cross-looking old man with a twirly moustache and a bald head; and she
had put a wreath of white roses round the frame and tied it with a
black bow, and there were two candles lit in front of it, and Hilda had
put on a black dress, and was just sitting there gazing at it with her
hands in her lap. I begged her pardon, and was going away again
quickly, but she called me back.

"I celebrate," she said.

"Oh," said I politely, but without an idea what she meant.

"It is my Papa's birthday today," she said, pointing to the photograph.

"Is it?" I said, surprised, for I thought I remembered she had told me
he was dead. "But didn't you say--"

"Yes. Certainly I told you Papa was dead since five years."

"Then why--?"

"But _liebes Fraulein_, he still continues to have birthdays," she
said, staring at me in real surprise, while I stared back at her in at
least equally real surprise.

"Every year," she said, "the day comes round on which Papa was born.
Shall he, then, merely because he is with God, not have it celebrated?
And what would people think if I did not? They would think I had no
heart."

After that I began to hope there would be a cake, for they have lovely