The last word of the funeral sermon had died away, the last spadeful of earth had fallen on the coffin, the mourners had gone home; it became night, and again day, and again night, and again and again day and night; other things drove Fritz Nettenmair’s unfortunate death from the minds of the townsmen—­and still other things these things.  A stone was erected over his grave, and his honest death was vouched for by a sculptor and impressed with chisel-strokes upon forgetful posterity.  One might think that the dark cloud that had hovered over the house with the green shutters would have burst in the storm that dashed the older son from the tower-roof of St. George’s to the pavement below, and that life would now be bright there, as its outer aspect promised.  One might indeed think so if one saw only the young widow and her children.  The three strong young beings raised their drooping heads as soon as the burden which had oppressed them was lifted.  The young widow did not look as if she had been a wife, still less an unhappy wife; from day to day she seemed more like a bridal maiden or a maidenly bride.  And why should she not?  Did she not know that he loved her?  Did she not love him?  Did not the teasing words of others, even if she did not think of it herself, remind her that her love was no longer a forbidden one?  The marriage was so natural, so necessary according to traditional ideas that those who were too old or too dignified to jest took it as a matter of course without mentioning it, and did not mention it merely because they took it as a matter of course.

In his diplomatic fashion the old gentleman made various intimations that if he had remained at the head of things all would have happened differently.  What Apollonius had spoiled, he would now carry out to the best possible end.  Necessity had placed him at the helm again, and he would remain there.  He forgot that he had twice been forced to the acknowledgment that when one becomes old, control in the business is only possible when one need not see through strange eyes.  He was to experience this now for a third time.  Since the night before his older son met a violent death, Herr Nettenmair had resumed his position as manager of the business.  Apollonius reported to him daily concerning the progress of current work and received orders.  When a piece of work has once been fairly started it can go on by itself and requires from the superintendent nothing but inspection and an occasional stimulus.  If, however, something new is to be undertaken, a groove must be sought in which it can run, and the groove must be the shortest, surest, and most profitable.  Clear-seeing eyes are needed, with a quick power to grasp.  That Apollonius possessed these the old gentleman perceived on the first occasion.  It pertained to a particularly difficult piece of work.  Apollonius put it before him with such clearness that the old gentleman believed he saw it with his bodily eyes.  It was a case,