was the founder of the present grain business. There was much about him set down in detail: when he had had the purples, and when genuine small-pox; when he had fallen out of the malt-kiln and been miraculously saved, when he might have fallen against the beams and been crushed; how he had had fever and been delirious--all these events were meticu-lously described. He had also written down wise admonitions for the benefit of his descendants, like the following, which was carefully painted and framed, in a tall Gothic script set off with a border: "My son, attend with zeal to thy business by day; but do none that hinders thee from thy sleep by night." He had also stated that his old Wittenberg Bible was to descend to his eldest son, and thence from first-born to first-born in each generation. Consul Buddenbrook reached for the old leather portfolio and took out the remaining documents. There were letters, on torn and yellow paper, written by anxious mothers to their sons abroad--which the sons had docketed: "Received and contents duly noted." There were citizens' papers, with the seal and crest of the free Hansa town; insurance policies; letters inviting this or that Buddenbrook to become god-father for a colleague's child: congratulatory epistles and occasional poems. Sons travelling for the firm to Stockholm or Am-sterdam had written back, to the parent or partner at home, letters in which business was touchingly mingled with inquiries after wife and child. There was a separate diary of the Consul's journey through England and Brabant; the cover had an engraving of Edinburgh Castle and the Grass-market. Lastly, there were Cotthold's late angry letters to his father--painful documents, to offset which was the poem written by Jean Jacques Hoffstede to celebrate the. house-warming. A faint, rapid chime came from above the secretary, where there hung a dull-looking painting of an old market-square, with a church-tower that possessed a real clock of its own. It was now striking the hour, in authentic if tiny tones. The Consul closed the portfolio and stowed it away carefully in a drawer at the back of the desk. Then he went into the bed-chamber. Here the walls and the high old bed were hung with dark flowered chintz, and there was in the air a feeling of repose, of convalescence--of calm after an anxious and painful or-deal. A mingled odour of cologne and drugs hung in the mild, dim-lighted atmosphere. The old pair bent over the cradle side by side and watched the slumbering child; and the Consul's wife lay pale and happy, in an exquisite lace jacket, her hair carefully dressed. As she put out her hand to her husband, her gold bracelets tinkled slightly. She had a characteristic way of stretching out her hand with the palm upward, in a sweeping gesture that gave it added graciousness. "Well, Betsy, how are you?" "Splendid, splendid, my dear Jean." He still held her hand as he bent over and looked at the child, whose rapid little breaths were distinctly audible. For a moment he inhaled the tender warmth and the indescribable odour of well-being and cherishing care that came up from the cradle. Then he kissed the little creature on the brow 55 and said softly: "God bless you!" He noticed how like to a bird's claws were the tiny yellow, crumpled fingers. "She eats splendidly," Madame Antoinette said. "See how she has gained." "I believe, on my soul, she looks like Netta," old Johann said, beaming with pride and pleasure. "See what coal-black eyes she has!" The old lady waved him away. "How can anybody tell who she looks like yet?" she said. "Are you going to church, Jean?" "Yes, it is ten o'clock now, and high time. I am only waiting for the children." The children were already making an unseemly noise on the stairs, and Clothilde could be heard telling them to hush. They came in in their fur tippets--for it would still be wintry in St. Mary's--trying to be soft and gentle in the sick-room. They wanted to see the little sister, and
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