stly, not like
anything human."

"You foreboding angel!" cried Edwin laughing. "But don't be afraid of
him, Reginchen. This godly fellow won't come again very soon; he saw
that he had no power over our souls, and our flesh--I mean the
excellent piece of meat your mother has sent up to us to-day--did not
tempt his appetite."

"I hope you may be right," said Balder. "But I'm afraid we shall not
get rid of this gloomy guest so quickly; he's only watching for a more
favorable opportunity to steal in again, though I don't understand what
he hopes to find here."

"We'll wait till he does, and if necessary use our right to close our
doors. He has left us his card: 'Unter den Linden, No. 10.' Of course
in the most fashionable locality. The children of God, who neither sow
nor reap, since their Heavenly Father feeds them, can afford themselves
every luxury, while we children of the world--but you're right,
Reginchen, the dinner will get cold. Come, child, let me pour you out a
glass of wine. I'll take water myself, to cool my indignation over the
false prophet."

CHAPTER XIV.

Meantime Lorinser had only crept down one flight of stairs and stopped
before the door on the second story. He read the name on the small
sign, listened a few minutes, and then gently pulled the bell.

Christiane opened the door and gazed in surprise at the stranger, whom
she had just seen with Edwin. His penetrating gaze rested on her a
moment, then he raised his eyes toward the ceiling of the entry, as if
solely interested in the spiders' webs.

"Fraeulein Christiane Falk?" said he.

She made an almost imperceptible bow. "What do you want, sir?"

"Will you allow me to come in a moment, the errand that brings me to
you can hardly be discussed here--"

She drew back a step from the threshold to admit him. In an instant he
had crossed the ante-room and entered the half sitting room half
bedroom, to which we were introduced the night that this story opened.
Its appearance in the broad daylight was not much more cheerful, than
by the feeble rays of the little lamp. The walls were hung with faded
tapestry, but destitute of pictures. The floor was uncarpeted, there
were no flowers, none of the hundred trifles with which lonely women
adorn their rooms and endeavor to supply the lack of human
companionship; nothing but a quantity of books on the bureau, the
volume of Schopenhauer on the table before the sofa, and