would come for him on the 13th, and Nikolaus was already counting the
hours, he was so impatient.

That was the fatal day. We were already counting the hours, too.

We wandered many a mile, always following paths which had been our
favorites from the days when we were little, and always we talked about
the old times. All the blitheness was with Nikolaus; we others could not
shake off our depression. Our tone toward Nikolaus was so strangely
gentle and tender and yearning that he noticed it, and was pleased; and
we were constantly doing him deferential little offices of courtesy, and
saying, "Wait, let me do that for you," and that pleased him, too. I
gave him seven fish-hooks--all I had--and made him take them; and Seppi
gave him his new knife and a humming-top painted red and yellow
--atonements for swindles practised upon him formerly, as I learned
later, and probably no longer remembered by Nikolaus now. These things
touched him, and he could not have believed that we loved him so; and his
pride in it and gratefulness for it cut us to the heart, we were so
undeserving of them. When we parted at last, he was radiant, and said he
had never had such a happy day.

As we walked along homeward, Seppi said, "We always prized him, but never
so much as now, when we are going to lose him."

Next day and every day we spent all of our spare time with Nikolaus; and
also added to it time which we (and he) stole from work and other duties,
and this cost the three of us some sharp scoldings, and some threats of
punishment. Every morning two of us woke with a start and a shudder,
saying, as the days flew along, "Only ten days left;" "only nine days
left;" "only eight;" "only seven." Always it was narrowing. Always