and I'll give you some Christmas cake."

He then closed the door again and gave his hand to the little girl,
who walked along with him in silence to his lodgings.

On going out he had left the light burning.

"Here are some cakes for you," he said, pouring half of his whole
stock into her apron, though he gave none that bore the sugar letters.

"Now, off you go home, and give your mother some of them too."

The child cast a shy look up at him; she seemed unaccustomed to such
kindness and unable to say anything in reply. Reinhard opened the
door, and lighted her way, and then the little thing like a bird flew
downstairs with her cakes and out of the house.

Reinhard poked the fire in the stove, set the dusty ink-stand on the
table, and then sat down and wrote and wrote letters the whole night
long to his mother and Elisabeth.

The remainder of the Christmas cakes lay untouched by his side, but he
had buttoned on Elisabeth's cuffs, and odd they looked on his shaggy
coat of undyed wool. And there he was still sitting when the winter
sun cast its light on the frosted window-panes, and showed him a pale,
grave face reflected in the looking-glass.

* * * * *