nnot be that you are really no longer there, mother," said he, almost
aloud: he shrunk from the sound of his own voice, and sunk down
exhausted into the chair, where his mother had so often sat.

At last he summoned up courage to go into the next room. "I feel as if
I must send something after you--as if you had forgotten something!"
said he again, and with a cold shudder he opened his mother's press,
into which he had never looked in his life. It seemed to him almost a
crime to dare to do so, and yet he did it. Perhaps she had left him
some sign or token. He found the godfathers' and godmothers' presents
to his deceased brothers and sisters, all marked with their separate
names, and his own also; some ancient coins, the Confirmation
Certificate of his mother, her bridal wreath, dried and withered, but
carefully preserved; her string of garnets, and, in a box by itself, in
several folds of fine paper, a small white velvety looking plant, and a
scrap of writing in his mother's hand. The son first read in a low
voice, and then as if wishing to hear his mother's words, he read
aloud: "This is a plant of Edelweiss."

"Dinner is ready," said a voice, suddenly, through the half open door.

Lenz started, as if he had heard the voice of a spirit, and yet it was
only old Franzl calling to him.

"I will come immediately," answered Lenz, shutting the door, and
bolting it. He then restored everything carefully to its place, and at
last returned into the next room. He did not observe how ominously
Franzl shook her head at such secret doings.

CHAPTER III.
WORK AND GOOD DEEDS.

The nearest neighbour--and he was a good way off--the beadle, had sent
up something to eat; for it is here the custom of the country for the
nearest neighbour to prepare food, and to send it to the mourners after
the funeral, under the idea that on such an occasion people are too
much occupied to think of it themselves; indeed, during funeral
obsequies, and for three hours afterwards, it is not customary to light
any fires. The beadle's daughter brought the dinner herself. "Thank
you, Kathrine, and thank your parents also from me. Take away the
dinner, I will eat again when I am hungry; now, I really cannot."

"You must at all events try to do so, for that is the custom," said
Franzl; "you must put it to your lips. Sit down, Kathrine; in the
presence of a mourner you must always sit, and no