth, disinclined to work. He was brooding. All manner of thoughts occurred to him that he had never had before; all at once words came into his mind that he had never thought of seriously before. Why did the boys in his form constantly ask him such strange questions? They asked about his parents—well, was there anything peculiar about them?—and then they exchanged glances among themselves and looked at him so curiously. What was so funny about him? Lehmann was the most curious—and so cheeky. Quite lately he had blinked at him sideways so slyly, and puffed up his cheeks as though they must burst with laughter when he made the specially witty remark: "I'll be hanged if I can see any likeness between you and your governor!" Was he really not like his father or his mother? Not like either of them?

When Wolfgang undressed that evening, he stood a long time in front of the looking-glass that hung over his washstand, with a light in his hand, holding it first to the right, then to the left, then higher, then lower. A bright light fell on his face. The glass was good, and reflected every feature faithfully on its clear surface—but there was no resemblance whatever between his big nose and his mother's fine one. His father's nose was also quite different. And neither of his parents had such a broad forehead with hair growing far down on it, and such brows that almost met. His father had certainly dark eyes, but they did not resemble those he saw in the glass, that were so black that even the light from the candle, which he held quite close, could not make them any lighter.

At last the boy turned away with a look full of doubt. And still there was something that resembled a slight feeling of relief in the sigh he now uttered. If he were so little like them externally, need he wonder then that his thoughts and feelings were often so quite, quite different from theirs?

It was strange how the boys at school were an exact copy of their parents; and how the big boys were still tied to their mothers' apron-strings. There was Kullrich, for example; he had been away for a fortnight because his mother had died, and when he came to school again for the first time—with a black band round his coat-sleeve—the whole form went almost crazy. They treated him as though he were a raw egg, and spoke quite low, and nobody made a joke. And when the passage, When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up, happened to occur in the Bible-lessons, in which Kullrich also took part, they all looked at him as though at the word of command, and Kullrich laid his head down on his Bible, and did not raise it again during the whole lesson. Afterwards the master went up to him and spoke a long time to him, and laid his hand on his head.

That was already a long time ago, but Kullrich was still not happy. When they all walked in the playground during the interval, eating their bread and butter, he stood at some distance and did not eat. Was it really so hard to lose one's mother?

There was a wonderful moon shining over the silent pines that night; the boy lay half out of the window for a long, long time. His eyes were burning: his thoughts buzzed in his head like a swarm of gnats that whirl round and round and up and down in the air like a cloud. Where did they come from all at once?

He exposed his hot forehead, his chest, from which his nightshirt had slipped, to the cool night air in May—ah, that did him good. That was the best, the only thing that soothed, that gave peace. Oh, how delightful the air was, so pure, so fresh.

Where could Cilia be now? he wondered. He had never heard anything more about her, She was where he would like to have been—oh, how he would have liked it. Something that resembled the sound of bells came floating along, and he stretched out his arms and bent further and further out of the window.

Wolfgang had such a vivid dream about Cilia that night that when he awoke he thought she was standing at his bedside, that she had not left him yet. But after he had rubbed his eyes, he saw that the spot on which she had just been standing smiling so pleasantly was empty.

After school was over he had to go to the Bible-lesson; he was to be confirmed the following Easter. True, he was still young, but Paul Schlieben had said to his wife: "He is so developed physically. We can't have him confirmed when he is outwardly, at any rate, a grown-up man. Besides, his age is just right. It is much better for him if he does not begin to reflect first."

Did he not reflect already? It often seemed to Kate as if the boy evaded her questions, when she asked him about the Bible-lesson. Did his teacher not understand how to make an impression on him? Dr. Baumann was looked upon as an excellent theologian, everybody rushed to hear his sermons; to be allowed to join his confirmation classes, that were always so crowded, was a special favour; all his pupils raved about him, people who had been confirmed by him ten, fifteen years before, still spoke of it as an event in their lives.

