tz."

"It would take a long time; people are always passing."

"People do not pass in the evening," murmured Greta, "because the gate
at our end is always shut."

Christian rose.

"We will come this evening, just before the gate is shut."

"But, Chris, how shall we get back again?"

"I don't know; I mean to have the pictures."

"It is not a high gate," murmured Greta.

After dinner the girls went to their room, Greta bearing with her the
big screw-driver of Fritz. At dusk they slipped downstairs and out.

They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of
the doorway. The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of
the bugles at the barracks.

"Quick!" whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her
small hands, began to turn the screws. It was some time before
they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the
screw-driver and passionately gave the screw a starting twist.

"It is like a pig--that one," said Greta, rubbing her wrists mournfully.

The opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting
staircase, then fell to behind them with a clatter.

Greta gave a little scream, and caught her sister's dress.

"It is dark," she gasped; "O Chris! it is dark!"

Christian groped for the bottom stair, and Greta felt her arm shaking.

"Suppose there is a man to keep guard! O Chris! suppose there are bats!"

"You are a baby!" Christian answered in a trembling voice. "You had
better go home!"

Greta choked a little in the dark.

"I am--not--going home, but I'm afraid of bats. O Chris! aren't you
afraid?"

"Yes," said Christian, "but I'm going to have the pictures."

Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found the
bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.

The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all
things, hated darkness. The blanket across the doorway of the loft had
been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.

"Nobody here, you see," said Christian.

"No-o," whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the
wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.

"But they have been here!" cried Christian angrily. "They have broken
this." She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been
thrown down.

Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden
frames, dragging them with all her strength.

"Help me!" she cri