Contents:

Page No 1

Page No 2

Page No 3

Page No 4

THE FORTUNE HUNTER...............................................................................................................................1

DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS ................................................................................................................1

On an afternoon late in April Feuerstein left his boardinghouse in East Sixteenth Street, in the block just

A romantic figure was Feuerstein, of the German Theater stock company. He was tall and slender, and had

large, handsome features. His coat was cut long over the shoulders and in at the waist to show his lines of

strength and grace. He wore a pearlgray soft hat with rakish brim, and it was set with suspicious

carelessness upon bright blue, and seemed to blazon a fiery, sentimental nature. He strode along, intensely

selfconscious, not in the way that causes awkwardness, but in the way that causes a swagger. One had only

to glance at him to know that he was offensive to many men and fascinating to many women.

Not an article of his visible clothing had been paid for, and the tencent piece in a pocket of his trousers was

his total cash balance. But his heart was as light as the day. Had he not youth? Had he not health? Had he not

looks to bewitch the women, brains to outwit the men? Feuerstein sniffed the delightful air and gazed round,

like a king in the midst of cringing subjects. ``I feel that this is one of my lucky days,'' said he to himself. An

At the FourteenthStreet crossing he became conscious that a young man was looking at him with respectful

admiration and with the anxiety of one who fears a distinguished acquaintance has forgotten him. Feuerstein

paused and in his grandest, most gracious manner, said: ``Ah! Mr. Hartmanna glorious day!''

``It is lucky I met you,'' continued Feuerstein. ``I had an appointment at the Cafe Boulevard at four, and came

hurrying away from my lodgings with empty pocketsI am so absentminded. Could you convenience me

for a few hours with five dollars? I'll repay you tonightyou will be at Goerwitz's probably? I usually look

Feuerstein looked annoyed. ``Perhaps I can make that do. Thank yousorry to trouble you. I MUST be more

The two dollars were transferred, Feuerstein gave Hartmann a flourishing stage salute and strode grandly on.

Before he had gone ten yards he had forgotten Hartmann and had dismissed all financial carehad he not

enough to carry him through the day, even should he meet no one who would pay for his dinner and his

The hedge at the Cafe Boulevard was green and the tables were in the yard and on the balconies; but

Feuerstein entered, seated himself in one of the smokefogged readingrooms, ordered a glass of beer, and

divided his attention between the Fliegende Blatter and the faces of incoming men. After half an hour two

men in an arriving group of three nodded coldly to him. He waited until they were seated, then joined them

and proceeded to make himself agreeable to the one who had just been introduced to himyoung Horwitz,

an assistant bookkeeper at a department store in Twentythird Street. But Horwitz had a ``soul,'' and the

yearning of that secret soul was for the stage. Feuerstein did Horwitz the honor of dining with him. At a

quarter past seven, with his two dollars intact, with a loan of one dollar added to it, and with five of his

original ten cents, he took himself away to the theater. Afterward, by appointment, he met his new friend, and

did him the honor of accompanying him to the Young German Shooters' Society ball at Terrace Garden.

It was one of those simple, entirely and genuinely gay entertainments that assemble the society of the real

New Yorkthe three and a half millions who work and play hard and live plainly and without pretense,

whose ideals center about the hearth, and whose aspirations are to retire with a competence early in the

afternoon of life, thenceforth placidly to assist in the prosperity of their children and to have their youth over

Feuerstein's gaze wandered from face to face among the young women, to pause at last upon a dark,

handsome, stronglooking daughter of the people. She had coalblack hair that curled about a low forehead.

Her eyes were dreamy and stormy. Her mouth was sweet, if a trifle petulant. ``And who is she?'' he asked.

``That's Hilda Brauner,'' replied Horwitz. ``Her father has a delicatessen in Avenue A. He's very richowns

three flathouses. They must bring him in at least ten thousand net, not to speak of what he makes in the

``A beautiful creature,'' said Feuerstein, who was feeling like a prince who, for reasons of sordid necessity,

She blushed and was painfully ill at ease in presence of his grand and lofty courtesyshe who had been used

to the offhand manners which prevail wherever there is equality of the sexes and the custom of frank

sociability. And when he asked her to dance she would have refused had she been able to speak at all. But he

bore her off and soon made her forget herself in the happiness of being drifted in his strong arm upon the

rhythmic billows of the waltz. At the end he led her to a seat and fell to complimenting herhis eyes

eloquent, his voice, it seemed to her, as entrancing as the waltz music. When he spoke in German it was

without the harsh sputtering and growling, the slovenly slurring and clipping to which she had been

accustomed. She could answer only with monosyllables or appreciative looks, though usually she was a great

talker and, as she had much common sense and not a little wit, a good talker. But her awe of him, which

increased when she learned that he was on the stage, did not prevent her from getting the two main

impressions he wished to make upon herthat Mr. Feuerstein was a very grand person indeed, and that he

She was the ``catch'' of Avenue A, taking prospects and looks together, and the men she knew had let her rule

them. In Mr. Feuerstein she had found what she had been unconsciously seeking with the Idealismus of

genuine youtha man who compelled her to look far up to him, a man who seemed to her to embody those

vague dreams of a life grand and beautiful, away off somewhere, which are dreamed by all young people, and

by not a few older ones, who have less excuse for not knowing where happiness is to be found. He spent the

whole evening with her; Mrs. Liebers and Sophie, with whom she had come, did not dare interrupt her

pleasure, but had to stay, yawning and cross, until the last strain of Home, Sweet Home.

At parting he pressed her hand. ``I have been happy,'' he murmured in a tone which said, ``Mine is a

She glanced up at him with ingenuous feeling in her eyes and managed to stammer: ``I hope we'll meet

``Until Sunday night,'' he said, and made her feel that the three intervening days would be for him three

She thought of him all the way home in the car, and until she fell asleep. His sonorous name was in her mind

when she awoke in the morning; and, as she stood in the store that day, waiting on the customers, she looked

often at the door, and, with the childhoodsurviving faith of youth in the improbable and impossible, hoped

that he would appear. For the first time she was definitely discontented with her lot, was definitely fascinated

by the idea that there might be something higher and finer than the simple occupations and simple

In the evening after supper her father and mother left her and her brother August in charge, and took their

usual stroll for exercise and for the profound delight of a look at their flathousesthose reminders of many

years of toil and thrift. They had spent their youth, she as cook, he as helper, in one of New York's earliest

delicatessen shops. When they had saved three thousand dollars they married and put into effect the plan

which had been their chief subject of conversation every day and every evening for ten years they opened

the ``delicatessen'' in Avenue A, near Second Street. They lived in two back rooms; they toiled early and late

for twentythree contented, cheerful years she in the shop when she was not doing the housework or

caring for the babies, he in the great clean cellar, where the cooking and cabbagecutting and pickling and

spicing were done. And now, owners of three houses that brought in eleven thousand a year clear, they were

about to retire. They had fixed on a place in the Bronx, in the East Side, of course, with a big garden, where

every kind of gay flower and good vegetable could be grown, and an arbor where there could be pinochle,

beer and coffee on Sunday afternoons. In a sentence, they were honorable and exemplary members of that

great mass of humanity which has the custody of the present and the future of the racethose who live by

the sweat of their own brows or their own brains, and train their children to do likewise, those who maintain

the true ideals of happiness and progress, those from whom spring all the workers and all the leaders of

They walked slowly up the Avenue, speaking to their neighbors, pausing now and then for a joke or to pat a

baby on the head, until they were within two blocks of Tompkins Square. They stopped before a fivestory

tenement, evidently the dwellingplace of substantial, intelligent, selfrespecting artisans and their families,

leading the natural life of busy usefulness. In its first floor was a delicatessen the sign read ``Schwartz and

``Fine, isn't it? Beautiful!'' he exclaimed in LowGermanthey and almost all their friends spoke

The window certainly was well arranged. Only a merchant who knew his business thoroughlyboth his

wares and his customerscould have thus displayed cooked chickens, hams and tongues, the imported

sausages and fish, the jellyinclosed paste of chicken livers, the bottles and jars of pickled or spiced meats

and vegetables and fruits. The spectacle was adroitly arranged to move the hungry to yearning, the filled to

regret, and the dyspeptic to rage and remorse. And behind the showwindow lay a shop whose shelves,

counters and floor were clean as toil could make and keep them, and whose air was saturated with the most

Mrs. Brauner nodded. ``Heilig was up at halfpast four this morning,'' she said. ``He cleans out every

morning and he moves everything twice a week.'' She had a round, honest face that was an inspiring study in

``What a worker!'' was her husband's comment. ``So unlike most of the young men nowadays. If August were

``You'd think Heilig was a drone if he were your son,'' replied Mrs. Brauner. She knew that if any one else

had dared thus to attack their boy, his father would have been growling and snapping like an angry bear.

``That's right!'' he retorted with mock scorn. ``Defend your children! You'll be excusing Hilda for putting off

``She'll marry himgive her time,'' said Mrs. Brauner. ``She's romantic, but she's sensible, toowhy, she

was born to make a good wife to a hardworking man. Where's there another woman that knows the business

as she does? You admit on her birthdays that she's the only real helper you ever had.''

``Arbeit und Liebe und Heim. Nicht wahr?'' Otto Heilig appeared in his doorway and greeted them

awkwardly. Nor did their cordiality lessen his embarrassment. His pink and white skin was rosy red and his

frank bluegray eyes shifted uneasily. But he was smiling with eager friendliness, showing even, sound,

``You are coming to see us tomorrow?'' asked Mrs. Braunerhe always called on Sunday afternoons and

``Whythat isnot exactlyno,'' he stammered. Hilda had told him not to come, but he knew that if he

admitted it to her parents they would be severe with her. He didn't like anybody to be severe with Hilda, and

he felt that their way of helping his courtship was not suited to the modern ideas. ``They make her hate me,''

he often muttered. But if he resented it he would offend them and Hilda too; if he acquiesced he encouraged

Mrs. Brauner knew at once that Hilda was in some way the cause of the break in the custom. ``Oh, you must

come,'' she said. ``We'd feel strange all week if we didn't see you on Sunday.''

``YesI must have my cards,'' insisted Brauner. He and Otto always played pinochle; Otto's eyes most of the

time and his thoughts all the time were on Hilda, in the corner, at the zither, playing the maddest, most

romantic music; her father therefore usually won, poor at the game though he was. It made him cross to lose,

and Otto sometimes defeated his own luck deliberately when love refused to do it for him.

Several customers pushed past him into his shop and he had to rejoin his partner, Schwartz, behind the

counters. Brauner and his wife walked slowly homeit was late and there would be more business than

Hilda and August could attend to. As they crossed Third Street Brauner said: ``Hilda must go and tell him to

``But she can't do that,'' objected Mrs. Brauner. ``She'd say it was throwing herself at his head.''

``Not if I send her?'' Brauner frowned with a seeming of severity. ``Not if I, her father, send herfor two

chickens, as we're out?'' Then he laughed. His fierceness was the family joke when Hilda was small she used

Hilda was behind the counter, a customer watching with fascinated eyes the graceful, swift movements of her

arms and hands as she tied up a bundle. Her sleeves were rolled to her dimpled elbows, and her arms were

round and strong and white, and her skin was fine and smooth. Her shoulders were wide, but not square; her

hips were narrow, her wrists, her hands, her head, small. She looked healthy and vigorous and useful as well

When the customers had gone Brauner said: ``Go up to Schwartz and Heilig, daughter, and ask them for two

``But we don't need the chickens, now. We'' Hilda's brow contracted and her chin came out.

