ke the worthy lady fairly in love with her ward. Every
day Madame Feyertag's first business was to go to the tun to inquire in
person how he had spent the night; light a fire in the stove, because
the girl made too much noise and Reginchen still avoided the room, and
to water the beautiful palms, which Toinette the day after her visit
had sent to the tun, to delight the invalid's eyes. She did not come
again herself, but the dwarf with the pale blue eyes was sent every
noon for the latest bulletin, which Edwin, faithful to his promise,
wrote every morning. These lines were the only bond of intercourse
between them. He had vowed not to leave Balder's side again until he
should be well, with the exception of the hour at noon, when he
delivered a lecture, at which time, his place was supplied by one of
his friends. Either Mohr came to play chess, or Franzelius, who no
longer seemed to have any other occupation, sat down beside him with a
book and read aloud, an accomplishment of which he was a master. But
not a word was exchanged with the patient on the subject that engrossed
the thoughts of both. The names of Christiane and Reginchen never
crossed their lips, and even the little artist, who often looked in,
had agreed with Mohr that the unhappy girl's fate ought not to be
mentioned in the sick room.

One beautiful sunny day in November, Edwin had set out on his daily
walk to the university, and Franzelius was preparing to read aloud from
a translation of Sophocles, when Balder, who was reclining near the
window in a comfortable arm-chair sent by Frau Valentin, suddenly laid
his pale slender hand on the book and said: "We won't read to-day,
Franzelius, I'd rather talk about all sorts of things with you. I feel
so well that it's not the least exertion to speak, and the sun is
shining so brightly in the clear sky! Only to see that, is such an
incomparable happiness that to enjoy it one would gladly endure all the
evils of this life. Don't you think so?"

"I can't look at it without thinking that it shines equally on the just
and the unjust, and beholds much more misery than happiness," replied
the printer, looking almost defiantly toward the sky. "I wish it would
die out once for all, and with it this whole motley lie which we call
life."

"No, Franzel," said Balder quietly, "you are wrong. Even if the sun
knew what it was doing, in creating and sustaining life, there is no
cause for shame in such a work. Why do you call