What he said was only too true, and a few days later, comparatively early in the evening, it was not yet ten o’clock, Roswitha came down stairs and said to Mrs. von Briest:  “Most gracious Lady, her Ladyship upstairs is very ill.  She talks continually to herself in a soft voice and sometimes it seems as though she were praying, but she says she is not, and I don’t know, it seems to me as though the end might come any hour.”

“Does she wish to speak to me?”

“She hasn’t said so, but I believe she does.  You know how she is; she doesn’t want to disturb you and make you anxious.  But I think it would be well.”

“All right, Roswitha, I will come.”

Before the clock began to strike Mrs. von Briest mounted the stairway and entered Effi’s room.  Effi lay on a reclining chair near the open window.  Mrs. von Briest drew up a small black chair with three gilt spindles in its ebony back, took Effi’s hand and said:  “How are you, Effi!  Roswitha says you are so feverish.”

“Oh, Roswitha worries so much about everything.  I could see by her looks she thought I was dying.  Well, I don’t know.  She thinks everybody ought to be as much worried as she is.”

“Are you so calm about dying, dear Effi?”

“Entirely calm, mama.”

“Aren’t you deceiving yourself?  Everybody clings to life, especially the young, and you are still so young, dear Effi.”

Effi remained silent for a while.  Then she said:  “You know, I haven’t read much.  Innstetten was often surprised at it, and he didn’t like it.”

This was the first time she had mentioned Innstetten’s name, and it made a deep impression on her mother and showed clearly that the end was come.

“But I thought,” said Mrs. von Briest, “you were going to tell me something.”

“Yes, I was, because you spoke of my still being so young.  Certainly I am still young; but that makes no difference.  During our happy days Innstetten used to read aloud to me in the evening.  He had very good books, and in one of them there was a story about a man who had been called away from a merry table.  The following morning he asked how it had been after he left.  Somebody answered:  ’Oh, there were all sorts of things, but you really didn’t miss anything.’  You see, mama, these words have impressed themselves upon my memory—­It doesn’t signify very much if one is called away from the table a little early.”

Mrs. von Briest remained silent.  Effi lifted herself up a little higher and said:  “Now that I have talked to you about old times and also about Innstetten, I must tell you something else, dear mama.”

“You are getting excited, Effi.”

“No, no, to tell about the burden of my heart will not excite me, it will quiet me.  And so I wanted to tell you that I am dying reconciled to God and men, reconciled also to him.”

“Did you cherish in your heart such great bitterness against him?  Really—­pardon me, my dear Effi, for mentioning it now—­really it was you who brought down sorrow upon yourself and your husband.”