LITMIR.BIZ

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their occupants. In the distance the organ still prolonged its melancholy tones.

      "Oh, if I could only fly away – far away to the dunes and to the sea!"

      But he had to return to the high-up little room; and that night he lay awake.

      He could not help thinking of his father and the long walks he had taken with him, when he followed a dozen steps behind, and his father wrote letters for him in the sand. He thought of the places under the bushes where the violets grew, and of the days when he and his father had searched for them. All night he saw the face of his father – as it was when he sat beside him evenings by the still lamp-light – watching him, and listening to the scratching of his pen.

      Every morning after this he asked Pluizer to be allowed to go once more to his home and to his father – to see once again his garden and the dunes. He noticed now that he had had more love for his father than for Presto and for his little room, since it was of him that he asked.

      "Only tell me how he is, and if he is still angry with me for staying away so long."

      Pluizer shrugged his shoulders. "Even if you knew, how would it help you?"

      Still the spring kept calling him – louder and louder. Every night he dreamed of the dark green moss on the hillslopes, and of sunbeams shining through the young and tender, verdure.

      "It cannot long stay this way," thought Johannes. "I cannot bear it."

      And often when he could not sleep he rose up softly, went to the window, and looked out at the night. He saw the sleepy, feathery little clouds drifting slowly over the disk of the moon to float peacefully in a sea of soft, lustrous light. He thought of the distant dunes – asleep, now, in the sultry night – how wonderful it must be in the low woods where not a leaf would be stirring, and where it was full of the fragrance of moist moss and young birch-sprouts. He fancied he could hear, in the distance the swelling chorus of the frogs, which hovered so mystically over the plains; and the song of the only bird which can accompany the solemn stillness – whose lay begins so soft and plaintive and breaks off so suddenly, making the silence seem yet deeper. And it all was calling – calling him. He dropped his head upon his arms on the window-sill, and sobbed.

      "I cannot bear it. I shall die soon if I cannot go."

      When Pluizer roused him the following morning, he was still sitting by the window, where he had fallen asleep with his head on his arm.

      The days passed by – grew long and warm – and there came no change. Yet Johannes did not die, and had to bear his sorrow.

      One morning Doctor Cijfer said to him:

      "Come with me, Johannes. I have to visit a patient."

      Doctor Cijfer was known to be a learned man, and many appealed to him to ward off sickness and death. Johannes had already accompanied him many times.

      Pluizer was unusually frolicsome this morning. Again and again he stood on his head, danced and tumbled, and perpetrated all kinds of reckless tricks. His face wore a constant, mysterious grin, as if he had a surprise all ready for the springing. Johannes was very much afraid of him in this humor.

      But Doctor Cijfer was as serious as ever.

      They went a long way this morning – in a railway train and afoot. They went farther than at other times, for Johannes had never yet been taken outside the town.

      It was a warm, sunny day. Looking out of the train, Johannes saw the great green meadows go by, with their long-plumed grass, and grazing cows. He saw white butterflies fluttering above the flower-decked ground, where the air was quivering with the heat of the sun.

      And, suddenly, he felt a thrill. There lay, outspread, the long and undulating dunes!

      "Now, Johannes!" said Pluizer, with a grin, "now you have your wish, you see."

      Only half believing, Johannes continued to gaze at the dunes. They came nearer and nearer. The long ditches on both sides seemed to be whirling around their centre, and the lonely dwellings along the road sped swiftly past.

      Then came some trees – thick-foliaged chestnut trees, bearing great clusters of red or white flowers – dark, blue-green pines – tall, stately linden trees.

      It was true, then; he was going to see his dunes once more.

      The train stopped and then the three went afoot, under the shady foliage.

      Here was the dark-green moss – here were the round spots of sunshine on the ground – this was the odor of birch-sprouts and pine-needles.

      "Is it true? Is it really true?" thought Johannes. "Am I going to be happy?"

      His eyes sparkled, and his heart bounded. He began to believe in his happiness. He knew these trees, this ground; he had often walked over this wood-path.

      They were alone on the way, yet Johannes felt forced to look round, as though some one were following them; and he thought he saw between the oak leaves the dark figure of a man who again and again remained hidden by the last turn in the path.

      Pluizer gave him a cunning, uncanny look. Doctor Cijfer walked with long strides, looking down at the ground.

      The way grew more and more familiar to him – he knew every bush, every stone. Then suddenly he felt a sharp pang, for he stood before his own house.

      The chestnut tree in front of it spread out its large, hand-shaped leaves. Up to the very top the glorious white flowers stood out from the full round masses of foliage.

      He heard the sound he knew so well of the opening of the door, and he breathed the air of his own home. He recognized the hall, the doors, everything – bit by bit – with a painful feeling of lost familiarity. It was all a part of his life – his lonely, musing child-life.

      He had talked with all these things – with them he had lived in his own world of thought that he suffered no one to enter. But now he felt himself cut off from the old house, and dead to it all – its chambers, halls, and doorways. He felt that this separation was past recall, and as if he were visiting a churchyard – it was so sad and melancholy.

      If only Presto had sprung to meet him it would have been less dismal – but Presto was certainly away or dead.

      Yet where was his father?

      He looked back to the open door and the sunny garden outside, and saw the man who had seemed to be following him, now striding up to the house. He came nearer and nearer, and seemed to grow larger as he approached. When he reached the door, a great chill shadow filled the entrance. Then Johannes recognized the man.

      It was deathly still in the house, and they went up the stairs without speaking. There was one stair that always creaked when stepped upon – Johannes knew it. And now he heard it creak three times. It sounded like painful groanings, but under the fourth footstep it was like a faint sob.

      Upstairs Johannes heard a moaning – low and regular as the ticking of a clock. It was a dismal, torturing sound.

      The door of Johannes' room stood open. He threw a frightened glance into it. The marvelous flower-forms of the hangings looked at him in stupid surprise. The clock had run down.

      They went to the room from which the sounds came. It was his father's bedroom. The sun shone gaily in upon the closed, green curtains of the bed. Simon, the cat, sat on the window-sill in the sunshine. An oppressive smell of wine and camphor pervaded the place, and the low moaning sounded close at hand.

      Johannes heard whispering voices, and carefully guarded footfalls. Then the green curtains were drawn aside.

      He saw his father's face that had so often been in his mind of late. But it was very different now. The grave, kindly expression was gone and it looked strained and distressed. It was ashy pale, with deep brown shadows. The teeth were visible between the parted lips, and the whites of the eyes under the half-closed eyelids. His head lay sunken in the pillow, and was lifted a little with the regularity of the moans, falling each time wearily back again.

      Johannes stood by the bed, motionless, and looked with wide, fixed eyes upon the well-known face. He did not know what he thought – he dared not move a finger; he dared

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