But he had too often had the discouraging and disappointing experience that he had become incapable of any strong and enduring emotion. What had he to offer that woman, who, in a mixture of passion, and naive unmorality of soul, had thrown herself at his breast? The shallow dregs of a draught, a power to love that had been wasted in sensual trifling--emptiness, weariness, a longing for sensation and a longing for repose. That was all the gift he could bring her. And how soon would he be satiated! Any sign of remorse or of fear in her would suffice to make her a burden, even a hated burden! "Be her good angel," he said to himself, "and let her be." He whistled and the sound was echoed by the trees. He sought a bench on which to sit down, and lit a cigarette. As the match flared up, he became conscious of the fact that night had fallen. A great quietude rested upon the dying forest. Like the strains of a beautifully perishing harmony the sound of the world's distant strife floated into this solitude. Attentively Stueckrath observed the little point of glowing fire in his hand, from which eddied upward a wreath of fragrant smoke. "Thank God," he said, "that at least remains--one's cigarette." Then he arose and wandered thoughtfully onward. Without knowing how he had come there, he found himself suddenly in front of his mistress's dwelling. Light shimmered in her windows--the raspberry coloured light of red curtains which loose women delight in. "Pah!" he said and shuddered. But, after all, up there a supper table was set for him; there was laughter and society, warmth and a pair of slippers. He opened the gate. A chill wind rattled in the twigs of the trees and blew the dead leaves about in conical whirls. They fluttered along like wandering shadows, only to end in some puddle ... Autumn ... MERRY FOLK The Christmas tree bent heavily forward. The side which was turned to the wall had been hard to reach, and had hence not been adorned richly enough to keep the equilibrium of the tree against the weighty twigs of the front. Papa noted this and scolded. "What would Mamma say if she saw that? You know, Brigitta, that Mamma doesn't love carelessness. If the tree falls over, think how ashamed we shall be." Brigitta flushed fiery red. She clambered up the ladder once more, stretched her arms forth as far as possible, and hung on the other side of the tree all that she could gather. There _had_ been very little there. But then one couldn't see.... And now the lights could be lit. "Now we will look through the presents," said Papa. "Which is Mamma's plate?" Brigitta showed it to him. This time he was satisfied. "It's a good thing that you've put so much marchpane on it," he said. "You know she always loves to have something to give away." Then lie inspected the polished safety lock that lay next to the plate and caressed the hard leaves of the potted palm that shadowed Mamma's place at the Christmas table.