At last he reached the upper town; emerging from which by a steep flight of narrow stone steps, he gained a little terraced spot of ground, crossed by two rows of linden-trees, under whose shade he had often sat of an evening to watch the sunset over the plain. He did not halt here, but passing across the grassy sward, made for a small low house which stood at the angle of the terrace. The shutters of the shop-window were closed, but a low half-door permitted a view of the interior; leaning over which Dalton remained for several minutes, as if lost in deep revery. The silent loneliness of the little shop at first appeared to engross all his attention, but after a while other thoughts came slowly flittering through his muddy faculties, and with a deep-drawn sigh he said,---- “Dear me! but I thought we were living here still! It's droll enough how one can forget himself! Hans, Hans Roëckle, my man!” cried he, beating with his stick against the doors as he called out. “Hanserl! Hans, I say! Well, it's a fine way to keep a shop! How does the creature know but I'm a lady that would buy half the gimcracks in the place, and he's not to be found! That's what makes these devils so poor,--they never mind their business. 'Tis nothing but fun and diversion they think of the whole day long. There's no teaching them that there's nothing like indhustry! What makes us the finest people under the sun? Work--nothing but work! I 'm sure I 'm tired of telling him so! Hans, are you asleep, Hans Roëckle?” No answer followed this summons, and now Dalton, after some vain efforts to unbolt the door, strode over it into the shop. “Faix! I don't wonder that you had n't a lively business,” said he, as he looked around at the half-stocked shelves, over which dust and cobwebs were spread like a veil. “Sorrow a thing I don't know as well as I do my gaiters! There's the same soldiers, and that's the woodcutter with the matches on his back, and there's the little cart Frank mended for him! Poor Frank, where is he now, I wonder?” Dalton sighed heavily as he continued to run his eye over the various articles all familiar to him long ago. “What's become of Hans?” cried he at last, aloud; “if it was n't an honest place, he would n't have a stick left! To go away and leave everything at sixes and sevens--well, well, it's wonderful!” Dalton ascended the stairs--every step of which was well known to him--to the upper story where he used to live. The door was unfastened, and the rooms were just as he had left them--even to the little table at which Nelly used to sit beside the window. Nothing was changed; a bouquet of faded flowers--the last, perhaps, she had ever plucked in that garden--stood in a glass in the window-sill; and so like was all to the well-remembered past, that Dalton almost thought he heard her footstep on the floor.