hanging partly down the back, and surmounted
by some sort of black coif or conical head-gear.
Their aspect, altogether, was very singular: I
found that, so soon as my eye had fallen on them,
I could not take it off; and, to say the truth, lf
I stared, the young women returned my stare
with interest. As I moved wearily away, the
elder one spoke:

"Have you no money to buy yourself a
night's lodging, young man?"

"I have enough for that, Fräulein," I replied,
colouring, "but I am almost too tired to go
about and look for one. . . . I have been ill, and
have walked some miles to-day."

The sisters exchanged glances.

"If it be so, we will give you a supper and a
night's lodging. We need no payment. We
are bound by a vow to help any poor wayfarer
so far. You may come with us, young man."

Something within me said, "Do not go." But
why? What young fellow of twenty would
refuse the hospitality of two handsome women,
especially when he has but a few shillings in his
pocket; is tired and hungry? Yet I hesitated.

"Accept it or decline it," said she, who was
still the spokeswoman, somewhat impatiently.
"We cannot wait here longer."

We were at the door as she said this.

"I will paint your pictures in the morning,
then, in return for your hospitality," I replied,
smiling. I was a vain boy, I am afraid, in those
days. I had good teeth, and liked to show
them. The younger sister, I saw, never took
her eyes off me. There was no harm in
appearing to the best advantage. I bowed rather
directly to her as I spoke; and once more the
sisters exchanged glances.

A hired carriage was waiting. Without a
word, they stepped into it, and I followed them.
The driver clearly knew where to drive. Without
any order being given, we set off rapidly,
but in what direction I did not think of observing.
Like most German carriages, the glasses
rattled over the stones, so that I could not hear
myself speak. I made a futile effort, but
neither sister attempted to respond. Both sat
there, opposite me, motionless, leaning back in
the two corners. I had nothing for it but to
watch their faces in silence, and speculate about
their history, as the lamps, swung across the
narrow streets, threw lurid jets of light ever and
anon upon those two white masks under the
black pointed coifs.

It was not until we had been driving for
upwards of twenty minutes, and had come out
into what I suppose to have been a suburb of
the city, judging from its high garden walls,
that it suddenly flashed upon me that I had left
my knapsack behind me in the confessional. An
exclamation of annoyance escaped me.

"What is it?" said the younger sister, leaning
forward; her voice was far more musical than
her sister's.

I told her what troubled me.

"Did it contain anything of value?" asked
the other.

I shook my head. "Nothing of value to
any one but myself—a change of clothes, my
colours and brushes, and a few books."

"The cathedral is locked now. It would be
no use our returning. It will be open at six;
and if you are there before that hour, you will
find your property all safe, no doubt. . . . Here
we are, Gretchen; have you the key? Open
the door."

We stopped before a small single-storied
house, having a wall on either side of it, and no
other habitation near. So much I saw, while
Gretchen (the younger one) drew out a key, and
opened the house door. The carriage drove off.
I followed the sisters into a narrow passage.
Upon the right was the kitchen; on the left,
the staircase; at the back, a door, leading, by a
flight of steps, into a garden.

"Come with me, young man," said Gretchen.
"Lori will get supper ready meanwhile."

The elder sister turned into the kitchen;
Gretchen led the way up-stairs.

"We have but two rooms. . . . Lori will prepare
your bed in the parlour, after supper. . .
Will you wash your hands?"

She struck a light, and opened a door to the
left, at the top of the stairs. It was the bedroom
of the two sisters—small, yet containing
two beds, and several great chests. A black
crucifix, too, I observed in the corner of the
room.

"And you two live here, alone?" I asked.
"No servant? Are you not afraid sometimes?"

She shook her head. "No, we are not afraid.
Lori is afraid of nothing—not even of ghosts.
Do you believe in ghosts?"

I laughed.

"Do not laugh," she whispered. "Ghosts
are the only things I fear. Sometimes I fancy
I see them in the garden there." She
shuddered. "See what a fine garden we have. . .
Plenty of space, is there not?"

She was pouring water into a basin from an
earthenware ewer, I remember, as she said this.
She set the vessel down, and turned to the window,
through which the moon, which was now
rising behind a solitary sycamore, shone into the
room.

A square space enclosed by high walls where
the grass grew rank, and a moss-grown walk,
led to a little door in the wall at the further
end. This was what she was pleased to term the
garden.

"The violets grow rarely there in the spring,"
she said, with a strange smile, as if interpreting
my thought.

When I had washed my hands, Gretchen
conducted me into the next room, where Lori had
now laid the supper. It was a small chamber, with
an alcove, or closet, at one end, a great earthenware
stove, and a number of gaudy prints around
the walls. In the midst was the table, where three
covers were laid. It was decked with a bunch
of China asters in a jar, and was substantially
furnished, I was glad to see, with a pie, a dish of
raw ham, a loaf of black bread, and some grapes.
As for drinkables, there was a small jug of
Bavarian beer, and there was a bottle of water.