Dr. Henck was right in his supposition that his wife would give him a more loving reception when he had on a fur coat than she was otherwise wont to do. She stole up close to him in the darkest corner of the hall, twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him warmly and intensively. Then she burrowed her head into the collar of his fur coat and whispered: “Gustav isn’t home yet.” “Yes,” answered Dr. Henck in a voice that trembled slightly, while he caressed her hair with both hands, “yes, he’s home.” * * * * * A big fire flamed in Dr. Henck’s work-room. Whisky and water stood on the table. Judge Richardt lay stretched out in a large leather easy-chair and smoked a cigar. Dr. Henck sat huddled in a corner of the sofa. The door was open on the hall, where Mrs. Henck and the children were busy lighting the Christmas tree. Dinner had been very quiet. Only the children had twittered and prattled to one another and been happy. “You’re not saying anything, old fellow,” said Richardt. “Is it that you’re sitting worrying over your torn overcoat?” “No,” answered Henck, “it’s rather over the fur coat.” There was a few minutes’ silence before he continued: “I’m thinking of something else, too. I’m sitting thinking that this is the last Christmas we shall celebrate together. I’m a doctor and I know I’ve not many days left. I know it now with full certainty. I want, therefore, to thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me and my wife in these last times.” “Oh, you’re mistaken,” muttered Richardt, looking away. “No,” replied Henck, “I’m not mistaken. And I want also to thank you for lending me your fur coat. It has given me the last seconds of happiness I have known in my life.” THE BLUE ANCHOR I There was dancing in the salon, but in the darkened smoking-room sat several men who did not dance. The younger ones had white flowers in their button-holes, the older ones had decorations. In the corner of a sofa sat a man a little apart from the others; he sat very silent and smiled as at a happy dream. His face was brown, but his forehead was white. His frock coat was as correct as anyone else’s, and he had also a white flower in his button-hole; but his left hand, which hung over the arm of the sofa, was tattooed with a blue anchor. As a matter of fact it was not a ball; there had merely been a dinner, and afterwards there was dancing. A man with a decoration was standing in front of him. “You don’t dance, Mr. Fant?” he inquired. Fant replied, “I’ve just been dancing with Miss Gabel.”