the door without ceremony. Madame Fontaine looked at me as if I had
committed an act of sacrilege.

Mr. Engelman, following us with one of his candles, lit an ancient brass
lamp which hung from the middle of the ceiling. "My learned partner," he
explained, "does a great deal of his reading in his bedroom, and he likes
plenty of light. You will have a good view when the lamp has burnt up.
The big chimney-piece is considered the finest thing of that sort in
Frankfort."

The widow confronted the chimney-piece, and clasped her hands in silent
rapture. When she was able to speak, she put her arm round Minna's waist.

"Let me teach you, my love, to admire this glorious work," she said, and
delivered quite a little lecture on the merits of the chimney-piece. "Oh,
if I could but take the merest sketch of it!" she exclaimed, by way of
conclusion. "But no, it is too much to ask." She examined everything in
the room with the minutest attention. Even the plain little table by the
bed-side, with a jug and a glass on it, did not escape her observation.
"Is that his drink?" she asked, with an air of respectful curiosity. "Do
you think I might taste it?"

Mr. Engelman laughed. "It's only barley-water, dear lady," he said. "Our
rheumatic old housekeeper makes as few journeys as possible up and down
stairs. When she sets the room in order in the evening, she takes the
night-drink up with her, and so saves a second journey."

"Taste it, Minna," said the widow, handing the glass to her daughter.
"How refreshing! how pure!"