s was an honest Jew!"

I began to grow fond of this mode of existence, and to find new charms
in it day by day.

Just at this time the city of Nuremberg was agitated by a strange and
mysterious event. Not far from my dormer window, a little to the left,
stood the Inn Boeuf-Gras, an old _auberge_ much patronized throughout
the country. Three or four wagons, filled with sacks or casks, were
always drawn up before the door, where the rustic drivers were in the
habit of stopping, on their way to the market, to take their morning
draught of wine.

The gable end of the inn was distinguished by its peculiar form. It was
very narrow, pointed, and, on two sides, cut-in teeth, like a saw. The
carvings were strangely grotesque, interwoven and ornamenting the
cornices and surrounding the windows; but the most remarkable fact was
that the house opposite reproduced exactly the same sculptures, the
same ornaments; even the signboard, with its post and spiral of iron,
was exactly copied.

One might have thought that these two ancient houses reflected each
other. Behind the inn, however, was a grand old oak, whose somber
leaves darkened the stones of the roof, while the other house stood out
in bold relief against the sky. To complete the description, this old
building was as silent and dreary as the Inn Boeuf-Gras was noisy and
animated.

On one side, a crowd of merry drinkers were continually entering in and
going out, singing, tripping, cracking their whips; on the other,
profound silence reigned.

Perhaps, once or twice during the day, the heavy door seemed to open of
itself, to allow a little old woman to go out, with her back almost in
a semicircle, her dress fitting tight about her hips, an enormous
basket on her arm, and her hand contracted against her breast.

It seemed to me that I saw at a glance, as I looked upon her, a whole
existence of good works and pious meditations.

The physiognomy of this old woman had struck me more than once: her
little green eyes, long, thin nose, the immense bouquets of flowers on
her shawl, which must have been at least a hundred years old, the
withered smile which puckered her cheeks into a cockade, the lace of
her bonnet falling down to her eyebrows--all this was fantastic, and
interested me much. Why did this old woman live in this great deserted
house? I wished to explore the mystery.

One day as I paused in the street and followed her with my eyes, she
turned suddenly and gave m