ran from gutter to
gutter, staring into the room, where no living creature was yet
stirring. Not until the yellow top of the acacia-tree was gilded by the
rising sun--it must have been ten minutes past ten for the old tenor
was just beginning to powder himself--did Balder open his eyes,
astonished at the bright light that filled the room. He looked toward
Edwin; the latter gave no sign that the sunlight was too dazzling for
him to continue his dreams.

Softly the youth rose and limped to the turning-lathe in the corner,
where he noiselessly arranged a variety of tools, bits of wood, and
little bottles. He did not, however, begin to work, but taking a book,
became for a time absorbed in its contents. Suddenly the thoughts which
had kept him awake so long during the night, seemed to return. He laid
the book aside, opened a window, and leaned out into the already heated
air.

Ere long a low knock at the door roused him from his reverie. He glided
on tip-toe past the sleeper, and slipped through the half-opened door
into the dusky entry.

Reginchen stood without; her round face, whose eyes and mouth were ever
ready to bubble over with mirth, was turned toward him with a sort of
curious anxiety.

"Good morning, Reginchen," he whispered. "I can't let you in, he is
still asleep. He did not go to rest until long after midnight; I am
glad the sun does not wake him. You have already been to the door
once--I overslept myself too, contrary to my custom--we talked so long
last night. I am sorry we have made you so much trouble, Reginchen.
Give me the waiter, I will carry the breakfast in."

"It is no trouble," replied the young girl, who when talking to the
brothers always tried to correct her Berlin dialect as much as
possible, but without precisely solving the mystery of the dative and
accusative. "But you will be completely starved. Sha'n't I get you some
coffee? Cold milk on an empty stomach--"

"Thank you, Reginchen. I am used to it. You are always so kind. Why
have you dressed so early to-day, Reginchen?"

The young girl blushed as she smoothed her little black silk apron and
the folds of a light muslin that had been freshly washed and ironed.

"This is my birthday, Herr Walter," (she could not accustom herself to
the name of "Balder.") "My mother gave me the apron, and the old
gentleman on the second floor, the garnet breastpin. I am going to
visit my aunt at Schoeneberg after dinner, and so I wanted to ask if I
m