ng my
neighbors, and had done so. The tree arrived in the morning. It was kept
a profound mystery from Sigmund, who was relegated, much to his disgust,
to the society of Frau Schmidt down-stairs, who kept a vigilant watch
upon him and would not let him go upstairs on any account.

The afternoon gradually darkened down. My landlady invited me to join
her party down-stairs; I declined. The rapturous, untutored joy of half
a dozen children had no attraction for me; the hermit-like watching of
the scene over the way had. I did not light my lamp. I was secure of
not being disturbed; for Frau Lutzler, when I would not come to her, had
sent my supper upstairs, and said she would not be able to come to me
again that evening.

"So much the better!" I murmured, and put myself in a window corner.

The lights over the way were presently lighted. For a moment I trembled
lest the blinds were going to be put down, and all my chance of spying
spoiled. But no; my neighbors were careless fellows--not given to
watching their neighbors themselves nor to suspecting other people of
it. The blinds were left up, and I was free to observe all that passed.

Toward half past five I saw by the light of the street-lamp, which
was just opposite, two people come into the house; a young man who
held the hand of a little girl. The young man was Karl Linders, the
violoncellist; the little girl, I supposed, must be his sister. They
went upstairs, or rather Karl went upstairs; his little sister remained
below.

There was a great shaking of hands and some laughing when Karl came into
the room. He produced various packages which were opened, their contents
criticised, and hung upon the tree. Then the three men surveyed their
handiwork with much satisfaction. I could see the whole scene. They
could not see my watching face pressed against the window, for they were
in light and I was in darkness.

Friedhelm went out of the room, and, I suppose, exerted his lungs from
the top of the stairs, for he came back, flushed and laughing, and
presently the door opened, and Frau Schmidt, looking like the mother
of the Gracchi, entered, holding a child by each hand. She never
moved a muscle. She held a hand of each, and looked alternately
at them. Breathless, I watched. It was almost as exciting as if I
had been joining in the play--more so, for to me everything was
_sur l'imprevu_--revealed piecemeal, while to them some degree of
foreknowledge must exist, to depr