"Not a particular recommendation for superstitious minds," said Albert, seating himself on a large wooden chest in the background of the room, while the old woman was pushing Oswald into the easy-chair and sat down at his feet on a footstool; "but honor to whom honor is due. You look quite grand, doctor, on that single gala-piece of furniture in this otherwise very plain room, especially in the Rembrandt light that falls on you, and with the old woman, Murillo fashion, at your feet, like a banished king who seeks shelter with an old fairy in the forest, while his faithful squire sits modestly in the background. I really believe our race has tired me, and I could sleep a few moments. Wake me, dottore, when it stops raining--" and Albert stretched himself full length on the old chest, put his hands under his head, and, in spite of the uncomfortable position, he seemed to have fallen asleep after a few minutes, while the monotonous ticking of the old cuckoo clock in the corner, and the dripping of the falling rain, alone interrupted the profound silence in the little room. Mother Claus had taken up her knitting and was at work as busily as the other day at a tiny child's sock, busily, busily, that the needles clinked merrily. Only from time to time she would look up at Oswald and nod kindly, as if she was glad that he was sitting so comfortably in the soft old armchair, here in the cosey room, while the rain came down pitilessly outside. "Is it not a good chair, young master?" she said, laying down her knitting for a moment, and putting her right hand on Oswald's knee. "The baroness gave it to me after the baron died. She could not bear to look at it, she said; for it reminded her always of the moment when they brought him in, after he had fallen with Wodan, and put him into that chair; and Harald came running in and cried, when he saw his father so pale and disfigured, and she, too, was running about in the room and wringing her hands, and I stood by the baron and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. I had no time for crying then, but I knew I would have time enough afterwards." "And how old was Baron Harald when his father died?" asked Oswald. "Ten years," answered Mother Claus, "and it would have been better for him if he had died too--for him and many others." The old woman had taken up her knitting again, which had been lying idle in her lap, and was knitting more busily than ever, as if she wanted to make up for lost time. "Yes, yes," she said; "it would have been better. Then he was a beautiful, innocent boy, with rosy cheeks and violet eyes, and when he died----" The old woman paused--the needles clinked and the rain beat against the panes. "Well," said Oswald, "and when he died----"