cannot be choosers.  The little black stove in the kitchen will warm you all just as well.  Who would keep a gilded, painted thing in a poor house like this, when one can make two hundred florins by it?  Dorothea, you never sobbed more when your mother died.  What is it, when all is said?—­ a bit of hardware much too grand-looking for such a room as this.  If all the Strehlas had not been born fools, it would have been sold a century ago, when it was dug up out of the ground.  It is a stove for a museum, the trader said when he saw it.  To a museum let it go.”

August gave a shrill shriek like a hare’s when it is caught for its death, and threw himself on his knees at his father’s feet.

“Oh, father, father!” he cried convulsively, his hands closing on Strehla’s knees, and his uplifted face blanched and distorted with terror.  “Oh, father, dear father, you cannot mean what you say?  Send it away—­our life, our sun, our joy, our comfort?  We shall all die in the dark and the cold.  Sell me rather.  Sell me to any trade or any pain you like; I will not mind.  But Hirschvogel!—­it is like selling the very cross off the altar!  You must be in jest.  You could not do such a thing—­you could not!—­you who have always been gentle and good, and who have sat in the warmth here year after year with our mother.  It is not a piece of hardware, as you say; it is a living thing, for a great man’s thoughts and fancies have put life into it, and it loves us though we are only poor little children, and we love it with all our hearts and souls, and up in heaven I am sure the dead Hirschvogel knows!  Oh, listen; I will go and try and get work to-morrow!  I will ask them to let me cut ice or make the paths through the snow.  There must be something I could do, and I will beg the people we owe money to to wait; they are all neighbors, they will be patient.  But sell Hirschvogel!—­oh, never! never! never!  Give the florins back to the vile man.  Tell him it would be like selling the shroud out of mother’s coffin, or the golden curls off Ermengilda’s head!  Oh, father, dear father! do hear me, for pity’s sake!”

Strehla was moved by the boy’s anguish.  He loved his children, though he was often weary of them, and their pain was pain to him.  But besides emotion, and stronger than emotion, was the anger that August roused in him; he hated and despised himself for the barter of the heirloom of his race, and every word of the child stung him with a stinging sense of shame.

And he spoke in his wrath rather than in his sorrow.

“You are a little fool,” he said harshly, as they had never heard him speak.  “You rave like a play-actor.  Get up and go to bed.  The stove is sold.  There is no more to be said.  Children like you have nothing to do with such matters.  The stove is sold, and goes to Munich to-morrow.  What is it to you?  Be thankful I can get bread for you.  Get on your legs I say, and go to bed.”