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He grew very nervous during the evening and finally said he must go over
to the laboratory and arrange some things for morning. Ernestine
protested against it--and if he must go would he not let her go with him?
But he told her he believed it would be better for his head if he walked
alone for just a little while. He did not have a headache more than once
in five years, he assured her, laughing a little, and when he did, it was
apt to upset him.
When he came back at last--it seemed to her a very long time--she saw,
watching from the window, that he was walking very slowly, almost as if
exhausted She could not hold back her alarm at his white, worn face.
Something in it gripped at her heart.
"Is it worse, dear?" she asked anxiously.
"It's a little bad--just now. I'll go to bed. It will be better then." He
spoke slowly, as though very tired.
"Won't you take something for it, Karl?" she persisted. "Won't you?"
"I do not know of anything to take that would do any good,
Ernestine,"--and he could not quite keep the quiver out of those words.


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