nd only yesterday--it was to be a Christmas
treat--she sent me in a letter; guess from whom?"

"How can I guess?"

"You are right. No mortal ever could suppose it. But you remember the
creature with whom you quarrelled on my behalf?"

"Lottka!" he cried beside himself. "Is it possible--"

She nodded. "It was a very affectionate letter, the most beautiful
things were promised me in it--the paper smelt of Patchouli: since then
I have had that nausea, that loathing which only passed off when you
and I met again. But I have but to think of it, and--fie!--there it
comes again!"

She wiped her lips, and the same strange shudder passed over her. He
seized her hands--they were stiff and damp.

Suddenly she shook her head as if to get rid of some importunate
thought. "But we were going to unpack," said she. "Pretty subjects
these for Christmas Eve! Come to our box--_ours_ I say. You have
bewitched me with your dream about America."

"We will make it come true," he impetuously cried. "I shall remind you
on some future day of our first Christmas Eve, and then you will be
obliged to confess that I have more courage, and am a better prophet
than you."

She made no reply, but cut the last string and opened the box. All
sorts of small presents came to view, a pair of woollen gloves that his
eldest sister had knitted for him, a watch-chain woven of the fair hair
of the younger, with a pretty little gold key hanging to it, home-made
gingerbread, and finally a large sealed bottle.

"Have you vineyards?" asked she playfully.

He laughed in spite of all his sadness. "It is elder wine, and the
grapes grow in our little garden. As a child I thought it the best of
all things, and ever since my good mother believes she cannot please me
better than by sending me on every Christmas Eve, and every birthday, a
sample at least of her last year's making."

"I hope it tastes better to you than the most costly Rhine wine," said
she earnestly, "or you would not deserve it. Look--there are letters."

"Will you look them over? I am too much distracted. I should not know
what they were about if I read them."

She had seated herself on the sofa, and taken the letters on her knee;
one after the other she read them with most devout attention, as though
their contents were wonderful and sublime, yet they were only made up
of sisters' chat; little jests, apologies for the insignificance of
their offerings; and in the lines written by the mother