oubting distrust
of the Herr himself--a dread lest the old man might in some way
appropriate this stock of life to his own use, and so renew his
fast-expiring lease for a score or two of years to come. At last this
dread grew so painfully definite, that he hurried back to Freiberg a
day before his appointed time, and once more found his twofold self
wandering through its devious streets.

It was long after dark, and a thin rain slanted on the slippery
stones, as he again made his way through the deserted and sleepy paths
of the town to the old philosopher's house. He was wet, chilled,
weary, and sick enough at heart as he leaned against the cold stone
doorway and waited for an answer to his knock. The plash of the
heavier rain-drops from the tiled leaves was the only sound he heard
for many minutes, until, at last, pattering feet neared him on the
inside, and a child's voice asked who was there. To his friendly
response the door was opened half-wide, and Voegelein's blank, pretty
face peeped through.

Was Herr Lebensfunke at home? No; he had said that he wasn't at home;
but then, she thought he was in the long room where mamma went to
sleep. Could he be seen? No, she thought not; he was very tired, and,
in her own--Voegelein's--opinion, he was going to sleep too, just as
mamma did. And the wizened little face, with its eldritch eyes and
tangled hair, was withdrawn, and the door began to close. Ronald
forced himself inside, and grasped the child's arm.

"Voegelein, don't you know me?"

The girl, in nowise startled, gravely set her flickering candle on the
door-step, looked up at him wonderingly, as if he were an exhibition,
and said she thought not, unless he had been asleep on the table.

"Good heavens!" cried Ronald, "can this child talk of nothing but
people asleep on a table?"

But, as he spoke, a thought whirred through his brain. He drew the
poor half-witted thing close to him and asked:

"Can Voegelein tell me something about mamma, and how she went to
sleep?"

The child rambled on, pleased to find a listener to her foolish
prattle. All he could connect into a narrative was, that the girl's
mother, some seven or eight years before, had been drained of her life
by the awful magnet, and that, as the child said, "the Herr Doctor
ever since had talked just like mamma."

His dread was well founded, then. The old man's one dream and aim was
to prolong his wretched life; could he doubt that he would not now