Kate made a point of going to hear this popular clergyman's sermons very often. Formerly she had only gone to church at Christmas and on Good Friday, now she went almost every Sunday to please her boy, for he had to go now. They left the house together every Sunday, drove to church together, sat next to each other; but whilst she thought: "How clever, how thought-out, what fervour, surely he must carry a youthful mind away with him"? Wolfgang thought: "If only it were over!" He felt bored. And his soul had never soared there as when the little bell rang when the monstrance had been raised, when he had smelt the odour of incense before dim altars.

There was something in him that drove him to the church he had once visited with Cilia. When he went to the Bible-class he had to pass close by it; but even if the road had been longer, he would still have made it possible to go there. Only to stand a few minutes, a few seconds in a corner, only to draw his breath once or twice in that sweet, mysterious, soothing air laden with incense. He always found the church door open; and then when he stepped out again into the noise of Berlin, he went through the streets with their hurry and their rush like one come from another world. After that he did not take any notice of what he was told about the doctrines and the history of the Church—what were Martin Luther, Calvin and other reformers to him? His soul had been caught, his thoughts submerged in a feeling of gloomy faith.

Thus the summer and winter passed. When the days grew longer, and the mild warmth of the sun promised to dry up all the moisture winter had left behind ere long, Paul Schlieben had his villa cleaned and painted. It was to put on a festive garment for their son's great day, too.

The white house looked extremely pretty with its red roofs and green shutters, as it peeped out from behind the pines; there would almost have been something rustic about it, had it not been for the large plate-glass windows and the conservatory, with its palms and flowering azaleas, that had lately been built on. Friedrich was sowing fresh grass in the garden, and an assistant was tidying up the flower-beds; they were digging and hoeing everywhere. The sparrows were chirping noisily, bold and happy; but strips of paper tied to long pieces of string and stretched across the lawns that had just been sown fluttered in the purifying wind and frightened the impudent birds away from the welcome food. All the gardens were waking up. The stems of the roses had not yet been released from their coverings, in which they looked like a chrysalis made of straw, but the young shoots had appeared on the fruit-trees, and the spurge-laurel made a fine show with its peach-coloured blossoms. Perambulators painted white and sky-blue were being driven up and down the street, the baby inside was already peeping out from behind the curtains, and little feet tripped along by the side. Nurses and children came out of all the doors, the boys with hoops, the girls with their balls in a knitted net. Giggling young girls went off to tennis, and big boys from the third form made love to them.

Brightness and gaiety everywhere. There was a glad excited rustling in the tops of the pines, and the sap rose and fell in the willows along the shores of the lake. A flight of starlings passed over the Grunewald colony, and each bird looked down and chose in which box on the tall pine stems it would prefer to nest.

The new suit of clothes—black trousers and coat—Wolfgang was to wear at his confirmation lay spread out on his bed upstairs. Now he was to try it on.

Kate was filled with a strange emotion, and her pulse quickened as she helped him to put on his new suit. So far he had always been dressed like a boy, in knickers and a sailor blouse, now he was to be dressed like a man all at once. The festive black suit of fine cloth did not suit him; for the first time one noticed that he was thick-set. He stood there stiffly, he felt cramped in the trousers, the coat was uncomfortable, too: he looked miserable.

"Look at yourself, just look at yourself," said Kate, pushing him in front of the glass.

He looked into it. But he did not see the clothes, he only saw his mother's face as she looked into the glass at the same time as he, and he saw they had not a single feature in common.

"We're not a bit alike," he murmured.

"Hm? What did you say?" She had not understood him.

He did not answer.

"Don't you like the suit?"

"It's awful!" And then he stared at himself absently. What had they been saying again that morning? They had been jeering at him, Lehmann and von Kesselborn, who were to be confirmed with him. Was it because their fathers were not so rich as his? Kesselborn's father was a retired officer, who now filled the post of registrar, but Kesselborn was terribly proud of his "von"; and Lehmann was his bosom friend. However, he had told them that he had already had a silver watch since he was eight years old, and that he was to have a real gold one for his confirmation, which he would then wear every day—that had vexed them awfully.

