the little house on the canal, and the
artist urged his companion so cordially to come in for a moment and
take a cup of tea, that Mohr in spite of his dejection, could not
refuse. Where else should he go? The wind was blowing from the river
with icy coldness, and all life on the banks seemed frozen. Nothing
awaited him in his lonely bachelor lodgings save a dark night full of
anxious dreams. So he allowed himself to be guided across the timber
yard, along the narrow path between the lofty piles of wood, toward the
door, from which streamed a faint ray of light.

CHAPTER IX.

Leah was seated at the table in her little sitting room; before her was
the tea urn, and a closed book but she seemed to have been occupied
with neither, but entirely absorbed in her own thoughts. As the two men
entered she started up, her first glance fell upon the stranger, and a
look akin to disappointment flittered over her face. Had her ears
deceived her and made her suppose that Edwin was accompanying her
father?

She did not speak, but with downcast eyes listened to the report of the
invalid's condition. Her father introduced his guest as a friend of her
former teacher; she bowed in visible embarrassment. By degrees,
however, as Mohr himself thawed out and began to talk about his
university life with Edwin, she too became more at ease and performed
the duties of hostess with the most winning grace. The guest was very
much pleased with her, he even wondered that Edwin had never spoken of
her personal appearance, which was really worth mentioning, though a
sickly pallor made her seem older than her years, and her movements
when she walked, were weary and languid. After she had poured out the
tea, she took some sewing and sat down in an armchair at a little
distance from the others, not far from the niche in which her mother's
bust stood. A warm light animated the still features of the marble
image, and Leah's transparently pale complexion, especially when her
beautifully sparkling eyes were fixed on her work, made the semblance
between the living woman and the dead marble so striking as to produce
an almost uncomfortable impression upon the visitor. He again relapsed
into his own gloomy cares and presentiments, and if the little artist
had not continued the conversation with the most persistent
cheerfulness, the mood that prevailed in the pleasant room would have
become more and more dismal.

But with