"Was that a knock?" Anton asked himself as he turned toward his door. "Surely not a visitor?"
Lighting his lamp, he looked at the cuckoo clock upon the wall. It said a quarter past nine o'clock; he had not heard the cuckoo strike seven, eight, or nine!
"Phew!" he whistled, "I had no idea it was so late." Again the timid little knock.
"Surely I can't be mistaken again," thought Von Barwig, and walking to the door he threw it wide open.
To his utter astonishment, a little girl in a white night-gown stood there, silently sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Why, Jenny, Jenny!" and Von Barwig, taking the trembling child in his arms, placed her gently in his armchair. "Jenny, my dear child."
"I—I—couldn't go to sleep until I'd said good-night; I tried to but I couldn't," sobbed Jenny as soon as she could speak coherently.
"Why, what has happened?" asked Von Barwig, as he covered her with a travelling rug.
"You asked me to be your little girl, and then, when I said 'Yes,' you didn't answer; and I—thought—you—were—angry—with—me—because—because! When—you—came—in, I felt so sorry for you, and you looked so unhappy that I had to come down and ask you to forgive me. I—I just couldn't help—it. You're not angry, are you?"
"My dear, dear little girl. I, angry?" Von Barwig shook his head. "How could I be angry with you? Why should I? Why, it's—it's impossible!" and Von Barwig laughed at the very idea. Jenny sighed deeply and remained silent; she seemed contented simply to be with him.