``You SHALL be here tomorrow! If you don't wish young Heilig here for your own sake, you must show

consideration for your parents. Are they to be deprived of their Sunday afternoon? You have never done this

Hilda hung her head; after a moment she unrolled her sleeves, laid aside her apron and set out. She was

repentant toward her father, but she felt that Otto was to blame. She determined to make him suffer for

ithow easy it was to make him suffer, and how pleasant to feel that this big fellow was her slave! She went

straight up to him. ``So you complained of me, did you?'' she said scornfully, though she knew well that he

She looked contempt. ``Well, you've won. Come down Sunday afternoon. I suppose I'll have to endure it.''

``Hilda, you're wrong. I will NOT come!'' He was angry, but his mind was confused. He loved her with all

the strength of his simple, straightforward nature. Therefore he appeared at his worst before herusually

either incoherent or dumb. It was not surprising that whenever it was suggested that only a superior man

could get on so well as he did, she always answered: ``He works twice as hard as any one else, and you don't

She now cut him short. ``If you don't come I'll have to suffer for it,'' she said. ``You MUST come! I'll not be

glad to see you. But if you don't come I'll never speak to you again!'' And she left him and went to the other

Heilig was wretched,another of those hideous dilemmas over which he had been stumbling like a drunken

man in a dark room full of furniture ever since he let his mother go to Mrs. Brauner and ask her for Hilda. He

watched Hilda's splendid back, and fumbled about, upsetting bottles and rattling dishes, until she went out

``Anybody could tell you are in love,'' he said. ``Be stiff with her, Otto, and you'll get her all right. It don't do

to let a woman see that you care about her. The worse you treat the women the better they like it. When they

used to tell my father about some woman being crazy over a man, he always used to say, `What sort of a

Otto made no reply. No doubt these maxims were sound and wise; but how was he to apply them? How could

he pretend indifference when at sight of her he could open his jaws only enough to chatter them, could loosen

his tongue only enough to roll it thickly about? ``I can work,'' he said to himself, ``and I can pay my debts and

Hilda returned to her father's shop and was busy there until nine o'clock. Then Sophie Liebers came and they

went into the Avenue for a walk. They pushed their way through and with the throngs up into Tompkins

Squarethe center of one of the several vast districts, little known because little written about, that contain

the real New York and the real New Yorkers. In the Square several thousand young people were

promenading, many of the girls walking in pairs, almost all the young men paired off, each with a young

woman. It was warm, and the stars beamed down upon the hearts of young lovers, blotting out for them

electric lights and surrounding crowds. It caused no comment there for a young couple to walk hand in hand,

looking each at the other with the expression that makes commonplace eyes wonderful. And when the sound

of a kiss came from a somewhat secluded bench, the only glances east in the direction whence it had come

``There's Otto Heilig dogging us,'' said Hilda to Sophie, as they walked up and down. ``Do you wonder I hate

him?'' They talked in American, as did all the young people, except with those of their elders who could

Sophie was silent. If Hilda had been noting her face she would have seen a look of satisfaction.

``I can't bear him,'' went on Hilda. ``No girl could. He's so stupid andand common!'' Never before had she

Sophie's unobserved look changed to resentment. ``Of course he's not equal to Mr. Feuerstein,'' she said.

``But he's a very nice fellowat least for an ordinary girl.'' Sophie's father was an upholsterer, and not a

good one. He owned no tenements was barely able to pay the rent for a small corner of one. Thus her sole

dower was her pretty face and her cunning. She had an industrious, scheming, not overscrupulous brain

andher hopes and plans. Nor had she time to waste. For she was nearer twentythree than twentytwo, at

the outer edge of the marriageable age of Avenue A, which believes in an early start at what it regards as the

``You surely couldn't marry such a man as Otto!'' said Hilda absently. Her eyes were searching the crowd,

Sophie laughed. ``Beggars can't be choosers,'' she answered. ``I think he's all rightas men go. It wouldn't

Just then Hilda caught sight of Mr. Feuersteinthe godlike head, the glorious hair, the graceful hat. Her

manner changedher eyes brightened, her cheeks reddened, and she talked fast and laughed a great deal. As

they passed near him she laughed loudly and called out to Sophie as if she were not at her elbowshe feared

he would not see. Mr. Feuerstein turned his picturesque head, slowly lifted his hat and joined them. At once

Hilda became silent, listening with rapt attention to the commonplaces he delivered in sonorous, oracular

As he deigned to talk only to Hilda, who was walking between Sophie and him, Sophie was free to gaze

round. She spied Otto Heilig drooping dejectedly along. She adroitly steered her party so that it crossed his

path. He looked up to find himself staring at Hilda. She frowned at this disagreeable apparition into her

happiness, and quickened her step. But Sophie, without letting go of Hilda's hand, paused and spoke to Otto.

Thus Hilda was forced to stop and to say ungraciously: ``Mr. Feuerstein, Mr. Heilig.''

Then she and Mr. Feuerstein went on, and Sophie drew the reluctant Otto in behind them. She gradually

slackened her pace, so that she and Heilig dropped back until several couples separated them from Hilda and

Mr. Feuerstein. A few minutes and Hilda and Mr. Feuerstein were seated on a bench in the deep shadow of a

Heilig was miserable with despondent jealousy. He longed to inquire about this remarkablelooking new

friend of Hilda's. For Mr. Feuerstein seemed to be of that class of strangers whom Avenue A condemns on

their very appearance. It associates respectability with work only, and it therefore suspects those who look as

if they did not work and did not know how. Sophie was soon answering of her own accord the questions

Heilig as a gentleman could not ask. ``You must have heard of Mr. Feuerstein? He's an actor at the

German Theater. I don't think he's much of an actorhe's one of the kind that do all their acting off the

Heilig laughed unnaturally. He did not feel like laughing, but wished to show his gratitude to Sophie for this

shrewd blow at his enemy. ``He's rigged out like a lunatic, isn't he?'' Otto was thinking of the long hair, the

lowrolling shirt collar and the velvet collar on his coat,light gray, to match his hat and suit.

``I don't see what Hilda finds in him,'' continued Sophie. ``It makes me laugh to look at him; and when he

talks I can hardly keep from screaming in his face. But Hilda's crazy over him, as you see. He tells all sorts of

romances about himself, and she believes every word. I think she'll marry himyou know, her father lets her

do as she pleases. Isn't it funny that a sensible girl like Hilda can be so foolish?''

Heilig did not answer this, nor did he heed the talk on love and marriage which the overeager Sophie

proceeded to give. And it was talk worth listening to, as it presented love and marriage in the interesting,

romanticsensible Avenue A light. Otto was staring gloomily at the shadow of the tree. He would have been

gloomier could he have witnessed the scene to which the unmoral old elm was lending its impartial shade.

Mr. Feuerstein was holding Hilda's hand while he looked soulfully down into her eyes. She was returning his

gaze, her eyes expressing all the Schwarmerei of which their dark depths were capable at nineteen. He was

telling her what a high profession the actor's was, how great he was as an actor, how commonplace her life

there, how beautiful he could make it if only he had money. It was an experience to hear Mr. Feuerstein say

the word ``money.'' Elocution could go no further in surcharging five letters with contempt. His was one of

those lofty natures that scorn all such matters of intimate concern to the humble, hardpressed little human

animal as food, clothing and shelter. He so loathed money that he would not deign to work for it, and as

``Yes, my adorable little princess,'' he rolled out, in the tones which wove a spell over Hilda. ``I adore you.

How strange that _I_ should have wandered into THIS region for my soul's brideand should have found

Hilda pressed his clasping hand and her heart fluttered. But she was as silent and shy as Heilig with her. What

words had she fit to express response to these exalted emotions? ``II feel it,'' she said timidly. ``But I can't

``Noyou need not speak. I know what you would say. Our hearts speak each to the other without words,

``They are so set on my marrying''she glanced toward Ottohow ordinary he looked!``marrying

anothera merchant like my father. They think only of what is practical. I'm so afraid they won't

Feuerstein sighedthe darkness prevented her from seeing that he was also frowning with impatience and

``But it must be settled at once, my heart's bride,'' he said gently. ``Secrecy, deception are horrible to me. And

I am mad to claim you as my own. I could not take you without their consentthat would be unworthy. No, I

Hilda was much disturbed. She was eminently practical herself, aside from her fondness for romance, which

Mr. Feuerstein was developing in a way so unnatural in her surroundings, so foreign to her education; and she

could see just how her father would look upon her lover. She feared he would vent plain speech that would

cut Mr. Feuerstein's sensitive soul and embattle his dignity and pride against his love. ``I'll speak to them as

``Then you will speak to them tomorrow or next day, my treasure, and I shall see you on Sunday afternoon.''

``Disappointmentdeception postponement!'' Feuerstein struck his hand upon his brow and sighed

Hilda was almost in tearsit was all intensely real to her. She felt that he was superfine, that he suffered

more than ordinary folk, like herself and her people. ``I'll do the best I can,'' she pleaded.

``Nono,'' she protested earnestly, terror in her voice and her hand trembling in his. ``That would spoil

everything. You wouldn't understand them, or they you. I'll speakand see you Monday night.''

``Let it be so,'' he conceded. ``But I must depart. I am studying a new role.'' He had an engagement to take

supper with several of his intimates at the Irving Place cafe, where he could throw aside the heaviest parts of

his pose and give way to his appetite for beer and Schweizerkase sandwiches. ``How happy we shall be!'' he

murmured tenderly, kissing her cheek and thinking how hard it was to be practical and keep remote benefits

in mind when she was so beautiful and so tempting and so trustful. He said aloud: ``I am impatient, soul's

delight! Is it strange?'' And he bowed like a stage courtier to a stage queen and left her.

She joined Sophie and Heilig and walked along in silence, Sophie between Otto and her. He caught glimpses

of her face, and it made his heart ache and his courage faint to see the lovelight in her eyesand she as far

away from him as Heaven from hell, far away in a world from which he was excluded. He and Sophie left her

Sophie felt that she had done a fair evening's worknot progress, but progress in sight. ``At least,'' she

reflected, ``he's seeing that he isn't in it with Hilda and never can be. I must hurry her on and get her married

Heilig found his mother waiting up for him. As she saw his expression, anxiety left her face, but cast a deeper

shadow over her heart. She felt his sorrow as keenly as heshe who would have laid down her life for him

``Don't lose heart, my big boy,'' she said, patting him on the shoulder as he bent to kiss her.

At this he dropped down beside her and hid his face in her lap and cried like the boyman that he was. ``Ach,

Her tears fell on the back of his head. Her boywho had gone so bravely to work when the father was killed

at his machine, leaving them penniless; her boy who had laughed and sung and whistled and diffused hope

and courage and made her feel that the burden was not a burden but a joy for his strong, young shoulders.

``Courage, beloved!'' she said. ``Hilda is a good girl. All will yet be well.'' And she felt itGod would not be

Like all people who lead useful lives and neither have nor pretend to have acquired tastes for finedrawn

emotion, Otto and Hilda indulged in little mooning. They put aside their burdenshers of dread, his of

despairand went about the work that had to be done and that healthfully filled almost all their waking

moments; and when bedtime came their tired bodies refused either to sit up with their brains or to let their

brains stay awake. But it was gray and rainy for Hilda and black night for Otto.

