The doctor was out in the country and it was nearly morning when he arrived. He had no major objections to Mathilde's treatment for the sick man: bread crusts soaked in vinegar, a remedy passed down from the elder Möhring. “It hasn't hurt him,” he said, “and that's certainly the main thing.” He prescribed a marshmallow tea to loosen Hugo's chest. When Thilde asked if there were cause for alarm, he smiled and said, “To some extent, yes; it is a lung infection. Above all, he needs quiet.”

Thilde was a good nurse, and she gave Hugo his medicine with such precision, it was as though his life depended on the exact minute. She didn't believe that was so, but she didn't want to neglect anything. In the course of the morning, the bedroom was transformed into a sick room. The windows looking out on the courtyard were hung with draperies, while the door to the front room remained open. A single curtain was drawn across the doorway. Thilde looked in often, although the sick man had not requested anything, and then she returned to the front window, which still had an old-fashioned step up and a window mirror left by the former mayor's wife.

The latter was actually superfluous, for there was so little to see that there was nothing to reflect. In the middle of the market square stood the town hall, with a diagonal flight of wooden stairs that led up to the entry floor, then continued as a narrow covered passageway, everything made of wood. Very close to the town hall stood a pair of old market stalls, closed now because of the cold and covered in snow. On the other side of the market square was the Lion Pharmacy, where the owner was yawning, for since preparing the concoction for His Honor the Mayor, his professional assistance had not been required. Next door was a bakery with a large strudel placed at an angle in the show window; several children stood in front, admiring it. The sun lit the cake so brilliantly that Thilde could clearly see the large patches of sugar. Her eyes glided here and there among these sights.