You can see for yourself that there is no water in the glass! You
must have poured it away!"

As Louisa had done no such thing, she went into the kitchen and began
to cry, for it is disagreeable to be blamed when one is innocent.

Conductor Crossberg, who could not bear to see people crying, said
no more, but in the evening he bought a new rose, one which had
only just been cut, and, of course, was not wired, for his wife
had always had an objection to wired flowers.

And then he went to bed and fell asleep. And again he fancied in
his sleep that the wall-paper was on fire, and that his pillow was
very hot; but he went on sleeping.

On the following morning, when he came into the sitting-room, to
say his morning prayers before the little altar--alas! there lay
his rose, all the pink petals scattered by the side of the stem.
He was just stretching out his hand to touch the bell, when he saw
the photograph of his beloved, half rolled up, lying by the side
of the champagne glass. Louisa could not have done that!

"She, who was my all, my conscience and my muse," he thought in his
childlike mind, "she is dissatisfied and angry with me; what have
I done?"

Well, when he put this question to his conscience, he found, as
usual, more than one little fault, and he resolved to eradicate
his faults, gradually, of course.