It was before the lesson had commenced—they were all three waiting—and Kesselborn had suddenly said: "Schlieben gives himself airs," and had then turned to him and said: "You needn't be so stuck-up." And then Lehmann had added, also quite loudly so that everybody must have heard it: "Don't put on so much side, we know all about it."

"What do you know?" He had wanted to jump on Lehmann like a tiger, but the clergyman had just then come in and they began prayers. And when the lesson, of which he had hardly heard anything—he heard the other words all the time—was over, he had wanted to tackle Kesselborn and Lehmann, but they had been sitting near the door, and had already gone before he could get out of his bench. He did not see them again. But he noticed glances in which there was a certain curiosity and spitefulness—or did he only imagine it? He was not quite sure about it, and he had not thought any more about it either. But now when he saw his mother's face so close to his in the glass, he suddenly remembered it all again. And it all came back to him, plumped like a stone into his thoughts.

"I'm not at all like you," he said once more. And then he watched her face: "Not like father either."

"Oh yes," she said hastily, "you are very much like your father."

"Not the slightest bit."

Her face had flamed, and then he noticed that she suddenly turned pale. Then she laughed, but there was something forced in her laugh. "There are many children who hardly resemble their parents at all—that has nothing to do with the matter."

"No, but——" All at once he stopped and frowned, as he always did when he exerted himself to think. And he shot such sharp, such suspicious, such scrutinising glances at the glass under his knit brows that Kate involuntarily moved aside, so that her head could not be seen near his in the glass any more.

She was seized with a sudden fear: what did he mean? Had he spoken like that intentionally, or had he said it quite unconsciously? What had they said to him? What did he know?

Her hands that had found something to do to his clothes—she was on her knees pulling down his trousers—were full of nervous haste, and were pulling here, pulling there, and trembling.

He was not looking into the glass now, he was gazing at the kneeling woman with an indefinable look. As a rule, his face had not much expression and was neither handsome nor ugly, neither fine nor insignificant—it was still a smooth, immature boy's face without a line on it—but now there was something in it, something doubting, restless, which made it appear older, which drew furrows on his forehead and lines round his mouth. Thoughts seemed to be whirling round behind that lowered brow; the broad nostrils quivered slightly, the trembling lips were pressed tightly together.

A deep silence reigned in the room. The mother did not utter a word, nor did the son. The birds were twittering outside, even the faintest chirp could be heard as well as the soft rustling of the spring wind in the tops of the pines.

Kate rose slowly from her knees. She found difficulty in getting up, all her limbs felt as if they were paralysed. She stretched out her hand gropingly, caught hold of the nearest piece of furniture and helped herself up.

"You can take it off again now," she said in a low voice.

He was already doing so, visibly glad at being able to throw off the clothes he was so unused to.

She would have liked so much to say something to him, something quite unimportant—only to speak, speak—but she felt so strangely timid. It was as though he might say to her: "What have I to do with you, woman?" And her fear kept her silent.

He had taken off his new suit now, and was standing before her showing his broad chest, which the unbuttoned shirt had left exposed, his strong legs, from which the stockings had slipped down, and all his big-boned, only half-clothed robustness. She averted her glance—what a big fellow he was already!—but then she looked at him again almost immediately: why should a mother feel shy at looking at her child? A mother?

Her eyes flickered. As she walked to the door she said, without turning her head to him again: "I'm going down now. You'll be able to finish without me, no doubt."

He mumbled something she could not understand. And then he stood a long time, half dressed as he was, and stared into the glass, as though the pupils of his eyes could not move.

