much used to my ways, and they cannot
last.' I could not persuade her out of the idea. It imbittered her
death-bed."

"She was right," said the sugar-eater. "She was too good-natured;
self-willed she was also, but that was no matter. Her good-nature
spoiled you. I did not mean to tell you so now, though; another time
would be better. Come, do as I bid you, and don't be such a baby. You
act as if you did not know which way to turn. It is all in the course
of nature that your mother should die before you, and you have nothing
to reproach yourself with in your treatment of her."

"No, thank God!"

"Show yourself a man, then, and stop crying and bawling. I never saw
anybody cry in all my life as you did in the churchyard."

"I cannot tell you how I felt, uncle. I wept for my mother, but also
for myself. When the Liederkranz sang the songs that I had always sung
with them, and I had to stand there dumb and dead, I felt as if I were
really dead, and they were singing at my grave and I could not join
in."

"You are--" said the old man. He was about to add something, but choked
it down and walked on. The little dog that was running in front looked
up wonderingly in his master's face, as if he hardly recognized the
look he saw there.

Presently the old man stopped. "I am going back," he said. "Only one
word more with you. Take into your house none of your mother's
relations whom afterwards you will have to send away. They will forget
all your kindness, and only be vexed that it cannot continue. Neither
give anything away, no matter who asks. If you are tempted to, go off
somewhere for a week or so, and, when you come home, keep the keys to
yourself. Now good by, and be a man!"

"Good by, uncle," said the young man, and went on towards his home. He
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, but knew at every step where he was.
Every stone on the path was familiar to him. When at last he reached
the house, he could hardly bring himself to cross the threshold.

How much had happened there! and what was to come next? He must learn
to bear.

The old serving-woman sat in the kitchen with her apron over her head.
"Is that you, Lenz?" she sobbed, as the young man passed her.

The room looked empty, yet everything was there. The work-bench with
its five divisions for the five workmen stood before the unbroken row
of windows; the tools hung on straps and nails round the wall; the
clocks ticked; the doves cooed; yet all was so empty,