Thus they had been ever since a hard-drawn sob had told him that the letter was no more than a pretence. He had seen the tear-stains and the piteous smudges, and he had knelt down as though he knew that his closer presence comforted her. Neither had spoken. They seemed to be always listening, but the silence remained unbroken. Once, it is true, a carriage had rattled along the street and they had looked at each other, but it had gone on, and neither had made any observation. From where they sat they could see across the road into the rooms of the house opposite. They were brightly lit, and in one a noble young fir-tree glittered in all the glory of tinsel and golden spangles. Husband and wife glanced quickly away. It was Christmas Eve. A tiny little shrub stood in the corner, unadorned save with the candles and one single star. Frau von Seleneck had bought it at the last moment, because she could not bring herself to let the great evening pass without that time-honoured custom, but she had cried when she had fixed the star on the topmost branch, and since then she had never dared look at it because of the tears that rose in spite of every heroic effort. Presently the clock upon the mantelpiece began to chime. They counted the hurried, cheery little strokes under their breath. Seven o’clock. "They must be here soon," she said in a whisper. "If the train is not late," he answered, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. "They are usually late on Christmas Eve." "Yes," she said. "How terrible and long the journey must seem to her!" "If she cares!" he said bitterly. His wife’s hand tightened on his. "I think she cares," she said with an almost awe-struck earnestness. "I am nearly sure. It is not alone that she is coming—it is something else. Kurt, haven’t you ever had a letter—just an ordinary letter—from some one dear to you, and haven’t you had the feeling that it contained a message of which the writer had written nothing—as though the words had absorbed the look of his eyes, the touch of his hand, and were trying to transmit to you all that which he had tried to hide behind them? That was how I felt when Nora’s telegram came. It was just an ordinary, ugly telegram, and yet I knew that she cared—that she was sorry." "Pray God he may live to see her!" he answered. "Pray God that he may live to be happy with her!" she added reverently. He shook his head. "I don’t pray that," he said. "I can’t ask impossibilities of God. And how should Nora make Wolff happy now? She failed before, when her task was easy. What should give her the strength to succeed in the face of the distrust and hatred which she called to life by her own folly?" "I shall help her," Elsa von Seleneck returned proudly. "I shall stand by her for Wolff’s sake and because we were once friends. After all, she has atoned—she is coming back. That must be the hardest thing of all." "She will need more than your help," was the grave answer.