Under the care of a faithful nurse little Juli gradually grew stronger, both physically and mentally.  The little girl’s wan cheeks began to be rosy, the convulsions and fever attacked her less frequently.  Besides the faint “Baba,” she learned to babble “Duni,” (instead of Kuni) and afterward “Mother,” and many other words.  At last she talked nearly as well as other children of her age.  All this afforded the lame girl a wealth of sweet joys wholly new to her, which afforded her heart such warmth and solace that, in spite of the cough which tormented her during many an hour of the day and night, she felt happier during her homeward journey with the fierce blasphemer Cyriax, from whom she expected the worst things, than in the brilliant days of her fame as an artist.  Doubtless, as they approached Germany, she often wondered what Lienhard would think of her, if he should meet her amid such surroundings, as the companion of so worthless a couple; but the terror that overpowered her was transformed into pleasant satisfaction at the thought that he would approve, nay, praise her conduct, when she could show him the child, and tell him what she had done for it.

This state of affairs had continued until two months before.  Then, at Schaffhausen, her darling had suddenly been attacked with violent convulsions, and the feeble intellect, which her love had so toilsomely and faithfully waked from its slumber, only too soon attained eternal peace.  In all Kuni’s sorrowful life she had scarcely experienced any grief so bitter.  When she closed the little eyes which had gazed into her pale face so often and so tenderly, it seemed as if the sun, moon, and stars had lost their light, and henceforth she was condemned to live in dreary gloom.

What terrible days had followed the child’s death!  Cyriax raved as if he had really been seized with the lunacy whose pretence helped him to beg his bread.  Besides, he gave himself up to unbridled indulgence in brandy, and, when drunk, he was capable of the most brutal acts.  The dead Juli’s mother, who, spite of an evil youth and a lenient conscience, was by no means one of the worst of women, had to endure the harshest treatment from her profligate companion.

The blow which had fallen upon him filled him with savage rage, and he longed to inflict some pain upon all who came in his way that they, too, might feel what it was to suffer.

The death of his “sweet little Juli” appeared to have hardened the last tender spot in his brutal soul.

Kuni was the only person toward whom at first he imposed some restraint upon himself.  True, without any consideration for the girl’s presence, he sometimes asked Gitta why they still burdened themselves with the useless hobbler and did not sell the cart and the donkey.  But though there was no lack of good offers for the excellent Spanish beast of burden, he allowed matters to remain as before.  If the rage seething in his heart led him, in his drunken frenzy, to make Kuni feel its effects, too, the pleading glance of the blue eyes, still large and expressive, with which she had so often hushed the wailing child, sufficed to soothe him.