On Sunday morning he rose at halfpast three, instead of at four, his weekday rising time. Many of his

hardworking customers were astir betimes on Sunday to have the longer holiday. As they would spend the

daylight hours in the country and would not reach home until after the shop had closed, they bought the

supplies for a cold or warmedup supper before starting. Otto looked so sadusually he was in high

spiritsthat most of these early customers spoke to him or to Joe Schwartz about his health. There were few

of them who did not know what was troubling him. Among those friendly and unpretending and

wellacquainted people any one's affairs were every one's affairswhy make a secret of what was, after all,

only the routine of human life the world over and the ages through? Thus Otto had the lively but tactful

He became less gloomy under the warmth of this succession of friendly faces and friendly inquiries. But as

trade slackened, toward noon, he had more leisure to think, and the throbbing ache returned to his heavy

heart. All the time pictures of her were passing before his eyes. He had known her so long and she had

become such an intimate part of his daily life, so interwoven with it, that he could not look at present, past or

Why, he had known her since she was a baby. Did he not remember the day when he, a small boy on his way

to school, had seen her toddle across the sidewalk in front of him? Could he ever forget how she had reached

with great effort into a snowbank, had dug out with her small, redmittened hands a chunk of snow, and,

lifting it high above her head, had thrown it weakly at him with such force that she had fallen headlong upon

He most clearly of all recalled her as a schoolgirl. Those were the days of the German bands of six and

seven and even eight pieces, wandering as the handorgans do now. And always with them came a swarm of

little girls who danced when the band played, and of little boys who listened and watched. He had often

followed her as she followed a band, all day on a Saturday. And he had never wearied of watching her long,

slim legs twinkling tirelessly to the music. She invented new figures and variations on steps which the other

girls adopted. She and her especial friends became famous among the children throughout the East Side; even

grown people noted the grace and originality of a particular group of girls, led by a blackhaired,

slimlegged one who danced with all there was of her. And how their mothers did whip them when they

returned from a day of this forbidden joy! But they were off again the next Saturdaywho would not pass a

And Hilda was gone from his life, was sailing away on his shipwas it not his ship? was not its cargo his

hopes and dreams and plans?was sailing away with another man at the helm! And he could do

At halfpast twelve he closed the shop and, after the midday dinner with his mother, went down to Brauner's.

Hilda was in the room back of the shop, alone, and so agitated with her own affairs that she forgot to be cold

and contemptuous to Otto. He bowed to her, then stood staring at the framed picture of Die Wacht am Rhein

as if he had never before seen the wonderful lady in red and gold seated under a tree and gazing out over the

riverall the verses were underneath. When he could stare at it no longer he turned to the other wall where

hung the target bearing the marks of Paul Brauner's best shots in the prize contest he had won. But he saw

neither the lady watching the Rhine nor the target with its bullet holes all in the bull'seye ring, and its

pendent festoon of medals. He was longing to pour out his love for her, to say to her the thousand things he

could say to the image of her in his mind when she was not near. But he could only stand, an awkward figure,

She went out into the shop. While he was still trying to lay hold of an end of the spinning tangle of his

thoughts and draw it forth in the hope that all would follow, she returned, fright in her eyes. She clasped her

hands nervously and her cheeks blanched. ``Mr. Feuerstein!'' she exclaimed. ``And he's coming here! What

She turned upon him angrilyhe was the convenient vent for her nervousness. ``It's all your fault!'' she

exclaimed. ``They want to force me to marry you. And I dare not bring here the man I love.''

``Stupid! You're always in the wayno wonder I HATE you!'' She was clasping and unclasping her hands,

``Be still! Let me think. Ach! Gott im Himmel! He's in the hall!'' She sank wretchedly into a chair. ``Can you

``Yesyes!'' she cried. ``That will do! Thank youthank you!'' And as the knock came at the door she

opened it. She had intended to be reproachful, but she could not. This splendid, romantic creature, with his

graceful hat and his golden hair and his velvet collar, was too compelling, too overpowering. Her adoring

love put her at a hopeless disadvantage. ``Oh Mr. Feuerstein,'' she murmured, her color coming and going

Mr. Feuerstein majestically removed his hat and turned a look of haughty inquiry upon Otto. Otto's fists

clenched he longed to discuss the situation in the only way which seemed to him to meet its requirements.

``Hilda,'' said the actor, when he thought there had been a long enough pause for an imposing entrance, ``I

have come to end the deceptionto make you, before the world, as you are before Almighty God, my

``I can not delay, angel of my heart!'' He gave her the look that is the theatrical convention for love beyond

words. ``It must be settled at once. I must know my fate. I must put destiny to the touch and know happiness

``Bah!'' thought Otto. ``He has to hurry mattershe must be in trouble. He's got to raise the wind at once.''

``Mr. FeuersteinCarl!'' pleaded Hilda. ``PLEASE try to be practical.'' She went up to him, and Otto turned

away, unable to bear the sight of that look of love, tenderness and trust. ``You must notat least, not right

Heilig tried to put courtesy in his voice as he said to Mr. Feuerstein: ``Miss Brauner is right. You'll only

wreck herher happiness. We're plain people down here and don't understand these fine, grand ways. You

must pass as my friend whom I brought herebut I make one condition.'' He drew a long breath and looked

at Hilda. For the first time she heard him, the real Otto Heilig, speak. ``Hilda,'' he went on, ``I don't want to

hurt you I'd do anything for you, except hurt you. And I can't stand for this felfor Mr. Feuerstein, unless

you'll promise me you won't marry him, no matter what he may say, until your father has had a chance to find

Mr. Feuerstein drew himself up grandly. ``Who is this person, Miss Brauner?'' he demanded with haughty

``He don't know any better,'' she replied hurriedly. ``He's an old friend. Trust me, Mr. FeuerCarl!

``I can not tolerate this coarse hand between me and the woman I love. No more deception! Carl

Feuerstein''how he did roll out that name!``can guard his own honor and his own destiny.''

The door into the private hall opened and in came Brauner and his wife, fine pictures of homely content

triumphing over the discomforts of Sunday clothes. They looked at Mr. Feuerstein with candidly questioning

surprise. Avenue A is not afraid to look, and speak, its mind. Otto came forward. ``This is Mr. Feuerstein,'' he

At once Brauner showed that he was satisfied, and Mrs. Brauner beamed. ``Oh, a friend of yours,'' Brauner

Mr. Feuerstein advanced impressively and bowed first over Brauner's hand, then over Mrs. Brauner's. ``I am

not a friend of thisyoung man,'' he said with the dignity of a Hoheit. ``I have come here to propose for the

Mr. Feuerstein noted the stupefied expression of the delicatessen dealer and his wife, and glanced from Otto

to Hilda with a triumphant smile. But Hilda was under no delusion. She shivered and moved nearer to Otto.

She felt that he was her hope in this crisis which the mad love of her herolover had forced. Brauner was the

``What nonsense is this?'' he growled, shaking his head violently. ``My daughter is engaged to a plain man

At this Heilig came forward again, pale and sad, but calm. ``No, Mr. Brauner she is not engaged. I'm sure

she loves this gentleman, and I want her to be happy. I can not be anything to her but her friend. And I want

Brauner burst out furiously at Hilda. The very presence of this gaudy, uselesslooking creature under his roof

was an insult to his three gods of honor and happiness his ``Arbeit und Liebe und Heim.''

Hilda flared. ``I love him, father! He's a noble, good man. I shall always love him. Listen to Ottoit'll break

my heart if you frown on my marrying the man I love.'' There was a touch of Mr. Feuerstein in her words and

``Let's have our game, Mr. Brauner,'' interrupted Otto. ``All this can be settled afterward. Why spoil our

``Who are you?'' he demanded in the insulting tone which exactly expressed his state of mind.

Mr. Feuerstein cast up his eyes. ``For Hilda's sake!'' he murmured audibly. Then he made a great show of

choking down his wrath. ``I, sir, am of an ancient Prussian familya gentleman. I saw your peerless

daughter, sought an introduction, careless who or what she was in birth and fortune. Love, the leveler, had

``Do you work?'' Brauner broke in. ``What are your prospects? What have you got? What's your character?

Have you any respectable friends who can vouch for you? You've wandered into the wrong part of town.

Down here we don't give our daughters to strangers or donothings or rascals. We believe in loveyes. But

we also have a little common sense and selfrespect.'' Brauner flung this at Mr. Feuerstein in HighGerman.

Hilda, mortified and alarmed, was also proud that her father was showing Mr. Feuerstein that she came of

``I can answer all your questions to your satisfaction,'' replied Mr. Feuerstein loftily, with a magnanimous

wave of his white hand. ``My friends will speak for me. And I shall give you the addresses of my noble

relatives in Germany, though I greatly fear they will oppose my marriage. You, sir, were born in the

``Don't trouble yourself,'' said Brauner ironically. ``Just take yourself off and spare yourself the disgrace of

mingling with us plain folk. Hilda, go to your room!'' Brauner pointed the stem of his pipe toward the outside

Hilda, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed, put herself between Mr. Feuerstein and the door. ``I guess

I've got something to say about that!'' she exclaimed. ``Father, you can't make me marry Otto Heilig. I HATE

him. I guess this is a free country. I shall marry Mr. FeuerCarl.'' She went up to him and put her arm

through his and looked up at him lovingly. He drew her to him protectingly, and for an instant something of

``Don't you see, sir,'' he said in LowGerman, very earnestly, ``that you're driving her to him? I beg you''in

a lower tone ``for the sake of her futuredon't drive him out, and her with him. If he really would make

her a good husband, why not let her have him? If he's not what he claims, she won't have him.''

Brauner hesitated. ``But she's yours. Her mother and I have promised. We are people of our word.''

``But I won't marry hernot unless she wishes it, she herself. And nothing can be done until this man has

It was evident from Brauner's face that he was yielding to this common sense. Hilda looked at Otto gratefully.

Brauner gave Mr. Feuerstein a contemptuous glance. ``Perhaps Otto's right,'' he growled. ``You can stay. Let

Mrs. Brauner hurried to the kitchen to make ready for fouro'clock coffee and cake. Hilda arranged the table

for pinochle, and when her father and Otto were seated, motioned her lover to a seat beside her on the sofa.

``Heart's bride,'' he said in a low tone, ``I am prostrated by what I have borne for your sake.''

``I love you,'' she said softly, her young eyes shining like Titania's when she was garlanding her assheaded

lover. ``You were right, my beloved. We shall winfather is giving in. He's very goodnatured, and now

Otto lost the game, and, with his customary patience, submitted to the customary lecture on his stupidity as a

player. Brauner was once more in a good humor. Having agreed to tolerate Mr. Feuerstein, he was already

taking a less unfavorable view of him. And Mr. Feuerstein laid himself out to win the owner of three

tenements. He talked German politics with him in HighGerman, and applauded his accent and his opinions.

He told stories of the old German Emperor and Bismarck, and finally discovered that Brauner was an ardent

admirer of Schiller. He saw a chance to make a double stroketo please Brauner and to feed his own vanity.

``With your permission, sir,'' he said, ``I will give a soliloquy from Wallenstein.''

Brauner went to the door leading down the private hall. ``Mother!'' he called. ``Come at once. Mr.