The day of his confirmation drew near; it was to take place on Palm Sunday. Dr. Baumann had laid the importance of the step they were about to take very clearly before the boys' eyes. Now a certain feeling of solemnity took the place of Wolfgang's former indifference. He was more attentive during the last lessons; the empty bare room with the few pictures on the plain walls did not seem so bare to him any longer. Was it only because he had grown accustomed to it? A softer light fell through the dreary windows and glided over the monotonous rows of benches, beautifying them.

Even Lehmann and Kesselborn were not quite so unsympathetic lately. All his thoughts grew gentler, more forgiving. The boy's hard heart became soft. When the clergyman spoke of the Commandments and specially emphasised the one, "Honour thy father and thy mother," it seemed to Wolfgang there was much for which he must ask forgiveness; especially his mother's forgiveness.

But then when he came home and wanted to say something loving to her—something quite unprepared, quite spontaneous—he could not do it, for she had not perceived his intention.

Kate often went to the station to meet him—oh, how tired the poor boy must be when he came home. It was really too great a rush for him to have to go to town for his Bible-lessons so often, and there was always twice as much work at school before the end of the term. She would have liked to have caressed him, to have fondled him as she formerly did little Woelfchen. But when she saw him come sauntering along, never looking out for her, never imagining that she was there waiting for him, she would turn quickly down the first street or remain standing quietly behind a tree and let him pass by. He did not notice her at all.

The popular clergyman had to prepare a great many boys for confirmation, too many; he could not interest himself in each individual one of them; nevertheless he thought he could assure Wolfgang's mother, who came to see him full of a certain anxiety in order to ask him how her son was getting on, that he was satisfied with him.

"I know, I know, Frau Schlieben. Your husband considered it his duty to explain it to me—I have also seen the boy's Catholic certificate of baptism. But I think I can assure you with a clear conscience that the lad is a sincere, evangelical Christian. What, you still have some doubts about it?" Her doubtful mien, the questioning anxiety in her eyes astonished him.

She nodded: yes, she had a doubt. Odd that she should have got it quite lately. But a stranger, anybody else would not understand it, not even this man with the clever eyes and the gentle smile. And she could hardly have expressed her doubt in words. And she would have had to tell her tale quite from the beginning, from the time when she took the child away from its mother, took it into her own hands, the whole child, body and soul.

So she only said: "So you believe—you really believe—oh, how happy I am, Dr. Baumann, that you believe we have done right." She looked at him expectantly—oh, how she yearned for him to confirm it and he bowed his head:

"So far as our knowledge and understanding go—yes."

Wolfgang did not sleep the night before Palm Sunday. He had been told at the last lesson that day that he was to prepare his thoughts. And he felt, too, that the next day was an important day, a fresh chapter in his life. He did his best to think of everything a boy preparing for his confirmation ought to think of. He was very tired and could not help yawning, but he forced his eyes open every time. However, he could not help his thoughts wandering again and again; his head was no longer clear.

What text would he get next day in remembrance of his confirmation? he wondered. They had often talked about it at school, each one had his favourite text which he hoped to get. And would he get the gold watch early in the morning before going to church? Of course. Oh, how angry Kesselborn and Lehmann would be then—those wretches! He would hold it up before their eyes: there, look! They should be green with envy—why should they always be whispering about him, meddling with things that did not concern them at all? Pooh, they could not make him trouble about it all the same, not even make him angry.

And still all at once he saw his own face so plainly before his mind's eye and his mother's near it, as he had seen them in the glass. There was not a single feature alike—no, not one.

It was really odd that mother and son resembled each other so little. Now he was wide awake, and commenced to ponder, his brows knit, his hands clenched. What did they really mean by their offensive remarks? If only he knew it. He would be quite satisfied then, quite easy. But he could not think of anything else as things were now, with everything so obscure. All his thoughts turned round and round the same point. It was a horrible feeling that tormented him now, a great uncertainty in which he groped about in the dark. Light, light, he must have light. Ah, he would see that he got some.

