n and a strong maternal instinct in
her nursing. She seemed to have found her true vocation.

At her bidding Peter sent cablegrams to Frederick's parents, keeping them
informed of his condition, and notifying them when he was pronounced out
of danger. With the request that it be held for him until his health was
restored, she returned a thick letter from the general written before
Frederick was taken ill, correctly assuming that it contained details of
his wife's tragic end. She knew that by keeping the letter, she might be
tempted to betray its existence to the sick man and would then find it
too hard to prevent him from reading it. At the beginning of the fourth
week, she received a letter from the old general, in which he thanked her
and the two doctors from the depths of his heart for all they had done
for his son.

"I may tell you," he wrote, "that poor Angele did not die a natural
death. At the institution, they knew she needed the strictest watching,
but, unfortunately, even with the greatest care, there are moments when a
patient is not observed. It was one of those moments that Angele seized
to take poison, one of the poisons that are frequently used and are not
kept under lock and key."

The snow had melted away. Slowly, slowly Frederick adjusted himself to
life again. There was a mildness in him like the mildness of nature
outside his window. It was a surprisingly sweet experience. The world
seemed to be granting him indulgence. Lying on his clean bed, with the
little pewter sailing vessels on the old seaman's clock ticking to and
fro, he had a sense of security and, what is more, a sense of
rejuvenation, of having expiated and received pardon. From torrid black
clouds, a storm had come with thunder and lightning to cleanse the air.
It was still rumbling on the distance horizon, farther and farther away,
never to return again, leaving behind in the weak man a rich, full,
peaceful joy in life.

"A cure of force, a violent eruption and revolution has purged your body
of all poisons and putrid matter," said Peter Schmidt.

XXX

"A pity no birds are singing," Frederick said one day to Miss Burns, who
had opened his bedroom window wide.

"Yes," said Miss Burns, "it is a pity."

"Because," Frederick went on, "you say it is already greening on the
banks of Lake Hanover."

"What does that mean--'greening'?" asked Miss Burns, who did not know the
German word he had used. He laughed.

"It means spr