evening light, an observer, had there been one, might have felt half
inclined to agree with him. His face was pale, and the high aquiline
nose looked drawn. Moreover, the tangled hair and beard contrasted
strangely with his broad, spotless collar, and his dressing-gown of
sober black. The long habit of neatness in dress survived any small
vanity of personal looks.

He rose, and throwing the pen impatiently on the table, went to the
little window and looked out. His shoulders overlapped the opening on
both sides as he thrust his yellow head out into the evening sunshine,
and Master Simpelmayer, the shoemaker down in the street, glanced up,
and seeing that the Herr Doctor was taking his evening sniff of the
Neckar breeze, laid down his awl and went to "vespers,"--a "maas" of
cool beer and a "pretzel." For the Herr Doctor was a regular man, and
always appeared at his window at the same hour, rain or shine. And when
Simpelmayer mended the well-worn shoes that came to him periodically
from across the way, he was sure that the flaxen-haired student would
not call over to know if they were finished until the sun was well down
and the day far spent. On this particular evening, however, there was no
mending in hand for the Herr Doctor, and so the crooked little shoemaker
filled himself a pipe, and twisted his apron round his waist, and
stumped leisurely down the street to the beer-shop at the corner, where
he and his fellows took their pots and their pipes, undisturbed by the
playful pranks of the students.

But the Doctor remained at his window, and neither vouchsafed look nor
greeting to Master Simpelmayer. He was not thinking of shoes or
shoemakers just then, though, to judge by his face, he was thinking very
intently of something. And well he might, for he had been reading
serious stuff. The walls of his little chamber were lined with books,