As he spoke he drew from the breast pocket of his long coat a wrought-iron rose.  Els knew it well; it had adorned the clasp of her lover’s belt, and the unusual delicacy of the workmanship had often aroused her admiration.  What the gift was to announce she read on the paper accompanying it, which contained the following simple lines: 

     “The iron rude, when shaped by fire and blows,
     Delights our eyes as a most beauteous rose. 
     So may the lies which strove to work us ill
     But serve our hearts with greater love to fill.”

Biberli withdrew as soon as he had delivered the gift; his master was awaiting him on his return from his early ride with the Emperor; but Els, with glowing cheeks, read and reread the verse which brought such cheering consolation from her lover.  It seemed like a miracle that they recalled the words of her dying mother concerning the forge fire which, in her last moments, she had mentioned in connection with Eva’s future.  Here it had formed from rude iron the fairest of flowers.  Nothing sweeter or lovelier, the sister thought, could be made from her darling.  But would the fire also possess the power to lead Eva, as it were, from heaven to earth, and transform her into an energetic woman, symmetrical in thought and deed?  And what was the necessity?  She was there to guide her and remove every stone from her path.

Ah, if she should renounce the cloister and find a husband like her Wolff!  Again and again she read his greeting and pressed the beloved sheet to her lips.  She would fain have hastened to her mother’s corpse to show it to her.  But just at that moment Eva returned.  She must rejoice with her over this beautiful confirmation of her hope, and as, with flushed cheeks and brow moist with perspiration, she stood before her, Els tenderly embraced her and, overflowing with gratitude, showed her her lover’s gift and verse, and invited her to share the great happiness which so brightly illumined the darkness of her grief.  Eva, who was so weary that she could scarcely stand thought, like her sister, as Els read Wolff’s lines aloud, of her mother’s last words.  But the forge fire of life must not transform her into a rose; she would become harder, firmer, and she knew why and for whose sake.  Only yesterday, had she been so exhausted, nothing would have kept her, after a few brief words to prevent Els’s disappointment, from lying down, arranging her pillows comfortably, and refreshing herself with some cooling drink; but now she not only succeeded in appearing attentive, but in sympathising with all her heart in her sister’s happiness.  How delightful it was, too, to be able to give something to the person from whom hitherto she had only received.

She succeeded so fully in concealing the struggle against the claims of her wearied body that Els, after joyously perceiving how faithfully her sister sympathised with her own delight, continued to relate what she had just heard.  Eva forced herself to listen and behave as if her account of Heinz Schorlin’s wonderful escape and desire to enter a monastery was news to her.