rest.

But Reinhard heard not; he passed quickly by them all, out of one
street into another. When he reached his lodging it had grown almost
quite dark; he stumbled up the stairs and so gained his apartment.

A sweet fragrance greeted him; it reminded him of home; it was the
smell of the parlour in his mother's house at Christmas time. With
trembling hand he lit his lamp; and there lay a mighty parcel on the
table. When he opened it, out fell the familiar ginger cakes. On some
of them were the initial letters of his name written in sprinkles of
sugar; no one but Elisabeth could have done that.

Next came to view a little parcel containing neatly embroidered linen,
handkerchiefs and cuffs; and finally letters from his mother and
Elisabeth. Reinhard opened Elisabeth's letter first, and this is what
she wrote:

"The pretty sugared letters will no doubt tell you who helped with the
cakes. The same person also embroidered the cuffs for you. We shall
have a very quiet time at home this Christmas Eve. Mother always puts
her spinning-wheel away in the corner as early as half-past nine. It
is so very lonesome this winter now that you are not here.

"And now, too, the linnet you made me a present of died last Sunday.
It made me cry a good deal, though I am sure I looked after it well.

"It always used to sing of an afternoon when the sun shone on its
cage. You remember how often mother would hang a piece of cloth over
the cage in order to keep it quiet when it sang so lustily.