Hilda was bubbling over with delight. Otto sat forgotten in the corner. Mrs. Brauner came bustling, her face

rosy from the kitchen fire and her hands moist from a hasty washing. Mr. Feuerstein waited until all were

seated in front of him. He then rose and advanced with stately tread toward the clear space. He rumpled his

hair, drew down his brows, folded his arms, and began a melancholy, princely pacing of the floor. With a

suddenness that made them start, he burst out thunderously. He strode, he roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved

his arms, he tore at his hair. It was Wallenstein in a soulsweat. The floor creaked, the walls echoed. His

ingenuous auditors, except Otto, listened and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed as is a

drawingroom full of culturehunters farther up town when a man discourses to them on a subject of which

he knows just enough for a wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of applause which greeted the

last bellowing groan was full as hearty as that which greets the bad singing or worse playing at the average

Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat down. ``Good, Mr. Feuersteinah! it is

grand!'' said Brauner. Hilda looked at her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation was idiotic ``Nobody

ever carried on like that,'' he said to himself. But he also felt the pitiful truth, ``I haven't got a ghost of a

He rose as soon as he could muster the courage. ``I must get back and help Schwartz open up,'' he said,

``You must stay to coffee,'' insisted Mrs. Brauner. It should have been served before, but Mr. Feuerstein's

``That's right,'' said Brauner with an approving nod. ``Business first! I must go in myselfand you, too,

Hilda blushedthe descent from the romantic to the practical jarred upon her. But Mr. Feuerstein rose and

``Always glad to see our friends,'' answered Brauner with a shamefaced, apologetic look at Otto.

At seven o'clock that evening Otto, just closing his shop, saw Mr. Feuerstein and Hilda pass on their way

toward Tompkins Square. A few minutes later Sophie came along. She paused and tried to draw him into

conversation. But he answered briefly and absently, gradually retreating into the darkness of his shop and

pointedly drawing the door between him and her. Sophie went on her way downcast, but not in the least

Mr. Feuerstein's evening was even more successful than his afternoon. Brauner was still grumbling. Mr.

Feuerstein could not possibly be adjusted in his mind to his beloved ideals, his religion of life``Arbeit und

Liebe und Heim.'' Still he was yielding and Hilda saw the signs of it. She knew he was practically won over

and was secretly inclined to be proud that his daughter had made this exalted conquest. All men regard that

which they do not know either with extravagant awe or with extravagant contempt. While Brauner had the

universal human failing for attaching too much importance to the department of human knowledge in which

he was thoroughly at home, he had the American admiration for learning, for literature, and instead of

spelling them with a very small ``l,'' as ``practical'' men sometimes do with age and increasing vanity, he

spelled them with huge capitals, erecting them into a position out of all proportion to their relative importance

Mr. Feuerstein had just enough knowledge to enable him to play upon this weakness, this universal human

susceptibility to the poison of pretense. All doubt of success fled his mind, and he was free to indulge his

vanity and his contempt for these simple, unpretending people. ``So vulgar!'' he said to himself, as he left

their house that nighthe who knew how to do nothing of use or value. ``It is a great condescension for me.

As he strolled up town he was spending in fancy the income from at least two, perhaps all three,

flathouses``The shop's enough for the old people and that dumb ass of a brother. I'll elevate the family.

Otto had guessed close to the truth about Feuerstein's affairs. They were in a desperate tangle. He had been

discharged from the stock company on Saturday night. He was worthless as an actor, and had the hostility of

the management and of his associates. His landlady had got the news promptly from a boarder who paid in

part by acting as a sort of mercantile agency for her in watching her very uncertain boarders. She had given

him a week's notice, and had so arranged matters that if he fled he could not take his meager baggage. He was

down to eightyfive cents of a borrowed dollar. He owed money everywhere in sums ranging from five

dollars to twentyfive cents. The most of these debts were in the form of halfdollar borrowings. He had

begun his New York career with loans of ``five dollars until ThursdayI'm a little pressed.'' Soon it became

impossible for him to get more than a dollar at a time even from the women, except an occasional windfall

through a weak or ignorant new acquaintance. He clung tenaciously to the fiftycent basisto go lower

would cheapen him. But for the last two weeks his regular levies had been of twentyfive cents, with not a

He reached Goerwitz's at ten o'clock and promenaded slowly through both rooms twice. Just as he was

leaving he espied an acquaintance who was looking fiercely away from him as if saying: ``I don't see you,

and, damn you, don't you dare see me!'' But Feuerstein advanced boldly. Twelve years of active membership

in that band of ``beats'' which patrols every highway and byway and private way of civilization had thickened

and toughened his skin into a hide. ``Good evening, Albers,'' he said cordially, with a wave of the soft, light

hat. ``I see you have a vacant place in your little circle. Thank you!'' He assumed that Albers had invited him,

took a chair from another table and seated himself. Social courage is one of the rarest forms of courage.

Albers grew red but did not dare insult such a finelooking fellow who seemed so hearty and friendly. He

surlily introduced Feuerstein to his friendstwo women and two men. Feuerstein ordered a round of beer

The young woman of the party was seated next to him. Even before he sat he recognized her as the daughter

of Ganser, a rich brewer of the upper East Side. He had placed himself deliberately beside her, and he at once

began advances. She showed at a glance that she was a silly, vain girl. Her face was fat and dull; she had thin,

stringy hair. She was flabby and, in the lazy life to which the Gansers' wealth and the silly customs of

prosperous people condemned her, was already beginning to expand in the places where she could least

He made amorous eyes at her. He laughed enthusiastically at her foolish speeches. He addressed his pompous

platitudes exclusively to her. Within an hour he pressed her hand under the table and sighed dramatically.

When she looked at him he started and rolled his great eyes dreamily away. Never before had she received

attentions that were not of the frankest and crudest practical nature. She was all in a flutter at having thus

unexpectedly come upon appreciation of the beauties and merits her mirror told her she possessed. When

Mrs. Schoenberg, her aunt, rose to go, she gave Feuerstein a chance to say in a low aside: ``My queen!

Tomorrow at elevenat Bloomingdale's.'' Her blush and smile told him she would be there.

All left except Feuerstein and a youth he had been watching out of the corner of his eyesyoung Dippel, son

of the rich drugstore man. Feuerstein saw that Dippel was on the verge of collapse from too much drink. As

he still had his eightyfive cents, he pressed Dippel to drink and, by paying, induced him to add four glasses

Feuerstein walked with him, taking his arm to steady him. ``Let's have one more,'' he said, drawing him into a

saloon, gently pushing him to a seat at a table and ordering whisky. After the third large drink, Dippel

became helpless and maudlin and began to overflow with generous sentiments. ``I love you, Finkelstern, ol'

man,'' he declared tearfully. ``They say you're a dead beat, but wha' d'I care ?''

``Finkelstern,'' affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's shoulder, denied that he was a ``beat'' and swore

that he loved Dippel like a brother. ``You're my frien','' he said. ``I know you'd trust me to any amount.''

Dippel took from his trousers pocket a roll of bills several inches thick. Feuerstein thrilled and his eyes grew

eloquent as he noted tens and twenties and at least one fifty. Slowly, and with exaggerated care, Dippel drew

off a ten. ``There y'are, ol' dead beat,'' he said. ``I'll stake you a ten. Lots more where that came

In taking off the ten, he dropped a twenty. It fluttered to the floor and the soldier of fortune, the scorner of toil

and toilers, slid his foot over it as swiftly and naturally as a true aristocrat always covers an opportunity to get

something somebody else has earned. He put the ten in his pocket, when Dippel's eyes closed he stooped and

retrieved the twenty with stealthand skill. When the twenty was hidden, and the small but typical operation

in high finance was complete, he shook Dippel. ``I say, old man,'' he said, ``hadn't you better let me keep

Dippel slowly unclosed one eye and gave him a look of glassy cunning. He again drew the roll from his

pocket, and, clasping it tightly in his fist, waved it under Feuerstein's nose. As he did it, he vented a drunken

chuckle. ``Soda fountain's gol' mine, Fishenspiel,'' he said thickly. ``No, you don't! I can watch my own roll.''

``Sorry to disappoint you, Fishy,'' he went on, with a leer. Then he took off another ten and handed it to

Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky. Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit

When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. ``G'night,'' he said, trying to stand,

look and talk straight. ``Don't f'rget, y'owe me ten dollarsesno, two ten dollarses.''

Dippel shook him off with much dignity. ``Don' touch me!'' he growled. ``I know what I'm 'bout. I'm goin'

home.'' Then to himself, but aloud: ``Dippy, you're too full f'r utteranceyou mus' shake this beat.'' Again to

Feuerstein rose to follow and Dippel struck at him. The waiter seized each by the shoulder and flung them

through the swinging doors. Dippel fell in a heap on the sidewalk, but Feuerstein succeeded in keeping to his

Feuerstein looked fearfully round, gave Dippel a kick and hurried away. When he glanced back from a safe

distance Dippel was waving to and fro on his wobbling legs, talking to a cabman.

``Closefisted devil,'' muttered Feuerstein. ``He couldn't forget his money even when he was drunk. What

good is money to a brute like him?'' And he gave a sniff of contempt for the vulgarity and meanness of

Early the next morning he established a modus vivendi with his landlady by giving her ten dollars on

account. He had an elaborate breakfast at Terrace Garden and went to Bloomingdale's, arriving at eleven

precisely. Lena Ganser was already there, pretending to shop at a counter in full view of the appointed place.

They went to Terrace Garden and sat in the Stube. He at once opened up his sudden romantic passion. ``All

night I have walked the streets,'' he said, ``dreaming of you.'' When he had fully informed her of the state of

his lovemaddened mind toward her, he went on to his most congenial topichimself.

``You have heard of the Freiherr von Feuerstein, the great soldier?'' he asked her.

Lena had never heard of him. But she did not know who was German Emperor or even who was President of

the United States. She, therefore, had to be extremely cautious. She nodded assent.

``My uncle,'' said Feuerstein impressively. His eyes became reflective. ``Strange!'' he exclaimed in tender

accents, soliloquizing ``strange where romance will lead us. Instead of remaining at home, in ease and

luxury, here am Ian actora wanderer roaming the earth in search of the heart that Heaven intended

should be wedded to mine.'' He fixed his gaze upon Lena's fat face with the expression that had made Hilda's

soul fall down and worship. ``AndI have found it!'' He drew in and expelled a vast breath. ``At last! My

Lena tried to look serious in imitation of him, but that was not her way of expressing emotion. She made a

brief struggle, then collapsed into her own modea vain, delighted, giggling laugh.

``Why do you smile?'' he asked sternly. He revolted from this discord to his symphony.

She sobered with a frightened, deprecating look. ``Don't mind me,'' she pleaded. ``Pa says I'm a fool. I was

Feuerstein was not particular either as to the quality or as to the source of his vanityfood. He accepted

Lena's offering with a condescending nod and smile. They talked, or, rather, he talked and she listened and

giggled until lunch time. As the room began to fill, they left and he walked home with her.

``You can come in,'' she said. ``Pa won't be home to lunch today and ma lets me do as I please.''

The Gansers lived in East Eightyfirst Street, in the regulation twentyfivefoot brownstone house. And

within, also, it was of a familiar New York type. It was the home of the rich, vain ignoramus who has not

taste enough to know that those to whom he has trusted for taste have shockingly betrayed him. Ganser had

begun as a teamster for a brewery and had grown rapidly rich late in life. He happened to be elected president

of a big Verein and so had got the notion that he was a person of importance and attainments beyond his

fellows. Too coarse and narrow and ignorant to appreciate the elevated ideals of democracy, he reverted to

the European vulgarities of rank and show. He decided that he owed it to himself and his family to live in the

estate of ``high folks.'' He bought a house in what was for him an ultrafashionable quarter, and called for

bids to furnish it in the latest style. The results were even more regardless of taste than of expensecarpets

that fought with curtains, pictures that quarreled with their frames and with the walls, upholstery so bellicose

But Feuerstein was as impressed as the Gansers had been the first time they beheld the gorgeousness of their

palace. He looked about with a proprietary sense ``I'll marry this little idiot,'' he said to himself. ``Maybe

He met Mrs. Ganser and had the opportunity to see just what Lena would look and be twenty years thence.

