So, with this constantly upon her mind, Margery had grown restless, and found herself continually watching the little girl. She was not insensible either of the great change that had, by some means or other, been wrought in her master since the child had come into the house. She, as well as the people, had noticed that he would never, if possible, allow her out of his sight. He never played a night now by himself as he had been used to doing for years. After the child went to bed the instruments were always closed, for he never put his hand upon the keyboard unless she were present. And, even when he had her beside him, he did not seem happy. The people at church said, as he had changed, his music, too, had changed; but, as he had grown more wild and feverish in manner, his music had grown more softened and beautiful in style. And once, after he had played a dreamy harmony that held them all entranced, he had come down from the organ-gallery with a fierce fire burning in his eyes, and hands that trembled violently, though they were clasped tight over the little girl in his arms. When they had complimented him he looked bewildered, and spoke in a confused way, as though he could not remember what he had been playing. Now, more convinced than ever were the people that something was evidently wrong with the music-master, and, notwithstanding he had lost nothing in his art, many shook their heads, and whispered that poor Erckman was, beyond a doubt, going crazy. December had worn almost into Christmas. In every house of the village there were preparations for the approaching holiday. The church, too, was undergoing some mysterious process at the hands of the young people, who went in and out at all hours by the back way, and steadily refused admittance to any one. They had even closed the doors against the organist when he went there one morning to play, but he was easily persuaded to withdraw, as he cared far more for solitude than society. Franz sat moodily by the fire in his parlor, with the little girl upon a cushion at his feet. They were both naturally silent, and would often sit quietly together for hours. But now, though the musician gazed absently into the grate, and seemed to take no heed of the child, she looked up once or twice into his face, then said, in a timid voice,— “Father, to-morrow is Christmas.” Franz had long ago taught her to call him father, and he merely answered mechanically, without taking his eyes from the illuminated coals,— “Yes.” “How dark the night is out, and how shrill and bleak the wind blows!” She had risen from her seat and gone to the window. “But to-morrow is Christmas-day, and I know it will be bright then; oh, I am sure it will be bright!” She stood a moment longer by the casement without speaking, then came back and sat down again, looking almost as ethereal as some spirit, that might vanish any moment forever into the glow of the red firelight.