each passing moment the zaunkoenig seemed to become more
comfortable in his nest. When Mohr, out of courtesy, asked to see some
of his work, he brought out of his studio with a diffidence with which,
however, was blended an air of quiet satisfaction, a large portfolio,
and began to spread the sketches before his guest. "These are old
designs," said he. "When my wife was alive, I was in the habit while
we sat together in the evening--the child yonder used to go to bed
early--of scrawling my fancies on a sheet of paper. They were not so
modest and tame as now, but took the boldest leaps and caricoles, as if
they belonged to a great artist who possessed the ability to execute
them. To be sure, even in those days, I knew that I was no Poussin or
Claude Lorraine; but when alone, after toiling honestly all day as a
mediocre artist, I would permit myself during the evening hours, to
dream of what I would paint if I were one of those great geniuses. Now
these fits come more rarely, and I'm slow to detain them. If I can't
wholly reform, I merely sweep a bit of charcoal over the sheet for a
time, and my sleeve effaces even the smallest trace."

Mohr turned over the drawings, which were on rather an exaggerated
scale, and the way in which he expressed his opinion of one and another
and detected the artistic idea in the often very imperfect lines,
seemed to delight the little gentleman greatly. When the cuckoo clock
struck eleven and the guest rose, with an apology for having already
remained too long, the master of the house most cordially invited him
to come again very soon, if their modest tea table had not seemed
tedious. The portfolio, he added smiling, certainly should not appear
again.

"My dear sir," replied Mohr, "I fear you would repent this
philanthropic offer, if I availed myself of it. I have a vein of that
'shelterless, restless barbarian,' and I like you too well not to spare
you a closer acquaintance with me. But no one can answer for himself.
If my own society becomes unbearable even to myself, I shall come and
beg to be allowed to sit quietly in this sofa corner for an hour. Your
tea urn sings so melodiously that in listening to it one quite forgets
what a discord usually prevails in this world."

He shook hands with the father and daughter and left the little house
in a strange paradoxical mood. "What is it that we want?" he muttered
to himself, as, insensible to the storm he stood beside the river,
gazing do