Mrs. Ganser moved with great reluctance and difficulty. She did not speak unless forced and then her voice

seemed to have felt its way up feebly through a long and painfully narrow passage, emerging thin, low and

fainting. When she sator, rather, AS she sat, for she was always sittingher mountain of soft flesh seemed

to be slowly collapsing upon and around the chair like a lump of dough on a mold. Her only interest in life

was disclosed when she was settled and settling at the luncheon table. She used her knife more than her fork

and her fingers more than either. Feuerstein left soon after luncheon, lingering only long enough to give Lena

a theatrical embrace. ``Well, I'll not spend much time with those women, once I'm married,'' he reflected as

The next day but one he met Lena in the edge of the park and, after gloomy silence, shot with strange

piercing looks that made her feel as if she were the heroine of a book, he burst forth with a demand for

``Fortyeight hours of torment!'' he cried. ``I shall not leave you again until you are securely mine.''

He proceeded to drop vague, adroit hints of the perils that beset a fascinating actor's life, of the women that

had come and gone in his life. And Lena, all atremble with jealous anxiety, was in the parlor of a Lutheran

parsonage, with the minister reading out of the black book, before she was quite aware that she and her

cyclonic adorer were not still promenading near the greenhouse in the park. ``Now,'' said Feuerstein briskly,

``Goodness gracious, no,'' protested Lena. ``You don't know himhe'll be crazy just crazy! We must wait

till he finds out about youthen he'll be very proud. He wanted a soninlaw of high social standinga

``We will go home, I tell you,'' replied Feuerstein firmlyhis tone was now the tone of the master. All the

Lena felt the change without understanding it. ``I bet you, pa'll make you wish you'd taken my advice,'' she

But Feuerstein led her home. They went up stairs where Mrs. Ganser was seated, looking stupidly at a new

bonnet as she turned it slowly round on one of her cushionlike hands. Feuerstein went to her and kissed her

Mrs. Ganser grew slowly pale. ``Your father,'' she at last succeeded in articulating. ``Ach!'' She lifted her

``Won't you welcome me, mother?'' asked Feuerstein, his tone and attitude dignified appeal.

They went down stairs and waited, Lena silent, Feuerstein pacing the room and rehearsing, now aloud, now

to himself, the scene he would enact with his fatherinlaw. Peter was in a frightful humor that evening. His

only boy, who spent his mornings in sleep, his afternoons in speeding horses and his evenings in carousal,

had come down upon him for ten thousand dollars to settle a gambling debt. Peter was willing that his son

should be a gentleman and should conduct himself like one. But he had worked too hard for his money not to

wince as a plain man at what he endured and even courted as a seeker after position for the house of Ganser.

He had hoped to be free to vent his illhumor at home. He was therefore irritated by the discovery that an

outsider was there to check him. As he came in he gave Feuerstein a look which said plainly:

But Feuerstein, absorbed in the role he had so carefully thought out, did not note his unconscious

fatherinlaw's face. He extended both his hands and advanced grandly upon fat, round Peter. ``My father!''

he exclaimed in his classic German. ``Forgive my unseemly haste in plucking without your permission the

Peter stepped back and gave a hoarse grunt of astonishment. His red face became redder as he glared, first at

Feuerstein, then at Lena. ``What lunatic is this you've got here, daughter?'' he demanded.

Ganser's mouth opened and shut slowly several times and his whiskers bristled. ``Is this fellow telling the

truth?'' he asked Lena in a tone that made her shiver and shrink away from her husband.

``Go to your mother,'' shouted Ganser, pointing his pudgy finger tremulously toward the door. ``Move!''

Lena, drying her eyes with her sleeve, fled. Feuerstein became a sickly white. When she had disappeared,

Ganser looked at him with cruel little eyes that sparkled. Feuerstein quailed. It was full half a minute before

Ganser spoke. Then he went up to Feuerstein, stood on tiptoe and, waving his arms frantically above his

head, yelled into his face ``Rindsvieh!'' as contemptuous an insult as one German can fling at another.

Ganser ran to the front door and opened it. ``Out!'' he shrieked. ``If you don't, I have you taken in when the

Feuerstein caught up his soft hat from the hall table and hurried out. As he passed, Ganser tried to kick him

but failed ludicrously because his short, thick leg would not reach. At the bottom of the steps Feuerstein

turned and waved his fists wildly. Ganser waved his fists at Feuerstein and, shaking his head so violently that

As Mr. Feuerstein left Hilda on the previous Sunday night he promised to meet her in Tompkins Square the

next eveningat the band concert. She walked up and down with Sophie, her spirits gradually sinking after

halfpast eight and a feeling of impending misfortune settling in close. She was not conscious of the music,

though the second part of the program contained the selections from Wagner which she loved best. She

feverishly searched the crowd and the halfdarkness beyond. She imagined that every approaching tall man

was her lover. With the frankness to which she had been bred she made no concealment of her heartsick

``He may have to be at the theater,'' said Sophie, herself extremely uneasy. Partly through shrewdness, partly

through her natural suspicion of strangers, she felt that Mr. Feuerstein, upon whom she was building, was not

``No,'' replied Hilda. ``He told me he wouldn't be at the theater, but would surely come here.'' The fact that

They did not leave the Square until ten o'clock, when it was almost deserted and most of its throngs of an

hour before were in bed sleeping soundly in the content that comes from a life of labor. And when she did get

to bed she lay awake for nearly an hour, tired though she was. Without doubt some misfortune had befallen

him``He's been hurt or is ill,'' she decided. The next morning she stood in the door of the shop watching for

the postman on his first round; as he turned the corner of Second Street, she could not restrain herself, but ran

``Any letter for me?'' she inquired in a voice that compelled him to feel personal guilt in having to say ``No.''

It was a day of mistakes in weights and in making up packages, a day of vain searching for some comforting

explanation of Mr. Feuerstein's failure and silence. After supper Sophie came and they went to the Square,

keeping to the center of it where the lights were brightest and the people fewest.

``I'm sure something's happened,'' said Sophie. ``Maybe Otto has told him a story or has''

``Nonot Otto.'' Hilda dismissed the suggestion as impossible. She had known Otto too long and too well to

entertain for an instant the idea that he could be underhanded. ``There's only one reason he's sick, very

``But you needn't show yourself,'' replied Sophie. ``You can wait down the street and I'll go up to the door

Hilda clasped her arm more tightly about Sophie's waist and they set out. They walked more and more swiftly

until toward the last they were almost running. At the corner of Fifteenth Street and First Avenue Hilda

stopped. ``I'll go through to Stuyvesant Square,'' she said, ``and wait there on a bench near the Sixteenth

Sophie went to Mr. Feuerstein's number and rang. After a long wait a slovenly girl in a stained red wrapper,

her hair in curlpapers and one stocking down about her highheeled slipper, opened the door and said:

The girl's pert, prematurelywrinkled face took on a quizzical smile. ``Oh!'' she said. ``You can go up to his

Sophie climbed the stairs and knocked loudly. ``Come!'' was the answer in German, in Mr. Feuerstein's deep

She opened the door a few inches and said through the crack: ``It's me, Mr. FeuersteinSophie

``Come in,'' was Mr. Feuerstein's reply, in a weary voice, after a pause. From Ganser's he had come straight

Sophie pushed the door wide and stood upon the threshold. ``Hilda's over in Stuyvesant Square,'' she said.

``She thought you might be sick, so we came. But if you go to her, you must pretend you came by accident

Mr. Feuerstein reflected, but not so deeply that he neglected to pose before Sophie as a tragedyking. And it

called for little pretense, so desperate and forlorn was he feeling. Should he go or should he send Sophie

about her business? There was no hope that the rich brewer would take him in; there was every reason to

suspect that Peter would arrange to have the marriage quietly annulled. At most he could get a few thousands,

perhaps only hundreds, by threatening a scandal. Yes, it would be wise, on the whole, to keep little Hilda on

Sophie felt hopeful and energetic again. ``I won't come up to her till you leave her.''

``You are a good girla noble creature.'' Mr. Feuerstein took her hand and pretended to be profoundly

Sophie gave him a look of simplicity and warmheartedness. Her talent for acting had not been spoiled by a

stage experience. ``Hilda's my friend,'' she said earnestly. ``And I want to see her happy.''

``Noble creature !'' exclaimed Mr. Feuerstein. ``May God reward you!'' And he dashed his hand across his

He went to the mirror on his bureau, carefully arranged the yellow aureole, carefully adjusted the soft light

hat. Then with feeble step he descended the stairs. As he moved down the street his face was mournful and

his shoulders were droopeda stage invalid. When Hilda saw him coming she started up and gave a little cry

of delight; but as she noted his woebegone appearance, a very real paleness came to her cheeks and very real

Mr. Feuerstein sank slowly into the seat beside her. ``Soul's wife,'' he murmured. ``Ahbut I have been near

to death. The strain of the interview with your father the anguishthe hopeoh, what a curse it is to have

a sensitive soul! And my old trouble''he laid his hand upon his heart and slowly shook his

Hilda was trembling with sympathy. She put her hand upon his. ``If you had only sent word, dear,'' she said

reproachfully, ``I would have come. OhI do love you so, Carl! I could hardly eat or sleepand''

``The truth would have been worse than silence,'' he said in a hollow voice. He did not intend the double

meaning of his remark; the Gansers were for the moment out of his mind, which was absorbed in his acting.

``But it is over for the present yes, over, my priceless pearl. I can come to see you soon. If I am worse I

``No, bride of my dreams. It would not besuitable. We must respect the little conventions. You must wait

His tone was decided. She felt that he knew best. In a few minutes he rose. ``I must return to my room,'' he

said wearily. ``Ah, heart's delight, it is terrible for a strong man to find himself thus weak. Pity me. Pray for

He noted with satisfaction her look of love and anxiety. It was some slight salve to his cruelly wounded

vanity. He walked feebly away, but it was pure acting, as he no longer felt so downcast. He had soon put

Hilda into the background and was busy with his plans for revenge upon Ganser``a vulgar animal who

insulted me when I honored him by marrying his ugly gosling.'' Before he fell asleep that night he had

himself wrought up to a state of righteous indignation. Ganser had cheated, had outraged himhim, the

Early the next morning he went down to a dingy frame building that cowered meanly in the shadow of the

Criminal Court House. He mounted a creaking flight of stairs and went in at a low door on which ``Loeb,

Lynn, Levy and McCafferty'' was painted in black letters. In the narrow entrance he brushed against a man on

the way out, a man with a hangdog look and short bristling hair and the pastilypallid skin that comes from

living long away from the sunlight. Feuerstein shivered slightlywas it at the touch of such a creature or at

the suggestions his appearance started? In front of him was a groundglass partition with five doors in it. At a

dirty greasy pine table sat a boyone of those child veterans the big city develops. He had a long and

extremely narrow head. His eyes were close together, sharp and shifty. His expression was sophisticated and

cynical. ``Well, sir!'' he said with curt impudence, giving Feuerstein a gimletglance.

