did not think it would inconvenience you," he began.

"Then it is settled?" said I. "Now let us go and see what kind of
furniture there is in that big room."

Without allowing him to utter any further objection, I dragged him
to the large room, and we surveyed it. The woman, who for some
unaccountable reason appeared to have recovered her good-temper in a
marvelous manner, said quite cheerfully that she would send the maid to
make the smaller room ready as a bedroom for two. "One of us won't take
much room," said Courvoisier with a laugh, to which she assented with a
smile, and then left us. The big room was long, low, and rather dark.
Beams were across the ceiling, and two not very large windows looked
upon the street below, across to two similar windows of another
lodging-house, a little to the left of which was the Tonhalle. The floor
was carpetless, but clean; there was a big square table, and some
chairs.

"There," said I, drawing Courvoisier to the window, and pointing across:
"there is one scene of your future exertions, the Staedtische Tonhalle."

"So!" said he, turning away again from the window--it was as dark as
ever outside--and looking round the room again. "This is a dull-looking
place," he added, gazing around it.

"We'll soon make it different," said I, rubbing my hands and gazing
round the room with avidity. "I have long wished to be able to inhabit
this room. We must make it more cheerful, though, before the child comes
to it. We'll have the stove lighted, and we'll knock up some shelves
and we'll have a piano in, and the sofa from my room, _nicht wahr?_ Oh,
we'll make a place of it, I can tell you."

He looked at me as if struck with my enthusiasm, and I bustled about.
We set to work to make the room habitable. He was out for a short time
at the station and returned with the luggage which he had left there.
While he was away I stole into my room and took a good look at my new
treasure; he still slept peacefully and calmly on. We were deep in
impromptu carpentering and contrivances for use and comfort, when it
occurred to me to look at my watch.

"Five minutes to seven!" I almost yelled, dashing wildly into my room to
wash my hands and get my violin. Courvoisier followed me. The child was
awake. I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I saw it looking at me with
great, soft, solemn, brown eyes, not in the least those of its father,
but it did not move. I said apologetically that I feared I had awake