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In the firm, decided tones of one thoroughly aroused and sure of his ground, he proceeded. "Suppose this the copy," said he, stepping to one of the pictures. "You refer to Mr. Bruder?" said Mr. Cornell.
"There's the hot, white road we walked along so often with the two Brüder always at our heels," he thought; "and there, by Jove, is the turn through the forest to 'Die Galgen, the stone gallows where they hanged the witches in olden days!" He smiled a little as the train slid past. And he laughed again as the memories came back with a rush, flooding his mind with vivid detail.
If that meagre apartment, with its inmates, their contrasts of character, their expressive faces, could have then been portrayed, it would have made a picture with power to move the coldest heart. At last Dennis drew a long breath, turned and gave his hand to the man, saying with hearty emphasis, "Mr. Bruder, you are an artist."
"We still keep up the pupils' orchestra," he said, "but Bruder Schliemann, I am sorry to say " he hesitated an instant, and then added, "Bruder Schliemann is dead." "Indeed, indeed," said Harris quickly. "I am sorry to hear it." He was conscious of a faint feeling of distress, but whether it arose from the news of his old music teacher's death, or from something else he could not quite determine.
Fearing the reaction of too great and prolonged emotion, Dennis now did everything in his power to calm and quiet his new-found friends. He told them that he boarded at a restaurant, and he asked if he might take supper with them. "Him is yours already," said Mr. Bruder. "No, it isn't," said Dennis "not after I have given it to you.
He noted that they called him "Bruder" too, classing him as one of themselves. And then suddenly he had a flash of keener perception, and realised with a creeping of his flesh that he had all along misinterpreted grossly misinterpreted all they had been saying.
She would learn to catch those evanescent lines that something which makes the human face eloquent, though the lips are silent. Dennis was in a maze, but he repeated to himself jubilantly again, "The ice is broken." That evening at Mr. Bruder's he asked for studies in ice. "Vy, dat is out of season," said Mr. Bruder, with a laugh. "No, now is just the time.
I do not undervalue human will and purpose, but I think you need a divine, all-powerful Deliverer." "I know you are right," said Mr. Bruder. "I haf resolved ofer and ofer again, only to do vorse, and sink deeper at der next temptation, till at last I gave up trying. Unless I am sustained by some strength greater dan mine, I haf no hope.
Dennis saw in the clear, vigorous profile the artist's thought, and congratulated himself that his teacher was a master in his profession. For two hours they worked and talked, and Dennis felt that every such lesson would be a long step forward. Poor Bruder looked more and more like himself every day, but God only knew how he had to struggle. "I don't know how him vill end," he said.
No one can read Schreiber's Handbuch and Heine's Rabbi without being convinced that the former stood sponsor for the latter. And lastly, Heine wrote before 1821 his poem entitled "Die zwei Brüder." It is the tenth of the seventeen Volkssagen by Schreiber, the same theme as the one treated by W. Usener already referrred to.
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