mother about it, but she
always says you now have more to do than to attend to such childish
things. But I don't believe it; there's something else perhaps."

After this Reinhard read his mother's letter, and when he had read
them both and slowly folded them up again and put them away, he was
overcome with an irresistible feeling of home-sickness. For a long
while he walked up and down his room, talking softly to himself, and
then, under his breath, he murmured:

I have err'd from the straight path,
Bewildered I roam;
By the roadside the child stands
And beckons me home.

Then he went to his desk, took out some money, and stepped down into
the street again. During all this while it had become quieter out
there; the lights on the Christmas trees had burnt out, the
processions of children had come to an end. The wind was sweeping
through the deserted streets; old and young alike were sitting
together at home in family parties; the second period of Christmas Eve
celebrations had begun.

As Reinhard drew near the Ratskeller he heard from below the scraping
of the fiddle and the singing of the zither girl. The restaurant door
bell tinkled and a dark form staggered up the broad dimly-lighted
stair.

Reinhard drew aside into the shadow of the houses and then passed
swiftly by. After a while he reached the well-lighted shop of a
jeweller, and after buying a little cross studded with red corals, he
returned by the same way he had come.

Not far from his lodgings he caught sight of a little girl, dressed in
miserable rags, standing before a tall door, in a vain attempt to open
it.

"Shall I help you?" he said.

The child gave no answer, but let go the massive door-handle. Reinhard
had soon opened the door.

"No," he said; "they might drive you out again. Come along with me,
and I'll give you some Christmas cake."

He then closed the door again and gave his hand to the little girl,
who walked along with him in silence to his lodgings.

On going out he had left the light burning.

"Here are some cakes for you," he said, pouring half of his whole
stock into her apron, though he gave none that bore the sugar letters.

"Now, off you go home, and give your mother some of them too."

The child cast a shy look up at him; she seemed unaccustomed to such
kindness and unable to say anything in reply. Reinhard opened the
door, and lighted her way, and then the little thing like a bird flew
downstairs