mental exertion on the day before the death of his eldest son had undermined his strength; he collapsed entirely now and became each day queerer and more sensitive.  He no longer demanded subserviency from Apollonius; he found a certain self-tormenting pleasure in reproaching his son with unfilial conduct, and in continually giving expression to his bitter regret that such an industrious son should have to put up with so much from an overbearing old father who was not, and never could be, anything any more.  At the same time he rejoiced in his eccentric fashion over the industry of his son, the growing honor and increasing fortunes of his house.  He lived to see the purchase of the slate quarry which Apollonius had previously leased.  The son endured his father’s eccentricities with the same loving, untiring patience which he had exhibited toward his brother.  He lived only in the thought of fulfilling as completely as lay within his power the vow that he had made to himself, and in this vow he had included his father.  The success of his work gave him strength to bear all little annoyances with cheerfulness.

On the day after the winter night’s storm he had told the old building inspector the whole story of his inner life.  The councilman, who till the day of his death clung to Apollonius with all his soul, remained the latter’s only companion, as he was the only person with whom he could hold intimate intercourse without being untrue to his own nature.

For several days after the storm Apollonius had to lie in bed.  A burning fever had taken hold of him.  At first the physician pronounced his illness a very serious one, but in reality it was only the body fighting triumphant battle against the general suffering which had found mental absolution in the resolve of that night.  The sympathy of the town manifested itself in various touching ways.  The old councilman and Valentine were his nurses.  The one whom nature through love and gratitude had determined upon as the best nurse for the sick man, Apollonius did not call to his bed, and she dared not go uncalled.  Throughout his illness, however, she took up her abode in the little trellised arbor and remained there so as to be as near to him as possible.  When he slept the old councilman beckoned to her to enter.  Then she stood with folded hands behind the screen at the foot of his bed and accompanied his every breath with anxiety and hope.  Unconsciously her gentle breathing regulated itself by his.  For hours she stood looking through a crack in the screen at the sick man.  He knew nothing of her presence, and yet the inspector could see how his sleep became easier, his face more smiling.  There was no bottle from which he took his medicine which, without his knowing it, he did not receive from her hand, no plaster, no application which she had not prepared; no cloth, no cover touched him which she had not warmed on her breast, kissed with her loving lips.  When he talked with the councilman about