"He never spoke an untruth! It was in any case solely a question of
time. He drank his death-draught six months ago. The only wonder is
that he bore it so long."
Erna's letter was lying upon the table. The doctor read it almost
mechanically.
"Pretty much as I thought!" he muttered. "Such a clever and, as it
would seem, large-hearted girl, and yet--but they are all alike!"
A scrap of paper, with something in Bertram's hand writing caught his
eye. It was the German telegram.
"All hail--happiness and blessing--to-day and for ever--for my darling
child in Quisisana."
The doctor rose, and was now pacing up and down the chamber with folded
arms. From the adjoining room, the door of which was left ajar, he
heard suppressed sobs. The faithful servant's unconcealed grief had
well-nigh unchained the bitter sorrow in his own heart. He brushed the
tears from his eyes, stepped to the couch, and drew the covering back.
He stood there long, lost in marvelling contemplation.
The beautiful lofty brow, overshadowed by the soft and abundant hair,
the dark colour of which was not broken by one silvery thread; the
daintily curved lips, that seemed about to open for some witty saying,
lips the pallor of which was put to shame by the whiteness of the
teeth, which were just visible; the broad-arched chest--what wonder
that the man of fifty had felt in life like a youth--like the youth for
whom Death had taken him.
From those pure and pallid features Death had wiped away even the
faintest remembrance of the woe which had broken the noble heart.
Now it was still--still for evermore!
He laid his hand upon that silent heart.
"_Qui si sana!_" he said, very gently.