hal again remained
quiet for the space of another six weeks.

During this period Madame Dort heard regularly from her son through the
field post. She sent him letters in return, telling him all the home
news she could glean, and saying that she expected him back before the
winter. She hoped, at least, that he would come by that time, for Herr
Grosschnapper had informed her that he would have to fill up Fritz's
place in his counting-house if the exigencies of the war caused his
whilom clerk to remain away any longer.

Things went on like this up to the month of October, the anniversary of
poor Eric's going away; when, all at once, there came a cessation of the
weekly letters of Fritz from headquarters.

His mother wrote to inquire the reason.

She received no answer.

Then she read in the papers of another heavy battle before Metz, in
which the Tenth Army Corps had taken part. The engagement had happened
more than a week before, and Fritz was silent. He might be wounded,
possibly killed!

Madame Dort's anxiety became terrible.

"No news," says the proverb, "is good news;" but, to some it is the very
worst that could possibly be; for, their breasts are filled with a storm
of mingled doubts and fears, while hope is deadened and there is, as
yet, no balm of resignation to soothe the troubled heart! The proverb
is wrong; even the most heartbreaking confirmation of one's most painful
surmise is infinitely preferable to being kept in a state of perpetual
suspense, where one dreads the worst and yet is not absolutely certain
of it.

It was so now with Madame Dort. She thought she could bear the strain
no longer, but must go to the frontier herself and seek for information
of her missing son, as she had read in the newspapers of other mothers
doing. However, one afternoon, as she was sitting in the parlour in a
state of utter dejection by the side of the lighted stove, for winter
was coming on and the days were getting cold, Lorischen brought in a
letter to her which had just come by the post.

It was in a strange handwriting!

The widow tore it open hurriedly, glancing first at the signature at the
end. "Madaleine Vogelstein!" she said aloud. "I wonder who she is; I
never heard of her before!" She then went on to read the letter.

It did not take her long to understand the sense of it.

For, after scanning the contents with startled eyes, she exclaimed, "My
son! oh, my son!" and then fell flat upon the