After supper she appeared in some trepidation at the door. Snowy linen shimmered in her hand. She remained standing till he had impatiently invited her to sit down. "You want people to stand on ceremony with you, as if you were some fine lady," he said. She laughed in confusion. "I am only nervous, _Herr_, because I am not quite sure--how to behave." And she turned to her work. No more passed between them that evening, and it was more than a week before they broke into conversation again. He sat brooding over his yellow papers, and she let her needle fly through the crackling calico. When the clock struck eleven, she gathered up her sewing, and whispering "Good-night," slipped out on tiptoe without waiting for an answer. "What are you working at so industriously?" he asked her one evening, after he had watched her intently for some minutes. She looked up and pushed a curl off her forehead with damp fingers. "I am making shirts for you, _Herr_," was the answer. "So you undertake that too?" "Who else should do it, _Herr_?" A short silence; then he questioned her further. "Who taught you all you know, Regina? Your mother?" She shook her head. "My mother died very young, _Herr_. I can hardly remember her. People say my father beat her to death." He thought of the thin pale face and tired eyelids in the picture-gallery, of which the last trace had perished in the great fire. "Can you remember what your mother was like?" he demanded again. "She had long black hair, and eyes like mine, at least, so I have heard people say; and I can remember her hair, for she often wrapped me in it when I was undressed. I used to sit in it as if it were a cloak, and laugh; and when father--" She stopped in sudden alarm. "But you won't care to hear more, _Herr_?" "Go on, tell me the rest," he exclaimed. "And when father came home and wanted to beat me, because he was drunk, you know, she stood in front of me, and told me to get under her dress; and inside her dress it was like being in a cave, quite dark and still, and father's swearing sounded a long, long way off. And then she died. It was on a Sunday--yes, it was on a Sunday. For I was standing by the hedge and wondering whether she'd have a beautiful coffin--a green one, like the coffin on the trestle in the garden--when you, _Herr_, went by on your way to church. At that time you were little, like me, and you had on a blue coat with silver buttons, and a little sword at your side; and you stopped and asked me why I was crying, and I couldn't answer, I was so frightened, and then you gave me an apple." He had not the smallest recollection of the incident, but he remembered how he had taken the young sparrow away from her, and related the story. She had not forgotten it. Her eyes became illumined, as if lost in contemplation of some blissful sight. "I wonder, now, that you gave it up so meekly," he said. "How could I have done otherwise?" she answered.