d down.

Von Francius left me at the door of my lodgings.

"Good-evening, _liebes Fraeulein_; and thank you for your company this
afternoon."

* * * * *

A light burned steadily all evening in the sitting-room of my opposite
neighbors; but the shutters were closed. I only saw a thin stream coming
through a chink.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Es ist bestimmt, in Gottes Rath,
Dass man vom Liebsten was man hat
Muss scheiden."

Our merry little zauberfest of Christmas-eve was over. Christmas morning
came. I remember that morning well--a gray, neutral kind of day, whose
monotony outside emphasized the keenness of emotion within.

On that morning the postman came--a rather rare occurrence with us; for,
except with notes from pupils, notices of proben, or other official
communications, he seldom troubled us.

It was Sigmund who opened the door; it was he who took the letter, and
wished the postman "good-morning" in his courteous little way. I dare
say that the incident gave an additional pang afterward to the father,
if he marked it, and seldom did the smallest act or movement of his
child escape him.

"Father, here is a letter," he said, giving it into Eugen's hand.

"Perhaps it is for Friedel; thou art too ready to think that everything
appertains to thy father," said Eugen, with a smile, as he took the
letter and looked at it; but before he had finished speaking the smile
had faded. There remained a whiteness, a blank, a haggardness.

I had caught a glimpse of the letter; it was large, square, massive, and
there was a seal upon the envelope--a regular letter of fate out of a
romance.

Eugen took it into his hand, and for once he made no answer to the
caress of his child, who put his arms round his neck and wanted to climb
upon his knee. He allowed the action, but passively.

"Let me open it!" cried Sigmund. "Let me open thy letter!"

"No, no, child!" said Eugen, in a sharp, pained tone. "Let it alone."

Sigmund looked surprised, and recoiled a little; a shock clouding his
eyes. It was all right if his father said no, but a shade presently
crossed his young face. His father did not usually speak so; did not
usually have that white and pallid look about the eyes--above all, did
not look at his son with a look that meant nothing.

Eugen was usually prompt enough in all he did, but he laid aside that
letter, and proposed in a subdued tone that we should have breakfast.
Whi