ls me, and would on no account say from whom it came. I have now lit
all the tapers and am writing by their light, after having given my
landlady's children some Christmas-presents, for the people here never
have Christmas-trees.

Now that I am again alone, I ransack my brain to find out who could
have sent the tree. The kind lady who may also feel the want of
Christmas joys, and Christmas lights? But surely she would have written
a letter to say so, and then our acquaintance is so short. Many other
kind faces have passed by me in my daily walks, but to whom of these
would it have occurred to brighten my Christmas eve. I must confess
that in my first irritation, I wronged many of them, and might
certainly have found some pleasing acquaintances among them, if my
first longing for solitude had not expressed itself so repellantly. Now
no one would willingly speak to me.

Can the tree have come from _him_? but that would be contrary to our
agreement. One who must and will keep silence cannot offer presents. It
is easier to give than to receive silently, and yet how is it possible
to express one's thanks after having already bid farewell.

The more I think of it the more uneasy I become. It is not all as it
should be; something unnatural and indefinable seems to have come
between us; something pernicious that would revenge itself on us.

Here come letters from my dear ones, from home! But I must first put
out the tapers and light my little lamp. Some of the twigs are already
crackling and glimmering. The last spark has died out on my last
Christmas-tree. The church bells are ringing while I am writing these
lines by the light of the moon which is now keeping me company, my lamp
having died out.

December the 28th.

We have met again, our hands have touched, and our eyes have
encountered each other; but what a sorrowful meeting. The vengeance I
expected has come.

The program of a concert was brought to my lodgings. A player on the
cither was going to perform in the Assembly rooms at the Post. I am no
longer displeased at being roused from my own thoughts; so I went, as I
very much like the cither, and have always wished to hear a virtuoso
perform on it. When I arrived the first piece had begun, and only three
seats in the front row were unoccupied; they seemed to have been kept
for some expected personage of distinction: I found myself compelled to
take one of these s