He tossed about restlessly, quite tortured by his thoughts, and considered and pondered how he was to find it out, where he was to find it out. Who would tell him for certain whether he was his parents' child or not? Why should he not be their child? Yes, he was their child—no, he was not. But why not? If he was not their real child, would he be very sorry? No, no!—but still, it terrified him.

The perspiration stood out on the excited boy's body, and still he felt icy-cold. He drew the cover up and shook as though with fever. His heart behaved strangely too, it fluttered in his breast as though with restless wings. Oh, if only he could sleep and forget everything. Then there would be no thought of it next day, and everything would be as it had always been.

He pressed his eyes together tightly, but the sleep he had driven away did not come again. He heard the clocks strike, the old clock resounded hi the dining-room downstairs, and the bronze one called from his mother's room with its silvery voice. The silence of the night exaggerated every sound; he had never heard the clocks strike so loudly before.

Was the morning never coming? Was it not light yet? He longed for the day to come, and still he dreaded it. All at once he was seized with an inexplicable terror—why, what was it he feared so much?

If only he were already at church—no, if only it were all over. He was filled with reluctance, a sudden disinclination. The same thought continued to rush madly through his brain, and his heart rushed with it; it was impossible to collect his thoughts. He sighed as he tossed and turned on his bed; he felt so extremely lonely, terrified, nay, persecuted.

If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea—alas, he could not escape from that thought, it was everywhere and always, always there.

As the morning sun stole through the shutters that were still closed on Palm Sunday, forcing its way into the room in delicate, golden rays, Kate came into her son's room. She was pale, for she had been struggling with herself the whole night: should she tell him something, now that he was to enter upon this new chapter of his life or should she tell him nothing? Something within her whispered: "The day has come, tell him it, you owe it to him"—but when the morning sun appeared she bade the voice of the night be silent. Why tell him it? What did it matter to him? What he did not know could not grieve him; but if he knew it, then—perhaps he would then—oh, God, she must keep silent, she could not lose him!

But she longed to let him feel her love. When she came in with soft steps she was amazed, for he was standing already quite dressed in the new black coat and trousers at the window, gazing fixedly at the field in which they were beginning to build a villa now. The ground floor was already finished, there was a high scaffolding round it; it was going to be an enormous building.

"Good morning, my dear son," she said.

He did not hear her.

"Wolfgang!"

Then he turned round quickly and looked at her, terrified and as though he did not know her.

"Oh, you're already dressed." Her voice seemed to express disappointment; she would have been so pleased to have helped him just on that day. There was a strange feeling in her heart; she had never thought the day would have affected her so. Was it not a day like other days, a festival, of course, but one of many? And now it seemed as though the day were unique, and as though there would never be another like it again.

She went up to Wolfgang, laid her arms round his neck and looked deep into his eyes: "My child!" And then she smiled at him. "I wish you joy."

"Why?" He looked past her with such a strange expression that all the heartfelt things she had wanted to say to him remained unsaid. He was still quite a child although he was almost taller than she, much too much of a child, he did not understand the importance of the day as yet. So all she did was to improve on his appearance a little, to take away a thread from his clothes here, to blow away some dust there and pull his tie straight. And then he had to bend his head; she made a parting again in his stiff obstinate hair, that never would remain straight. And then she could not restrain herself, but took his round face between both her hands and pressed a quick kiss on his forehead.

"Why not on my mouth?" he thought to himself. "A mother would have kissed her child on his mouth."

They went down to breakfast. There were flowers on the table; his father, who was wearing a frock coat, was already seated, and the gold watch lay on Wolfgang's plate. A splendid watch. He examined it critically; yes, he liked it. "In remembrance of April 1, 1901," was engraved inside the gold case. Neither Kesselborn nor Lehmann would get such a watch, none of the boys who were to be confirmed would get anything like such a beauty. It was awfully heavy—he really ought to have a gold chain now.

