'
"Wolkenlicht looked up, and saw a shudder pass through the frame, and over
the pale thin face of the painter. This he could not account for. But
Teufelsbuerst could have explained it, for there were strange whispers
abroad, and they had reached his ear; and his philosophy was not quite
enough for them. But the laugh with which Lilith met this frightful
attempt at wit, grated dreadfully on Wolkenlicht's feeling. With her, too,
however, a reaction seemed to follow. For, turning round a moment after,
and looking at the picture on which her father was working, the tears rose
in her eyes, and she said: 'Oh! father, how like my mother you have made
me this time!' 'Child!' retorted the painter with a cold fierceness, 'you
have no mother. That which is gone out is gone out. Put no name in my
hearing on that which is not. Where no substance is, how can there be a
name?'
"Lilith rose and left the room. Wolkenlicht now understood that Lilith was
a frozen bud, and could not blossom into a rose. But pure love lives by
faith.
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