``I want to see Mr. Loeb.'' Feuerstein produced a cardit was one of his last remaining halfdozen and was

The office boy took it with unveiled sarcasm in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. He disappeared

through one of the five doors, almost immediately reappeared at another, closed it mysteriously behind him

and went to a third door. He threw it open and stood aside. ``At the end of the hall,'' he said. ``The door with

Feuerstein followed the directions and found himself in a dingy little room, smelling of mustiness and stale

tobacco, and lined with law books, almost all on crime and divorce. Loeb, Lynn, Levy and McCafferty were

lawyers to the lower grades of the criminal and shady only. They defended thieves and murderers; they

prosecuted or defended scandalous divorce cases; they packed juries and suborned perjury and they tutored

false witnesses in the way to withstand crossexamination. In private life they were four homeloving,

Loeb looked up from his writing and said with contemptuous cordiality: ``Oh Mr. Feuerstein. Glad to see

At ``again'' and ``now'' Feuerstein winced slightly. He looked nervously at Loeb.

``It's beenlet me seeat least seven years since I saw you,'' continued Loeb, who was proud of his

amazing memory. He was a squat, fat man, with a coarse brown skin and heavy features. He was carefully

groomed and villainously perfumed and his clothes were in the extreme of the loudest fashion. A diamond of

great size was in his brightblue scarf; another, its match, loaded down his fat little finger. Both could be

unscrewed and set in a hair ornament which his wife wore at first nights or when they dined in state at

Delmonico's. As he studied Feuerstein, his face had its famous smile, made by shutting his teeth together and

``That is all past and gone,'' said Feuerstein. ``As a lad I was saved by you from the consequences of boyish

folly. And now, a man grown, I come to you to enlist your aid in avenging an insult to my honor, an''

``Be as brief as possible,'' cut in Loeb. ``My time is much occupied. The bald facts, pleaseFACTS, and

Feuerstein settled himself and prepared to relate his story as if he were on the stage, with the orchestra

playing low and sweet. ``I met a woman and loved her,'' he began in a deep, intense voice with a passionate

``A bad start,'' interrupted Loeb. ``If you go on that way, we'll never get anywhere. You're a frightful fakir

and liar, Feuerstein. You were, seven years ago; of course, the habit's grown on you. Speak out! What do you

``I ran away with a girlthe daughter of the brewer, Peter Ganser,'' said Feuerstein, sullen but terse. ``And

``Of coursecash. Well, Ganser's a rich man. I should say he'd give up a good deal to get rid of YOU.'' Loeb

``Slowly! Slowly!'' Loeb leaned forward and looked into Feuerstein's face. ``You mustn't forget.''

Feuerstein's eyes shifted rapidly as he said in a false voice: ``She got a divorce years ago.''

``I don't want you to confess a crime you haven't come to me about,'' said Loeb, adding with peculiar

emphasis: ``Of course, if we KNEW you were still married to the Mrs. Feuerstein of seven years ago we

couldn't take the present case. As it isthe best way is to bluff the old brewer. He doesn't want publicity;

neither do you. But you know he doesn't, and he doesn't know that you love quiet.''

``Ganser treated me infamously. He must sweat for it. I'm nothing if not a good hater.''

``No doubt,'' said Loeb dryly. ``And you have rights which the law safeguards.''

Loeb shrugged his shoulders. ``Ridiculous!'' he said. ``Possibly the five without the twenty. And how do you

``That we'd take the case as a speculation? Well, to oblige an old client, we will. But you must agree to give

us all we can get over and above five thousandhalf what we get if it's below that.''

``Those are hard terms,'' remonstrated Feuerstein. The more he had thought on his case, the larger his

``Very well.'' Loeb took up his pen, as if he were done with Feuerstein, but went on: ``And you're SURE that

``All right. Go into the room to the left there. Mr. Travis or Mr. Gordon will take your statement of the

Feuerstein went to Travis, small and sleek, smooth and sly. When Travis had done with him, he showed him

out. ``Call day after tomorrow,'' he said, ``and when you come, ask for me. Mr. Loeb never bothers with

Travis reported to Loeb half an hour later, when Feuerstein's statement had been typewritten. Loeb read the

``Most complete, Mr. Travis,'' was his comment. ``You've done a good piece of work.'' He sat silent,

drumming noiselessly on the table with his stumpy, hairy, fat fingers. At last he began: ``It ought to be worth

``Stupid and ignorant, but not without a certain cunning. We can get at him all right, though. He's deadly

afraid of social scandal. Wants to get into the German Club and become a howling swell. But he don't stand a

``I'll be glad to do it, Mr. Loeb. Isn't your manthis Feuersteina good bit to the queer?''

``A dead beatone of the worst kindthe born gentleman. You've noticed, perhaps, that where a man or

woman has been brought up to live without work, to live off other people's work, there's nothing they

wouldn't stoop to, to keep on living that way. As for this chap, if he had got started right, he'd be operating up

``Neither side wants scandal. Still, I think you're right, that Ganser's good for twenty thousand.''

``You can judge better after you've felt him,'' replied Loeb. ``You'd better go at once. Give him the tip that

Feuerstein's about to force him to produce his daughter in court. But you understand. Try to induce him to go

to Beck.'' Travis grinned and Loeb's eyes twinkled. ``You might lay it on strong about Feuerstein's

``That's a grand idea,'' exclaimed Travis. ``I don't think I'll suggest any sum if he agrees to go to Beck. Beck

Loeb waved his hot, fat head gently to and fro as if a pleasant cooling stream were being played upon it. ``I

think I have got a `pretty good nut on me,' as John L. used to say,'' he replied. ``I think I do know a little

about the law. And now hustle yourself, my boy. This case must be pushed. The less time Ganser has to look

Travis found Ganser in his office at the brewery. The old man's face was red and troubled.

``I've come on very unpleasant business, Mr. Ganser,'' said Travis with deference. ``As you know, I am with

``As an officer of the court, Mr. Ganser,'' said Travis suavely, ``it is my painful duty to insist upon a hearing.

We lawyers can't select our clients. We must do our best for all comers. Our firm has sent me out of kindly

feeling for you. We are all men of family, like yourself, and, when the case was forced on us, we at once tried

to think how we could be of service to youof course, while doing our full legal duty by our client. I've

``Get out!'' growled Peter. ``I know lawyersthey're all thieves. Get out!'' But Travis knew that Peter wished

``I needn't enlarge on our clientMr. Feuerstein. You know he's an actor. You know how they crave

notoriety. You know how eager the newspapers are to take up and make a noise about matters of this kind.''

Peter was sweating profusely, and had to seat himself. ``It's outrageous!'' he groaned in German.

``Feuerstein has ordered us to have your daughter brought into court at oncetomorrow. He's your

daughter's lawful husband and she's well beyond the legal age. Of course, he can't compel her to live with

him or you to support him. But he can force the courts to inquire publicly. And I'm sorry to say we'll not be

Peter felt it rolling over him, tons heavy. ``What you talk about?'' he said, on his guard but eager.

``It's an outrage that honest men should be thus laid open to attack,'' continued Travis in a sympathetic tone.

``But if the law permits these outrages, it also provides remedies. Your daughter's mistake may cost you a

``Really, I've talked too much already, Mr. Ganser. I almost forgot, for the moment, that I'm representing Mr.

Feuerstein. But, as between friends, I'd advise you to go to some good divorce lawyersa firm that is

reputable but understands the ins and outs of the business, some firm like Beck and Brown. They can tell you

Ganser regarded his ``friend'' suspiciously but credulously. ``I'll see,'' he said. ``But I won't pay a cent.''

``Right you are, sir! And there may be a way out of it without paying. But Beck can tell you.'' Travis made a

motion toward the inside pocket of his coat, then pretended to change his mind. ``I came here to serve the

papers on you,'' he said apologetically. ``But I'll take the responsibility of delayingit can't make Feuerstein

any less married, and your daughter's certainly safe in her father's care. I'll wait in the hope that YOU'LL take

Ganser lost no time in going to his own lawyersFisher, Windisch and Carteret, in the Postal Telegraph

Building. He told Windisch the whole story. ``And,'' he ended, ``I've got a detective looking up the rascal.

``We can't take your case, Mr. Ganser,'' said Windisch. ``It's wholly out of our line. We don't do that kind of

work. I should say Beck and Brown were your people. They stand well, and at the same time they know all

``Yes, yes,'' sneered Peter, who was never polite, was always insultingly frank to any one who served him for

``Well, Mr. Ganser,'' replied Windisch, angry but willing to take almost anything from a rich client, ``I guess

you can look out for yourself. Of course there's always danger, once you get outside the straight course of

``Then Beck and Brown. Drive as close a bargain as you can. But you'll have to give up a few thousands, I'm

Ganser went over into Nassau Street and found Beck in his office. He gazed with melancholy misgivings at

this lean man with hair and whiskers of a lifeless black. Beck suggested a starved black spider, especially

when you were looking into his cold, amused, malignant black eyes. He made short work of the guileless

brewer, who was dazed and frightened by the meshes in which he was enveloped. Staring at the horrid

specter of publicity which these men of craft kept before him, he could not vigorously protest against

``Leave the matter entirely in our hands,'' said Beck. ``We'll make the best bargain we can. But Feuerstein has

shrewd lawyersnone better. That man Loeb'' Beck threw up his arms. ``Of course,'' he continued, ``I had

to know your limit. I'll try to make the business as cheap for you as possible.''

His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's past, which his detective would make. But he

After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the

Gansers was settled. Afterwardwell, there would be time to decide when he had his five thousand. He sent

her a note, asking her to meet him in Tompkins Square on Friday evening. That afternoon he carefully

prepared himself. He resolved that the scene between her and him should be, so far as his part was concerned,

a masterpiece of that art of which he knew himself to be one of the greatest living exponents. Only his own

elegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and his triumph over the envy of professionals

It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her work for an hour, came alone through the

crowds to meet him. She made no effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She loved him; he

loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in the glorious truth? She loved him, not because he was

Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending ``act'' that he barely noted how pretty she was and how

utterly in lovewhat was there remarkable in a woman being in love with him? ``The women are all crazy

about me,'' was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance at him. As he took Hilda's hand he

gave her a look of intense, yearning melancholy. He sighed deeply. ``Let us go apart,'' he said. Then he

They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the crowds. He did not speak but repeated

``Has it made you worse to come, dear?'' Hilda asked anxiously. ``Are you sick?''

``Sick?'' he said in a hollow voice. ``My soul is sickdying. My God! My God!'' An impressive pause. ``Ah,

child, you do not know what suffering isyou who have lived only in these simple, humble surroundings.''

Hilda was trembling with apprehension. ``What is it, Carl? You can tell me. Let me help you bear it.''

``No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your young life. I ought not to have come. I

He rolled his eyes wildly. ``You torture me!'' he exclaimed, seizing her hand in a dead man's clutch. ``How

Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he could see, even in the darkness, her eyes

``Not that tone,'' he groaned. ``Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh, scornfulbut not those tender accents.''

He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. ``Forgive me,'' she said humbly. ``I don't know

what to say or do. Iyou look so strange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me, please?''

