en uncarpeted staircase.
On the first landing a door opened at the sound of my footsteps, and a
head was popped out--a rough, fuzzy head, with a pale, eager-looking
face under the bush of hair.

"Ugh!" said the owner of this amiable visage, and shut the door with a
bang. I looked at the plate upon it; it bore the legend, "Hermann
Duntze, Maler." To the second _etage_. Another door--another plate:
"Bernhardt Knoop, Maler." The house seemed to be a resort of artists.
There was a lamp burning on each landing; and now, at last, with breath
and heart alike failing, I ascended the last flight of stairs, and found
myself upon the highest _etage_ before another door, on which was
roughly painted up, "Eugen Courvoisier." I looked at it with my heart
beating suffocatingly. Some one had scribbled in red chalk beneath the
Christian name, "Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter." Had it been done in jest
or earnest? I wondered, and then knocked. Such a knock!

"_Herein!_"

I opened the door, and stepped into a large, long, low room. On the
table, in the center, burned a lamp, and sitting there, with the light
falling upon his earnest young face, was Helfen, the violinist, and near
to him sat Courvoisier, with a child upon his knee, a little lad with
immense dark eyes, tumbled black hair, and flushed, just awakened face.
He was clad in his night-dress and a little red dressing-gown, and
looked like a spot of almost feverish, quite tropic brightness in
contrast with the grave, pale face which bent over him. Courvoisier held
the two delicate little hands in one of his own, and was looking down
with love unutterable upon the beautiful, dazzling child-face. Despite
the different complexion and a different style of feature too, there
was so great a likeness in the two faces, particularly in the broad,
noble brow, as to leave no doubt of the relationship. My musician and
the boy were father and son.

Courvoisier looked up as I came in. For one half moment there leaped
into his eyes a look of surprise and of something more. If it had lasted
a second longer I could have sworn it was welcome--then it was gone. He
rose, turned the child over to Helfen, saying, "One moment, Friedel,"
then turned to me as to some stranger who had come on an errand as yet
unknown to him, and did not speak. The little one, from Helfen's knee,
stared at me with large, solemn eyes, and Helfen himself looked scarcely
less impressed.

I have no doubt I looked frightened--