Among the notices of appointments to be read in the news paper was the following: "Mr. George has been appointed Professor, 5th Class, No. 8."
"What a shame his father and mother are dead and can't read that!" said the new porters who now lived in the cellar under the General. They knew that the Professor had been born and brought up within those four walls.
"Now he'll have to pay the title tax!" said the man.
"Now, isn't that a lot for a poor child!" said the wife.
"Eighteen rix-dollars a year!" said the man. "Yes, that's a lot of money."
"No, I'm talking about the title!" said the wife. "You don't suppose having to pay the tax will worry him! He can earn that money many times over, and he'll probably marry a rich wife as well. If we had children, husband, a child of ours would also be an architect and a professor!"
Thus George was well spoken of in the cellar. He was well spoken of on the first floor, too; the old Count took good care of that.
It was the old drawings from his childhood days that presented an occasion for speaking about him. But how did these come to be mentioned? There was talk of Russia and Moscow, and so, of course, this
brought one right to the Kremlin, of which little George had made that drawing for little Miss Emilie. How many pictures he used to draw! There was one the Count especially remembered - "Little Emilie's Castle," with signs showing where she slept, where she danced, and where she played "visitors coming." Yes, the Professor had great talent. He might someday become an old privy councilor - that wasn't at all unlikely - and build a real castle for the young lady before he died; why not?
"That was a strange form of gaiety," said the General's wife after the Count had gone. The General nodded thoughtfully, and then went out riding, with the groom a respectful distance behind him, and he sat prouder than ever on his high horse.
Little Emilie's birthday brought cards and notes, books and flowers. The General Kissed her on the brow, and his wife kissed her on the lips. They were loving parents, and both they and Emilie were honored with noble visitors - even two of the princes. Then there was much talk about balls and theaters, about diplomatic embassies, and the governments of kingdoms and empires. Then the talk turned on rising young men, and native talent, and this brought the name of the young Professor into the conversation - Mr. Architect George.
"He is building for immortality," someone said. "And meanwhile he is building himself into one of the first families!"
"One of the first families!" repeated the General when he was alone with his wife. "Which one of our first families!"
"I can guess which was meant," said the General's wife. "But I won't speak of it or even think about it. God may have ordained it so, but I will be very surprised if He has!"
"Let me be surprised, too!" said the General. "I haven't an idea in my head!" Then he sank into a reverie, waiting for an idea to come.
There is a power, an unspeakable power, granted to a man by a few drops of grace from above - the grace of kings, the grace of God - and both of these were granted to little George.
But we are forgetting the birthday.
Emilie's room was fragrant with flowers from her friends and playmates. On her table lay fine presents, tokens of greeting and remembrance, but not one came from George. A gift from him would not have reached her, but it was not needed, for the whole house was a souvenir of him. A memorial flower peeped out from the broom closet under the stairs, where Emilie had peeped out when the curtain was burning and George had rushed up as first fireman. When she glanced from the window the acacia tree reminded her of childhood days. The blossoms and leaves were gone, but the tree stood shrouded in frost, like a great branch of coral, and the moon shone big and clear through the branches,
unchanged though ever changing, just as it was when George shared his bread and butter with Little Emilie.