August raised his eyes with a wild, feverish, sullen look in them
that she had never seen there. His face was ashen white; his lips
were like fire. He had not slept all night; but his passionate
sobs had given way to delirious waking dreams and numb senseless
trances, which had alternated one on another all through the
freezing, lonely, horrible hours.

"It will never be warm again," he muttered, "never again!"

Dorothea clasped him with trembling hands. "August! do you not
know me?" she cried in an agony. "I am Dorothea. Wake up, dear--
wake up! It is morning, only so dark!"

August shuddered all over.

"The morning!" he echoed.

He slowly rose up on to his feet.

"I will go to grandfather," he said very low. "He is always good;
perhaps he could save it."

Loud blows with the heavy iron knocker of the house-door drowned
his words. A strange voice called aloud through the keyhole:--

"Let me in! Quick!--there is no time to lose! More snow like
this, and the roads will all be blocked. Let me in! Do you hear? I
am come to take the great stove."

August sprang erect, his fists doubled, his eyes blazing.