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“Yes,” answered Dr. Henck in a voice that trembled slightly, while he caressed her hair with both hands, “yes, he’s home.”

A big fire flamed in Dr. Henck’s work-room. Whisky and water stood on the table.

Judge Richardt lay stretched out in a large leather easy-chair and smoked a cigar. Dr. Henck sat huddled in a corner of the sofa. The door was open on the hall, where Mrs. Henck and the children were busy lighting the Christmas tree.

Dinner had been very quiet. Only the children had twittered and prattled to one another and been happy.

“You’re not saying anything, old fellow,” said Richardt. “Is it that you’re sitting worrying over your torn overcoat?”

“No,” answered Henck, “it’s rather over the fur coat.”

There was a few minutes’ silence before he continued:

“I’m thinking of something else, too. I’m sitting thinking that this is the last Christmas we shall celebrate together. I’m a doctor and I know I’ve not many days left. I know it now with full certainty. I want, therefore, to thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me and my wife in these last times.”