“A dog!  A spitz!” Willy shrieked with joy.  “Is he for me, Onkelchen?”

He rushed at Fido, took hold of him by the paw, and dragged him out.

Malvine cried anxiously: 

“Let him go, Willy!”

But Wilhelm reassured her.

“He won’t hurt him, he is quite gentle.”

Fido allowed himself to be dragged without much resistance into the middle of the room, only turning his head away nervously and eying the child askance, as if doubtful as to his intentions.  But when Willy began to pat and stroke him kindly, and set him on his hind legs in the first position for begging, Fido realized that no harm was going to befall him, and attached himself instantly to the new friend with that easy confidence which was this sociable creature’s great fault of character.  He fell to wagging his bushy tail in a highly expressive manner, tried to lick Willy’s rosy face, and was altogether so overcome by pleasing emotions that he got a severe attack of coughing, sneezing, and snorting, and Willy exclaimed: 

“My Spitz has caught a cold on the journey.  We must give him some black-currant tea, mother!”

The boy took a great delight in the dog, playing with him the whole time of Wilhelm’s visit, feeding him at dinner, and even wanted to make him drink beer, which Fido steadfastly refused to do, and was much disappointed when, at leaving, Wilhelm prepared to take the dog with him.

“Didn’t you bring him for me?” he asked with a pout.

Wilhelm consoled him by promising that he should see Fido every day, and solemnly transferred to him all legal rights to the animal.  On these conditions Willy was content that Fido should go on living with Wilhelm, and that he should come frequently on a starring tour, as it were, to the Carlstrasse.

Wilhelm’s first visit to his friends on the Uhlenhorst did not tend to lighten his spirit.  In their home he breathed a pure and wholesome atmosphere, which, it seemed to him, he must contaminate by the heavy, noxious perfume which still clung to him, and which he could not get rid of.  Their life was as transparent as crystal, every moment would bear the scrutiny of the severest eye.  He, on the other hand, had much to conceal.  His memory recalled many a scene; he saw himself again in various situations, and thought—­what would they say if they knew?  Paul and Malvine told him cheerfully of all that had occurred to them during the last eight months; he was condemned to lock away his experiences in the depths of his heart.  His open and confiding nature was little used to keeping a secret.  It rose to his lips as often as he found himself alone with his friend, and his longing to unburden himself was all the more intense that he had himself formed no certain judgment on his course of action, and yearned to hear from the mouth of an unprejudiced person of sound moral tone and worldly experience, that he had done no great harm.  He carried in his own breast an accusing voice which called him faithless and mean-spirited, and showed him Pilar as the victim of his treachery; and he had need of an advocate, seeing that he was himself unable to refute these accusations with any sort of confidence.