He noted with artistic satisfaction that the band was playing passionate lovemusic with sobs and sad

ecstasies of farewell embraces in it. He kissed her, then drew back. ``No,'' he groaned. ``Those lips are not for

She was no longer looking at him, but sat gazing straight ahead, her shoulders bent as if she were crouching

to receive a blow. He began in a low voice, and, as he spoke, it rose or fell as his words and the distant music

prompted him. ``Mine has been a luckless life,'' he said. ``I have been a football of destiny, kicked and flung

about, hither and yon. Again and again I have thought in my despair to lay me down and die. But something

He paused and groanedpartly because it was the proper place, partly with vexation. Here was a speech to

thrill, yet she sat there inert, her face a stupid blank. He was not even sure that she had heard.

``Are you listening?'' he asked in a stern aside, a curious mingling of the actor and the stage manager.

``II don't know,'' she answered, startling. ``I feel sosoqueer. I don't seem to be able to pay attention.''

She looked at him timidly and her chin quivered. ``Don't you love me any more?''

``Love you? Would that I did not! But I must onmy time is short. How can you say I do not love you when

She shook her head slowly. ``Your voice don't feel like it,'' she said. ``What is it? What are you going to say?''

He sighed and looked away from her with an irritated expression. ``Little stupid!'' he mutteredshe didn't

appreciate him and he was a fool to expect it. But ``art for art's sake''; and he went on in tones of gentle

melancholy. ``I love you, but fate has again caught me up. I am being whirled away. I stretch out my arms to

youin vain. Do you understand?'' It exasperated him for her to be so stillwhy didn't she weep?

``Love has nothing to do with it,'' he said, as gently as he could in the irritating circumstances. ``My

``You said that before,'' she interrupted. ``What is it? Can't you tell me so that I can understand?''

She gave a low, wailing cryit seemed like an echo of the music. Then she began to sobnot loudly, but in

a subdued, despairing way. She was not conscious of her grief, but only of his wordsof the dream

Mr. Feuerstein looked down at Hilda's quivering shoulders with satisfaction. ``I thought I could make even

her feel,'' he said to himself complacently. Then to her in the hoarse undertone: ``And my heart is breaking.''

She straightened and her tears seemed to dry with the flash of her eyes. ``Don't say thatyou mustn't!'' She

blazed out before his astonished eyes, a woman electric with disdain and anger. ``It's false false! I hate

``Hilda!'' He felt at home now and his voice became pleading and anguished. ``You, too, desert me! Ah, God,

Mr. Feuerstein rose wearily. ``Farewell,'' he said in a broken voice. ``At least I am glad you will be spared the

``NoI must gofarewell!'' And he seated himself beside her, put his arm around her.

She lay still in his arms for a moment, then murmured: ``Say it isn't so, Carldear!''

``I would say there is hope, heart's darling,'' he whispered, ``but I have no right to blast your young life. And I

``Then I'll waitgladly. No matter how long it is, I'll wait. Why didn't you say at first, `Hilda, something I

can't tell you about has happened. I must go away. When I can, I'll come.' That would have been enough,

``What have I done to deserve such love as this!'' he exclaimed, and for an instant he almost forgot himself in

``Wherever you go, and no matter what happens, dear,'' she said softly, ``you'll always know that I'm loving

He began to be uncomfortable. Her complete trust was producing an effect even upon his nature. The good

that evil can never kill out of a man was rousing what was very like a sense of shame. ``I must go now,'' he

said with real gentleness in his voice and a look at her that had real longing in it. He went on: ``I shall come

She was cheerful to the last. But after he had left she sat motionless, except for an occasional shiver. From the

musicstand came a Waldteufel waltz, with its ecstatic throb and its long, dreamy swing, its mingling of joy

with foreboding of sadness. The tears streamed down her cheeks. ``He's gone,'' she said miserably. She rose

and went through the crowd, stumbling against people, making the homeward journey by instinct alone. She

seemed to be walking in her sleep. She entered the shopit was crowded with customers, and her father, her

mother and August were bustling about behind the counters. ``Here, tie this up,'' said her father, thrusting into

her hands a sheet of wrapping paper on which were piled a chicken, some sausages, a bottle of olives and a

can of cherries. She laid the paper on the counter and went on through the parlor and up the stairs to her plain,

neat, little bedroom. She threw herself on the bed, face downward. She fell at once into a deep sleep. When

she awoke it was beginning to dawn. She remembered and began to moan. ``He's gone! He's gone! He's

gone!'' she repeated over and over again. And she lay there, sobbing and calling to him.

When she faced the family there were black circles around her eyes. They were the eyes of a woman grown,

It was not long before the community was talking of the change in Hilda, the abrupt change to a gentle,

serious, silent woman, the sparkle gone from her eyes, pathos there in its stead. But not even her own family

``When is Mr. Feuerstein coming again?'' asked her father when a week had passed.

``I don't know just when. Soon,'' answered Hilda, in a tone which made it impossible for such a man as he to

Sophie brought all her cunning to bear in her effort to get at the facts. But Hilda evaded her hints and avoided

her traps. After much thinking she decided that Mr. Feuerstein had probably gone for good, that Hilda was

hoping when there was nothing to hope for, and that her own affairs were suffering from the cessation of

action. She was in the mood to entertain the basest suggestions her craft could put forward for making

marriage between Hilda and Otto impossible. But she had not yet reached the stage at which overt acts are

One of her girl friends ran in to gossip with her late in the afternoon of the eighth day after Mr. Feuerstein's

``parting scene'' in Tompkins Square. The talk soon drifted to Hilda, whom the other girl did not like.

``I wonder what's become of that lover of hersthat tall fellow from up town?'' asked Miss Hunneker.

``I don't know,'' replied Sophie in a strained, nervous manner. ``I always hated to see Hilda go with him. No

Sophie became very uneasy indeed. ``It don't often turn out that way,'' she said in a voice that was evidently

Walpurga Hunneker opened her eyes wide. ``You don't mean'' she exclaimed. And, as Sophie looked still

``Well, I THOUGHT so! Gracious! Her pride must have had a fall. No wonder she looks so disturbed.''

``Poor Hilda!'' said Sophie mournfully. Then she looked at Walpurga in a frightened way as if she had been

Walpurga spent a busy evening among her confidantes, with the result that the next day the neighborhood

was agitated by gossipinsinuations that grew bolder and bolder, that had sprung from nowhere, but pointed

to Hilda's sad face as proof of their truth. And on the third day they had reached Otto's mother. Not a detail

was lackingeven the scene between Hilda and her father was one of the several startling climaxes of the

tale. Mrs. Heilig had been bitterly resentful of Hilda's treatment of her son, and she accepted the storyit

was in such perfect harmony with her expectations from the moment she heard of Mr. Feuerstein. In the

``There isn't a word of truth in it, mother,'' he said. ``I don't care who told you, it's a lie.''

``Your love makes you blind,'' answered the mother. ``But I can see that her vanity has led her just where

Mrs. Heilig gave him the names of several women. ``It is known to all,'' she said.

His impulse was to rush out and trace down the lie to its author. But he soon realized the folly of such an

attempt. He would only aggravate the gossip and the scandal, give the scandalmongers a new chapter for

He went to Hildashe had been most friendly toward him since the day he helped her with her lover. He

asked her to walk with him in the Square. When they were alone, he began: ``Hilda, you believe I'm your

``NoI'm not going to worry you,'' he said in answer to the look. ``I mean just friend.''

``I know you are, Otto,'' she replied with tears in her eyes. ``You are indeed my friend. I've counted on you

``Then you won't think wrong of me if I ask you a question? You'll know I wouldn't, if I didn't have a good

Hilda flushed. ``Yes, Otto,'' she said. ``I haven't spoken to any one about it, but I can trust you. He's had

trouble and it has called him away. But he told me he'd come back.'' She looked at him appealingly. ``You

know that I love him, Otto. Some day you will like him, will see what a noble man he is.''

``I didn't ask him. I knew he'd come as soon as he could. I wouldn't pry into his affairs.''

``I trust him, just as you'll want a girl to trust you some day when you love her.''

As soon as he could leave her, he went up town, straight to the German Theater. In the boxoffice sat a

young man with hair precisely parted in the middle and sleeked down in two whirls brought low on his

``That deadbeat?'' the young man replied contemptuously. ``I suppose he got into you like he did into every

one else. Yes, you can have his address. And give him one for me when you catch him. He did me out of ten

Otto went on to the boardinghouse in East Sixteenth Street. No, Mr. Feuerstein was not in and it was not

known when he would returnhe was very uncertain. Otto went to Stuyvesant Square and seated himself

where he could see the stoop of the boardinghouse. An hour, two hours, two hours and a half passed, and

then his patient attitude changed abruptly to action. He saw the soft light hat and the yellow bush coming

``I'm not going to hurt you,'' said Otto in a tone which Mr. Feuerstein wished he had the physical strength to

``I want to tell you,'' said Otto quietly, ``that as the result of your going away so suddenly and not coming

back a wicked lying story is going round about Hilda. She does not know it yet, but it won't be long before

``I can't discuss her with you,'' said Mr. Feuerstein. ``Doubtless you mean well. I'm obliged to you for

``Then you're not going straight down there? You're not going to do what a man'd do if he had the decency of

``You are insulting! But because I believe you mean well, I shall tell you that it is impossible for me to go for

several days at least. As soon as I honorably can, I shall come and the scandal will vanish like smoke.''

Otto let him go. ``I mustn't thrash him, and I can't compel him to be a man.'' He returned to the German

``Well, I'll give you a tip. Keep after him; keep your eye on him. He's got a rich fatherinlaw.''

Otto leaned heavily on the sill of the little window. ``Fatherinlaw?'' A sickening suspicion peered into his

``He was full the other night and he told one of our people he was married to a rich man's daughter.''

``He didn't name any names. Butlet me thinkthey say it's a daughter of a brewer, away up town. Yes,

``I don't knowlook in the directory. But the tip is to wait a few days. He hasn't got hold of any of the old

man's money yetthere's some hitch. There'll be plenty for all when it comes, so you needn't fret.''

Otto went to the brewery, but Peter had gone home. Otto went on to the house and Peter came down to the

brilliant parlor, where the battle of hostile shades and colors was raging with undiminished fury. In answer to

Peter's look of inquiry, he said: ``I came about your soninlaw, Mr. Feuerstein.''

Peter gave a sort of groan. ``It's out!'' he cried, throwing up his thick, short arms. ``Everybody knows!''

Shrewd Otto saw the opening. ``I don't think so,'' he replied, ``at least not yet. He has a bad reputationI see

you know that already. But it's nothing to what he will have when it comes out that he's been trying to marry

``But it mustn't come out!'' exclaimed Ganser. ``I won't have it. This scandal has disgraced me enough.''

``That's what I came to see you about,'' said Otto. ``The young lady and her friends don't know about his

marriage. It isn't necessary that any of them should know, except her. But she must be put on her guard. He

``I want to ask you, as a man and a father, to see that this young lady is warned. She'll be anxious enough to

``And have him make a row? No, there's only one way. Send your daughter to her.''

``But you don't know my daughter. She's a born'' Just in time Ganser remembered that he was talking to a

stranger and talking about his daughter. ``She wouldn't do it right,'' he finished.

