This was done, and the same verdict reached. He was not yet dead. “He still thinks she’ll come!” There was a laugh somewhere. “Look at the night-shirt!” “How long is she dead now?” They left him then, and he could breathe a moment. They put into his stocking some things they had brought—simple things—at the last a spiral of pink-and-white candy. But there was no laughter—only silence. Once more they were doing their duty. And once more—for only the second sad time in his long life—old Liebereich understood. “It ain’t much,” said a pitying one. “It’s enough,” said another, crossly. The last one said—to comfort both: “He’ll never know no better.” Then they came and looked at him again. “Yes—only asleep.” Another voice said: “In the morning, I expect. Often they sleep away.” A doubting young woman said: “Mebby it just happened now and he ain’t cold yet.” But her elders, who had seen death often, only frowned. Then they went out. Old Liebereich lay very still. He was icy cold. The feet and hands they had touched would not get warm. He felt yet their cold touch. Two tears stole down his cheeks. His heart was still filled to bursting. Yet he lay quite still. Presently something like content came and stayed, and smoothed the sorrow from his face, and made it beautiful. V THE SECOND OPENING OF THE DOOR Then, without the least warning, the door opened again, directly in his eyes, and everything was quite as he had fancied it. Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife dressed for Christmas. And she was well and happy—by the smiles on her face. And the morning had come, as he had wished; for, as the door opened, the sun behind her smote away the darkness, and it seemed as if she had come down to him on those sheaves of glittering javelins. And yes, closely crowding behind her, came the very people he knew would come, filling all the door and making a background for his picture. Such a background! He forgave them all at once. For he must have dreamed those other, sadder things. And, more,—and better still,—the bells of the little town were jangling out their Christmas madrigal. (You know how dear the bells are to Germans!) [Illustration: “_Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife_”] And old Liebereich, too, did everything just as he had planned it. He lay quietly in his bed until they shouted, “Merry Christmas, Liebereich! Wake up!” Then he rose and took his wife in his arms and laughed at them,—in the very faces of them all!—and told them how cunningly he had fooled them. Precisely as he had planned. And he had two recollections of the moment. One was that Mrs. Schwalm _smiled_ when she saw the blue feather-stitched night-shirt; the other was that his wife was the prettiest of them all. After that came the vast happiness—all as he had planned.