Petrus glanced at the window, and perceiving how high the moon stood, he shook his head as if in wonder at his own conduct, then without blaming her he offered a thanksgiving, gave the slaves the signal to leave the room, and after receiving a kiss of “good-night” from each of his children—­from among whom Polykarp, the sculptor, alone was missing—­he withdrew to his own room.  But he did not remain alone there for long:  so soon as Dorothea had discussed the requirements of the house for the next day with Marthana and the steward, and had been through the sleeping-room of her younger children, casting a loving glance on the peaceful sleepers, arranging here a coverlet, and there a pillow—­she entered her husband’s room and called his name.

Petrus stood still and looked round, and his grave eyes were full of grateful tenderness as they met those of his wife.  Dorothea knew the soft and loving heart within the stern exterior, and nodded to him with sympathetic understanding:  but before she could speak, he said, “Come in, come nearer to me; there is a heavy matter in hand, and you cannot escape your share of the burden.”

“Give me my share!” cried she eagerly.  “The slim girl of former years has grown a broad-shouldered old woman, so that it may be easier to her to help her lord to bear the many burdens of life.  But I am seriously anxious—­even before we went to church something unsatisfactory had happened to you, and not merely in the council-meeting.  There must be something not right with one of the children.”

“What eyes you have!” exclaimed Petrus.

“Dim, grey eyes,” said Dorothea, “and not even particularly keen.  But when anything concerns you and the children I could see it in the dark.  You are dissatisfied with Polykarp; yesterday, before he set out for Raithu, you looked at him so—­so—­what shall I say?  I can quite imagine what it is all about, but I believe you are giving yourself groundless anxiety.  He is young, and so lovely a woman as Sirona—­”

Up to this point Petrus had listened to his wife in silence.  Now he clasped his hands, and interrupted her, “Things certainly are not going on quite right—­but I ought to be used to it.  What I meant to have confided to you in a quiet hour, you tell me as if you knew all about it!”

“And why not?” asked Dorothea.  “When you graft a scion on to a tree, and they have grown well together, the grafted branch feels the bite of the saw that divides the stock, or the blessing of the spring that feeds the roots, just as if the pain or the boon were its own.  And you are the tree and I am the graft, and the magic power of marriage has made us one.  Your pulses are my pulses, your thoughts have become mine, and so I always know before you tell me what it is that stirs your soul.”