were constantly breaking and luckless slaters plunging headlong to certain death.  Now he heard voices, and the sound of one of them struck like the blow of a hammer on his tortured heart.  It was the only voice which he did not expect to hear.  Would he to whom it belonged ask, “Where is thy brother Abel?” No.  He wanted to tell his son that his brother had met with disaster, that it was a day of misfortune and that he must not work any more.  And if he should ask, the answer was almost as old as the human race; “Am I my brother’s keeper?” It seemed like a relief to him when he remembered that his father was blind.  For he knew that he could not endure his father’s seeing eyes.  He hammered and nailed more and more hurriedly.  He would elude his father if he could, but the roof-truss was small, and the old gentleman’s voice was already at the roof door.  He would not notice him until he was compelled.  He heard him say:  “This is far enough.  My compliments to your master, and here is something for you.  Drink my health with it.”  Fritz Nettenmair, listening, heard his father sit down on the empty board in the dormer window and knew that his tall figure filled the entire opening.  He heard the journeyman’s thanks and his footsteps as they gradually receded.

“Beautiful weather,” said Herr Nettenmair.  The son realized that the father wanted to know if anybody else were near by.  There came no answer, the words died in Fritz Nettenmair’s breast, he hammered always louder and more vehemently.  He wished the hour, the day, his life were at an end.  “Fritz!” called the old gentleman.  He called again and yet again.  At last Fritz Nettenmair was compelled to answer.  He thought of the call, “Cain, where art thou?” and responded “Here, father,” and hammered on.

“The slate is solid,” said the old man, indifferently; “I can tell by the sound; it does not split.”

“Yes,” replied Fritz with chattering teeth, “it will let no water through.”

“It is better than it used to be,” continued his father, “they have got deeper into the quarry.  You seem to be alone.”  A “Yes” died on the son’s lips.  “The deeper it lies, the stronger the slate is.  Is there no other scaffold near?”

“None.”

“Good.  Come here.  Here in front of me!”—­

“What do you want me to do?”

“To come here.  What has to be said must be said softly.”

Fritz Nettenmair went and stood before his father, shaking all over.  He knew that he was blind and yet he sought to avoid his glance.  The old man struggled for composure but not a line of his withered face betrayed the struggle, only the length of his silence and his breathing, which sounded like the tired echo of the creaking swing of the pendulum on the tower clock near-by, might have suggested it.  These preparations awoke in Fritz Nettenmair a premonition of what was to come.  He strove for defiance.  “If he in his distrust has surmised it, who