ation as to which was intended for head and which for tail, he
presented it to his son, remarking that it was "a pretty toy."

"I'll pray for you after that, Eugen--often and earnestly," said I.

Sigmund looked appealingly at him, but seeing that his father appeared
able to endure the presence of the beast, and seemed to wish him to do
the same, from some dark and inscrutable reason not to be grasped by so
young a mind--for he was modest as to his own intelligence--he put out
his small arm, received the creature into it, and embracing it round the
body, held it to his side, and looked at Eugen with a pathetic
expression.

"Pretty plaything, _nicht wahr_?" said Eugen, encouragingly.

Sigmund nodded silently. The animal emitted a howl; the child winced,
but looked resigned. Eugen rose and stood at some little distance,
looking on. Sigmund continued to embrace the animal with the same
resigned expression, until Karl, stooping, took it away.

"You mustn't _make_ him, just because I brought it," said he. "Better
luck next time. I see he's not a common child. I must try to think of
something else."

We commanded our countenances with difficulty, but preserved them.
Sigmund's feelings had been severely wounded. For many days he eyed Karl
with a strange, cold glance, which the latter used every art in his
power to change, and at last succeeded. Woolly lambs became a forbidden
subject. Nothing annoyed Karl more than for us to suggest, if Sigmund
happened to be a little cross or mournful, "Suppose you just go home,
Karl, and fetch the 'lamb-rabbit-lion.' I'm sure he would like it." From
that time the child had another worshiper, and we a constant visitor in
Karl Linders.

We sat together one evening--Eugen and I, after Sigmund had been in bed
a long time, after the opera was over--chatting, as we often did, or as
often remained silent. He had been reading, and the book from which he
read was a volume of English poetry. At last, laying the book aside, he
said:

"The first night we met, you fainted away from exhaustion and long
fasting. You said you would tell me why you had allowed yourself to do
so, but you have never kept your word."

"I didn't care to eat. People eat to live--except those who live to eat,
and I was not very anxious to live, I didn't care for my life, in fact,
I wished I was dead."

"Why? An unlucky love?"

"_I, bewahre!_ I never knew what it was to be in love in my life," said
I, with perfect trut