Wolfgang's parents watched him as he stood there with the watch in his hand, looking at it yes, he was pleased. And that pleased them, especially Kate. She had wanted to have a text engraved inside it as well, but Paul did not wish it: don't let them get sentimental about it. But it was all right as it was, the boy was pleased with the gift, and so they had gained their object.

"It strikes as well," she said to him eagerly. "You can know what time it is in the dark. Look. If you press here—do you see?"

"Yes. Give it to me—you've to press here." He knew all about it.

They had lost count of the time; they had to be going. Wolfgang walked to the station between his parents. When they passed the house where Laemke was hall-porter, Frida was standing at the door. She must have got up earlier than usual this Sunday; she was already in her finery, looked very nice and smiled and nodded. Then Frau Laemke stuck her head out of the low cellar-window, and followed the boy with her eyes.

"There he goes," she philosophised. "Who knows what life has in store for him?" She felt quite moved.

It was splendid weather, a real spring day. The tasteful villas looked so festive and bright; all the bushes were shooting, and the crocuses, tulips and primroses were in bloom. Even Berlin with its large grey houses and its noise and traffic showed a Sunday face. It was so much quieter in the streets; true, the electric cars were rushing along and there were cabs and carriages, but there were no waggons about, no brewers' and butchers' carts. Everything was so much quieter, as though subdued, softened. The streets seemed broader than usual because they were emptier, and the faces of the people who walked there looked different from what they generally did.

The candidates for confirmation were streaming to the church; there was a large number of boys and girls. Most of the girls drove, for they all belonged to good families.

Ah, all those boys and girls. Kate could hardly suppress a slight feeling of longing, almost of envy: oh, to be as young as they were. But then every selfish thought was swallowed up in the one feeling: the boy, the boy was stepping out of childhood's land now. God be with him!

Feelings she had not known for a long time, childlike, devout, quite artless feelings crowded in upon her; everything the years and her worldly life had brought with them fell from her. To-day she was young again, as young as those kneeling at the altar, full of confidence, full of hope.

Dr. Baumann spoke grave words full of advice to the boys and girls; many of the young children sobbed, and their mothers, too. A shudder passed through the crowded church, the young dark and fair heads bent low. Kate's eyes sought Wolfgang; his head was the darkest of all. But he did not keep it bent, his eyes wandered restlessly all over the church until they came to a certain window; there they remained fixed. What was he looking for there? Of what was he thinking? She imagined she could see that his thoughts were far away, and that made her uneasy. Moving nearer to her husband she whispered: "Do you see him?"

He nodded and whispered: "Certainly. He's bigger than all the others." There was something of a father's pride in the man's whisper. Yes, to-day it came home to him: even if they had had many a sorrow they would not have had under other circumstances, many a discomfort and unpleasantness, still they had had many a joy they would otherwise have missed. In spite of everything the boy might in time be all right. How he was growing. There was an expression about his mouth that was almost manly. It had never struck his father before—was it the black clothes that made the boy look so grave?

Wolfgang's thoughts went along paths of their own; not along those prescribed there. He had many sensations, but he could not keep hold of any; he was lost in thought. He saw a bit of the sky through a square in the window-pane, and the flitting figures of his father, mother, Frida, his masters and school-fellows appeared to him in it. But they all glided past, no vision remained. All at once he felt quite alone among all that crowd of people.

When his turn came he stepped mechanically up to the altar with Kullrich beside him; Lehmann and Kesselborn were in front of him. How he hated those two again all at once. He would have liked to throw his watch, his gold watch at their feet: there, take it! But take back what you've said, take it back! Ugh, what a terrible night that had been—horrible. He felt it still in all his limbs; his feet were heavy, and as he knelt down on the cushion on the step leading up to the altar his knees were stiff. Kullrich was crying the whole time. Ah, he was no doubt thinking of his mother, who was not with him any longer. Poor fellow! And Wolfgang felt suddenly that something moist and hot forced its way into his eyes.