rally derived from the humble town
and country life which formed his immediate environment; but he wrote
nothing that excels, in depth and tenderness of feeling, the charming
story of _Immensee_; and taking his work all in all, Storm still
ranks to-day as a master of the short story in German literature, rich
though it is in this form of prose-fiction.

IMMENSEE

THE OLD MAN

One afternoon in the late autumn a well-dressed old man was walking
slowly down the street. He appeared to be returning home from a walk,
for his buckle-shoes, which followed a fashion long since out of date,
were covered with dust.

Under his arm he carried a long, gold-headed cane; his dark eyes, in
which the whole of his long-lost youth seemed to have centred, and
which contrasted strangely with his snow-white hair, gazed calmly on
the sights around him or peered into the town below as it lay before
him, bathed in the haze of sunset. He appeared to be almost a
stranger, for of the passers-by only a few greeted him, although many
a one involuntarily was compelled to gaze into those grave eyes.

At last he halted before a high, gabled house, cast one more glance
out toward the town, and then passed into the hall. At the sound of
the door-bell some one in the room within drew aside the green curtain
from a small window that looked out on to the hall, and the face of an
old woman was seen behind it. The man made a sign to her with his
cane.

"No light yet!" he said in a slightly southern accent, and the
housekeeper let the curtain fall again.

The old man now passed through the broad hall, through an inner hall,
wherein against the walls stood huge oaken chests bearing porcelain
vases; then through the door opposite he entered a small lobby, from
which a narrow staircase led to the upper rooms at the back of the
house. He climbed the stairs slowly, unlocked a door at the top, and
landed in a room of medium size.

It was a comfortable, quiet retreat. One of the walls was lined with
cupboards and bookcases; on the other hung pictures of men and places;
on a table with a green cover lay a number of open books, and before
the table stood a massive arm-chair with a red velvet cushion.

After the old man had placed his hat and stick in a corner, he sat down
in the arm-chair and, folding his hands, seemed to be taking his rest
after his walk. While he sat thus, it was growing gradually darker; and
before long a moonbeam came str