the miserable stork's nest of yesterday's _Spener's Journal_. Let's
write it off quickly."

Kretschmer began to write most industriously, when he was suddenly
interrupted by a violent knocking at the door. It opened, and a
stately old gentleman entered, with well-powdered wig and long queue.

"Mr. Krause, my worthy colleague!" exclaimed Kretschmer, jumping
up and hastening toward the old man. But Mr. Krause had no word of
greeting. He sank sighing into a chair.

"Do you know the news?" asked he, in a whining tone, folding his
trembling hands, and looking at Kretschmer timidly, as he stood before
him.

"Know what?" demanded the latter in reply, feeling his heart sink.

"The Russians are coming!" sighed Mr. Krause.

"That is a silly tale," cried Kretschmer peevishly, with an impatient
gesture.

"Would to God it were!" groaned Krause; "but the news is, alas, but
too true, and it can no longer be doubted!"

"Man of misfortune," cried Mr. Kretschmer, "who told you so?"

"Pfannenstiel."

"Pfannenstiel?" repeated Kretschmer, laughing heartily; "oh, yes!