her, she saw that he was more anxious concerning her than himself; when he sent friendly, comforting messages to her she trembled behind the screen with joy.  She rested but little; and when the cold night wind blew flakes of snow through the loose blinds onto her warm face, when her own breath, frozen on the pillow, touched icily throat, chin and bosom, she was happy in the thought that she was allowed to suffer something for him who had suffered all for her.  In those nights sacred love conquered earthly love in her; out of the pain of sweet, disappointed desire which yearned to possess, arose his image surrounded once more by that halo of unattainable glory in which she had known him of yore.

Apollonius recovered quickly.  And now began the joint life of these two people.  They saw each other but seldom.  He lived in his little room by himself.  Valentine brought him his meals, as always.  The children were often with him.  If the two happened to meet, he greeted her with friendly reserve and she returned his greeting.  If they had anything to discuss together it happened each time as if by chance that either the maid was present or the children and Valentine.  But no day passed without some silent token of courteous respect.  On Sundays, when he came in from his garden, he brought a bouquet of flowers with him which Valentine then presented to her.  He could have made a brilliant marriage, gallant lovers sued for her hand; but he repelled all offers and she all suitors.  So passed days, weeks, months, years, decades.  The old gentleman died and was buried.  The good councilman followed, and then Valentine.  The children grew to be youths.  The unruly lock over the widow’s brow, Apollonius’ corkscrew-curl, turned gray; the children became men, strong and gentle like their teacher and master; lock and curl were silver white; the life of the two remained the same.

Now the reader knows all the past which the old man, sitting in his arbor, reads from St. George’s tower when the bells call for Sunday morning service.  Today he looks forward into the future, rather than backward into the past.  For his older nephew is soon to lead Anna Wohlig’s daughter to the altar of St. George’s, and then home; not to the house with the green shutters, however, but to the big house close by.  The pink-tinted house is too small for the growing business—­and besides the new household would not find room there; Herr Nettenmair has bought the big house across the way.  The youngest nephew is going to Cologne.  The old cousin who did so much for Apollonius has been dead for many years; also the son has died, leaving his large business to his only child who is the betrothed of Fritz Nettenmair’s younger son.  There will be a double wedding at St. George’s.  The two old people will then live alone in the house with the green shutters.  For a long time the old gentleman has wanted to hand over the business to his nephews, but the young men have steadfastly refused till now.  The older