n it set up a howl of
furious rage, and then sounded again in low, long-drawn, plaintive
tones, as if singing a long-forgotten love-song.

The young wife in the comfortable easy-chair had been listening to it a
long time; now she said in a clear voice:

"Klaus, this would be just the evening to read aloud the journal."

He started up out of a deep revery. "What journal, my child!"

"That little packet of papers that we found the other day, in rummaging
about in Aunt Rosamond's writing-desk."

He nodded. "Yes, we will do it," he said, "it will be a bit of family
history, perhaps about my parents. I was just thinking how little I know
of them, and it makes me sad. Mother Anna Maria makes her account so
short and scanty, as if she did not like to talk about it, and whenever
she mentions her only brother her eyes grow moist. Come, sit down on the
sofa with me; I will get the papers."

He rose, went to an old-fashioned desk, and took a little packet of
papers from the middle drawer. The young wife had meanwhile taken up a
bit of dainty needlework, and now they sat, side by side, on the sofa,
before the lamp, and he unfolded the sheets.

"What a pretty old handwriting," he said. "See, Marie!"

She nodded. "One can make quite a picture of the writer from
that--small, delicate, and good, as loving as the first words sound."

"Yes," he replied, "she was good and kind. I remember her so distinctly
yet. She used to give me sugarplums and colored pictures, and at
Christmas she used to come as Knecht Ruprecht, and I should certainly
have been frightened if I had not recognized Aunt Rosamond by her voice
and limp."

"Ah, but please read, Klaus," begged the young wife impatiently; and he
began obediently:

"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus----"

"That is you!" interrupted the young wife, laughing.

He nodded; his fine eyes gleamed softly. "But now be still," he said;
"for Aunt Rosamond surely never thought such a disturber of the peace
would ever put her nose in here."

"You bad man! Give me a kiss for that!"

"That, too?" he sighed comically. "There, but be quiet now!" And he
began again:

"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus. It has
become very quiet at Buetze, not a sound in the great house; even
Brockelmann is no longer heard, for since last winter she has taken to
wearing felt slippers. All the rooms down-stairs are shut up, and it is
melancholy. Anna Maria cons