“Yes,” she answered.  “He came immediately upon receipt of my letter.”

“And how did he take the news?”

“Quietly enough, outwardly; but I saw only too well that he was moved to his very soul.  He is alone with Hartmut now, and the pent-up storm will burst.”

“How unfortunate.  But I warned him of all this as soon as I heard of Zalika’s return.  He should have spoken to his son at once.  Now I fear he is adding a second blunder to the first in seeking, with commands and force, to prevent further meetings.  That fatal stubbornness of his, which knows no alternative, is terribly out of place now.”

“Yes, and their talk has lasted a long time already.  I’ll just go and see how they’re getting on, and whether the Major is too severe or not.  You remain here, Herbert.  I’ll be back immediately.”

She left the room, and while Wallmoden paced the floor dejectedly, his nephew sat alone at the supper-table, which no one but himself seemed to notice.  He did not venture to eat his supper, for his mother was in anything but a pleasant humor to-day, and he felt no liberties were to be taken.  Fortunately she came back in a short time with a gleam of bright sunshine across her face.

“It’s all right,” she said shortly and concisely.  “He has the boy in his arms and Hartmut is clinging to him.  They can do as they please now.  God be praised!  Now you can eat your supper, Will; the confusion that the house has been in all day is over at last.”

Will didn’t wait to be told twice, but began his meal at the word.  Wallmoden shook his head and said half aloud: 

“If it only really is over at last!”

Neither Falkenried nor his son perceived that the door had been softly opened and closed again.

Hartmut still clung to his father.  He seemed to have lost all shyness and reserve in his newly found happiness.  He was so tender, so caressing, that perhaps the Major was not far wrong in saying he would be left defenseless when his son learned of his great love for him.  He said little; but pressed his lips again and again to his boy’s forehead, and his eyes never left his son’s glowing face, which was so near his own.  At last Hartmut said softly: 

“And my mother?”

A shadow darkened Falkenried’s face, but he did not unclasp the arms which held his son.

“Your mother will leave Germany as soon as she learns that she must keep aloof from you,” he said, this time without harshness, but most decisively.  “You may write her that I will allow you to correspond with her under certain conditions, but I cannot nor dare not allow any personal intercourse.”

“Father, consider—­”

“I cannot, Hartmut, it is impossible!”

“Do you hate her so much, then?” asked the boy reprovingly.  “It was you that sought the divorce, not my mother; she told me so herself.”

Falkenried’s lips trembled, and bitter words were on them; he felt like telling his son, once for all, that his honor had demanded the separation; but he looked in his child’s dark, questioning eyes, and the words died on his lips.  He could not betray the mother to her son.