e an angel; he wished that his brother need not die, because--he
knew that his brother must die.

He was still walking in the fog when the pavement of the town sounded
again under his feet. He had forgotten a past, he forgot the present,
for the future was his again. And he was one who--as he turned into
his street the old words rang as jovially as they ever did.

It gave him a curious feeling to think that through the door which he
had just opened a coffin was going to be carried out. Involuntarily he
stood aside as if to let the procession pass him. "We must submit," he
said softly, as if repeating to himself what he would have to answer
some one offering him consolation when once the time had come, "We
must submit to what is unalterable." And as he raised his shoulders in
accompaniment to the words, he perceived a faint glimmer of light. He
looked up; the light came through the crack between the lower part of
the shutter and the window ledge. There was a light in there, in the
living-room. "So late?" He gasped; the load lies again on his breast.
His brother was still alive; and what must come if he were not to die,
might still come before he died, or--it was already here! How swiftly
his hands moved--and yet the door was locked again quietly in an
instant! Just as softly and just as quickly he went to the back door.
It was not open, but the key was only turned once in the lock, and
Fritz Nettenmair could swear to it that he turned it twice before he
went. He felt his way to the door of the room; he found the latch and
gently pressed it; the door opened; a faint glimmer shone out into the
hall. It came from a covered light on the table; beside the table a
small bed stood in the shadow. It was little Annie's bed, and her
mother was sitting beside it.

Christiane did not notice the opening of the door. Her head was bent
low down over the bed; she was singing softly and did not know what
she was singing; she was listening full of fear, but not to her song;
she would cry if the tears did not dim her eyes. But now the color
might come back to the child's cheek again, the strange expression
about the child's eyes and mouth might disappear, and she might fail
to see it and might fear in vain. It seemed to her as if the color
must come and the expression change if she only tried hard enough to
notice this coming and going. And at the same time she was able to
think how suddenly this thing had come that had made her so afrai