urious with Mr. Tiralla; he was to blame for
everything. Then he bade him good night.

Mr. Tiralla did not accompany him to the door--little Boehnke would be
able to find it alone--so he [Pg 76] groped his way through the dark
passage to the front door, reeling a little as he walked. Suddenly a
warm hand grasped his, some one chuckled near him in the dark, and the
servant's deep voice said half compassionately, half mockingly, "Did
you find it slow with Pan Tiralla? I'm sorry. Pani is upstairs with
little Rosa. If Pan Boehnke wants to say good night to her----" she
pushed him in the direction of the stairs and disappeared in the dark,
chuckling.

Like a gnome, he thought--oh, no, like an angel. He was seized with a
superstitious terror. Everything seemed so strange; the old house, the
chuckling maid, the loud-voiced man, the beautiful woman. He began
cursing all the drink he had had and cursing Mr. Tiralla. Oh, if only
he had been as sober and as clear-headed as he generally was.

The old staircase creaked under his feet. What would she say? Wouldn't
she consider him intruding if he came up to her? But weren't those
groans that he heard above the creaking of the stairs? That poor,
beautiful woman! He must go to her. Where was she?

Now he was at the top. Hark, wasn't that the child's voice?

"Mother," he heard Rosa say, "sweet mother, I really did see her, you
can believe me. She was as beautiful, as beautiful as you. She had hair
like yours, when you undo your plaits. And she gave me the Child Jesus
to hold. I love it, I love it!" She repeated that several times with
great fervour.

What nonsense was the child talking? Of whom was she speaking? The
schoolmaster drew nearer to the door. Ah--he gave a start--ah, now she,
Mrs. Tiralla, was speaking. But he couldn't very well understand what
she was saying, she spoke so softly. [Pg 77] And now and then she
seemed to be sobbing. He knocked at the door and walked in. Rosa was
lying in bed and her mother was sitting on the bed near her. They both
stared at him in astonishment, but when he said with a voice that
hesitated at first, but then grew firmer, that he felt he couldn't
leave without hearing how she was, the child looked pleased.

"I'm very well," she answered, with a shy smile. "Very well, thank you,
Panje Boehnke."

"She's feverish," said her mother. "She fainted the day before
yesterday; Marianna came rushing down to tell us. We shall have to send
for the