that she
had almost lost her hearing, and that the only medium of pleasure yet
left her was the sense of sight.

Martha, the eldest daughter of the kreis-director, had painted a
picture of the view from our balcony, looking towards the woods down by
the stone wall, and now brought it to my wife, who was delighted with
it. The only figure was a hunter coming out of the woods.

Martha told us that she could not draw figures, and that Annette had
been kind enough to sketch the huntsman for her; and she kissed my
wife's hands on hearing her say, "I think the hunter looks like our
grandson, Julius."

It was on the 22d of July, when she said, "Have a little pine-tree
brought for me, from my woods, and placed here beside my bed."

I sent Rothfuss out to the woods; he brought a little pine, placed it
in a flower-pot, and I observed, while he was leaning over it, how his
tears dropped upon the branches.

He turned around to me and said, "I hope that will not harm the little
tree."

When I placed the tree at her bedside, she smiled and moved her left
hand among its branches, but the hand soon fell down by her side.

What wonderful powers of memory lie in a mother's heart! She would tell
us of a thousand and one little stories and sayings of Ernst, and of
his bright, clever freaks, with as much detail as if they had happened
but the moment before; but, strangely enough, she did all this without
mentioning his name. She praised his flaxen hair, and moved her hand as
if passing it through his locks.

"Do you not recollect how he once said, 'Mother, I cannot imagine how
you could have been in the world without me: of course I have never
been in the world without you'?"

She repeated the words, "without you--without me," perhaps a hundred
times during the night: and she was almost constantly humming snatches
of old songs.

In the morning, just as day was breaking, she turned around to me, and
said with a smile, "This is his birthday." And that was her last smile.
"This is Ernst's birthday."

And when the lost son returned, there was no mother to receive him.

Her silent thoughts had always been of him, but now they were deeper
than ever.

She had lost her hearing. Suddenly she exclaimed in a loud voice, "God
be praised; Richard will marry her after all!" and then--I cannot go on
with the story--I must stop.

It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards
the clock that day) when she said, "Wa