``She can go in and see the young lady alone and come out without speaking to anybody else. I'll promise you

Ganser thought it over and decided to take Otto's advice. They discussed Mr. Feuerstein for several minutes,

and when Otto left, Ganser followed him part of the way down the stoop, shaking hands with him. It was a

profound pleasure to the brewer to be able to speak his mind on the subject of his soninlaw to an

intelligent, appreciative person. He talked nothing else to his wife and Lena, but he had the feeling that he

After supperthe Gansers still had supper in the evening, their fashionable progress in that direction having

reached only the stage at which dinner is called luncheonhe put Lena into the carriage and they drove to

Avenue A. On the way he told her exactly what to say and do. He stayed in the carriage. ``Be quick,'' he said,

Lena, swelling and rustling with finery and homelier than before her troubles, little though they disturbed her,

Hilda looked her surprise but showed Lena into the livingroom, which happened to be vacant. Lena could

not begin, so intent was she upon examining her rival. ``How plain she's dressed,'' she thought, ``and how

thin and black she is!'' But it was in vain; she could not deceive her rising jealousy. It made her forget her

father's instructions, forget that she was supposed to hate Feuerstein and was getting rid of him.

``I am Mrs. Carl Feuerstein,'' she cried, her face red and her voice shrill with anger and excitement. ``And I

Hilda stood petrified. Lena caught sight of a photograph on the mantelpiece behind Hilda. She gave a scream

of fury and darted for it. ``How dare you!'' she shrieked. ``You impudent THING!'' She snatched the frame,

tore it away from the photograph and flung it upon the floor. As she gazed at that hair like a halo of light, at

Hilda slowly turned and watched the spectaclethe swollen, pudgy face, tearstained, silly, ugly, the tears

and kisses falling upon the likeness of HER lover. She suddenly sprang at Lena, her face like a

thunderstorm, her black brows straight and her great eyes flashing. ``You lie!'' she exclaimed. And she tore

Lena shrank in physical fear from this aroused lioness. ``He's my husband,'' she whined. ``You haven't got

``It's the truth,'' said Lena, beginning to cry. ``I swear to God it's so. You can ask pa if it ain't. He's Mr.

``Oh, you needn't put on. You knew he was married. I don't wonder you're mad. He's MY husband, while he's

only been making a fool of YOU. You haven't got any shame.'' Lena's eyes were on the photograph again and

``Of course you're trying to brazen it out. Give me that picture! He's my husband!''

Just then Ganser appeared in the doorway he did not trust his daughter and had followed her when he

thought she was staying too long. At sight of him she began to weep again. ``She won't believe me, pa,'' she

Ganser scowled at his daughter and addressed himself to Hilda, ``It's true, Miss,'' he said. ``The man is a

Hilda looked at him haughtily. ``I don't know you,'' she said, ``and I do know him. I don't know why you've

come here to slander him. But I do know that I'd trust him against the whole world.'' She glanced from father

Peter eyed her in disgust. ``You're as big a fool as my Lena,'' he said. ``Come on, Lena.''

As Lena was leaving the room, she gave Hilda a malignant glance. ``He's MY husband,'' she said spitefully,

``Move!'' shouted Ganser, pushing her out of the room. His parting shot at Hilda was: ``Ask him.''

Hilda, still holding the photograph, stared at the doorway through which they had disappeared. ``You lie!''

she repeated, as if they were still there. Then again, a little catch in her voice: ``You lie!'' And after a longer

interval, a third time, with a sob in her throat: ``You lie! I know you lie!'' She sat at the table and held the

photograph before her. She kissed it passionately, gazed long at it, seeing in those bold handsome features all

Suddenly she started up, went rapidly down the side hall and out into the street. Battling with her doubts,

denouncing herself as disloyal to him, she hurried up the Avenue and across the Square and on until she came

to his lodgings. When she asked for him the maid opened the parlor door and called through the crack: ``Mr.

As the maid disappeared down the basement stairs, Mr. Feuerstein appeared. At sight of her he started back.

``YesI will. I just wanted to warn you'' She raised her eyes appealingly toward his face. ``Two people

Feuerstein fell back a step and she saw that he was shaking and that his face had become greenish white. ``It's

She continued to look at him and he did not try to meet her eyes. ``What did they tell you?'' he said, after a

She was looking away from him now. She seemed not to have heard him. ``I must go,'' she murmured, and

He followed her, laid his hand upon her arm. ``Hilda!'' he pleaded. ``Let me explain!''

``Don't touch me!'' She snatched her arm away from him. She ran down the rest of the steps and fled along

the street. She kept close to the shadow of the houses. She went through Avenue A with hanging head,

feeling that the eyes of all were upon her, condemning, scorning. She hid herself in her little room, locking

the door. Down beside the bed she sank and buried her face in the covers. And there she lay, racked with the

pain of her gaping woundswounds to love, to trust, to pride, to selfrespect. ``Oh, God, let me die,'' she

A few days later Peter Ganser appeared before Beck, triumph flaunting from his stupid features. Beck

``Stop the case,'' said Peter with a vulgar insolence that grated upon the lawyer. ``It's no good.''

``You can't deal with courts as you can with your employees, Mr. Ganser. There are legal forms to be gone

Peter laughed. ``Soninlaw! That scoundrelhe's a bigamist. I got the proofs from Germany this morning.''

Beck became blue round the edges of his mouth and his eyes snapped. ``So you've been taking steps in this

``I don't trust lawyers. Anyway, what I hire you for? To try my case. It's none of your business what I do

outside. I pay you off, and I don't pay for any dirty works I don't get.'' He had wrought himself into a fury.

Experience had taught him that that was the best mood in which to conduct an argument about money.

``We'll send you your bill,'' said Beck, in a huge, calm rage against this dull man who had outwitted him. ``If

``I want to pay you offright away quick. I think you and Loeb in cahoots. My detective, he says you both

must have known about Feuerstein. He says you two were partners and knew his record. I'll expose you, if

``It is impossible.'' Beck's tone was mild and persuasive. ``All the items are not in.''

Ganser took out a roll of notes. ``I pay you five hundred dollars. Take it or fight. I want a full receipt. I

``Yes you do. And you don't get a cent more. If I go out of here without my full receipt, I fight. I expose you,

Peter was shouting at the top of his lusty lungs. Beck wrote a receipt and handed it to him. Peter read it and

handed it back. ``I'm not as big a fool as I look,'' he said. ``That ain't a full receipt.''

Beck wrote again. ``Anything to get you out of the office,'' he said, as he tossed the five hundred dollars into

Peter snorted. ``Shut up!'' he shouted, banging his fist on the desk. ``And don't you tell the papers. If anything

come out, I expose you. My lawyer, Mr. Windisch, say he can have you put out of court.'' And Peter bustled

Beck telephoned Loeb, and they took lunch together. ``Ganser has found out about Feuerstein's wife,'' was

``I wish I'd known it two hours sooner. I let Feuerstein have ten dollars more.''

Beck shook his head dismally. ``That's the worst of it. He called me a swindler, said he'd show that you and I

were in a conspiracy, and dared me to send him a bill. And in the circumstances I don't think I will.''

``No, I don't think you will send him a bill,'' said Loeb slowly. ``But how much did he pay you?''

Loeb finished his luncheon in silence. But he and Beck separated on the friendliest terms. Loeb was too

practical a philosopher to hate another man for doing that which he would have done himself if he had had

the chance. At his office he told a clerk to send Feuerstein a note, asking him to call the next morning. When

Feuerstein came into the anteroom the gimleteyed office boy disappeared through one of the doors in the

partition and reappeared after a longer absence than usual. He looked at Feuerstein with a cynical,

``Mr. Loeb asks me to tell you,'' he said, ``with his compliments, that you are a bigamist and a swindler, and

Feuerstein staggered and paledthere was no staginess in his manner. Then without a word he slunk away.

He had not gone far up Center Street before a hand was laid upon his shoulder from behind. He stopped as if

he had been shot; he shivered; he slowly, and with a look of fascinated horror, turned to see whose hand had

``You don't seem glad to see me, old boy,'' said the detective with contemptuous familiarity.

``Of course you don't. But I know YOUall about you. Come in here and let's sit down a minute.''

They went into a saloon and the detective ordered two glasses of beer. ``Now listen to me, young fellow,'' he

``You're played out in this town. You've got to get a move on you, see? We've been looking you up, and

you're wanted for bigamy. But if you clear out, you won't be followed. You've got to leave today,

understand? If you're here tomorrow morning, up the road you go.'' The detective winked and waggled his

Feuerstein was utterly crushed. He gulped down the beer and sat wiping the sweat from his face. ``I have

done nothing,'' he protested in tragic tones. ``Why am I persecutedI, poor, friendless, helpless?''

``You'd better go west and start again. Why not try honest work? It's not so bad, they say, once you get broke

in.'' He rose and shook hands with Feuerstein. ``So long,'' he said. ``Good luck! Don't forget!'' And again he

Feuerstein went to his lodgings, put on all the clothes he could wear without danger of attracting his

landlady's attention, filled his pockets and the crown of his hat with small articles, and fled to Hoboken.

Hilda had not spent her nineteen years in the glare of the Spartan publicity in which the masses live without

establishing a character. Just as she knew all the good points and bad in all the people of that community, so

they knew all hers, and therefore knew what it was possible for her to do and what impossible. And if a

baseless lie is swift of foot where everybody minutely scrutinizes everybody else, it is also scant of breath.

Sophie's scandal soon dwindled to a whisper and expired, and the kindlier and probable explanation of

Her code of morals and her method of dealing with moral questions were those of all the people about

herstrict, severe, primitive. Feuerstein was a cheat, a traitor. She cast him out of her heartcast him out at

once and utterly and for ever. She could think of him only with shame. And it seemed to her that she was

She accepted these conclusions and went about her work, too busy to indulge in hysteria of remorse, repining,

She avoided Otto, taking care not to be left alone with him when he called on Sundays, and putting Sophie

between him and her when he came up to them in the Square. But Otto was awaiting his chance, and when it

came, plunged boldly into his heartsubject and floundered bravely about. ``I don't like to see you so sad,

Hilda shook her head sadly. ``I'm never going to marry,'' she said. ``You must find some one else.''

``It's you or nobody. I said that when we were in school together andI'll stick to it.'' His eyes confirmed his

``You mustn't, Otto. You make me feel as if I were spoiling your life. And if you knew, you wouldn't want to

``I suppose I ought to tell you,'' she said, half to herself. She turned to him suddenly, and, with flushed cheeks

``It doesn't change the way I feel. You mightany man mightthrow it up to me. And sooner or later,

everybody'll know. No man would want a girl that had had a scandal like that on her.''

Some one joined them and he had no chance to continue until the following Sunday, when Heiligs and

Brauners went together to the Bronx for a halfholiday. They could not set out until their shops closed, at

halfpast twelve, and they had to be back at five to reopen for the Sunday supper customers. They lunched

Hilda forgot to keep up her pretense that her healing wounds were not healing and never would heal. She

teased Otto and even flirted with him. This elevated her father and his mother to hilarity. They were two very

sensible youngold people, with a keen sense of humorthe experience of age added to the simplicity and

You would have paused to admire and envy had you passed that way and looked in under the trees, as they

clinked glasses and called one to another and went off into gales of mirth over nothing at all. What laughter is

so gay as laughter at nothing at all? Any one must laugh when there is something to laugh at; but to laugh just

because one must have an outlet for bubbling spirits there's the test of happiness!

After luncheon they wandered into the woods and soon Otto and Hilda found themselves alone, seated by a

little waterfall, which in a quiet, sentimental voice suggested that low tones were the proper tones to use in

``We've known each other always, Hilda,'' said Otto. ``And we know all about each other. Why notdear?''

Otto did not know anything of the kind, but he knew she thought so, and he was too intelligent to dispute,

when time would settle the questionand, he felt sure, would settle it right. So he reached out and took her

And they sat watching the waterfall and listening to it, and they were happy in a serious, tranquil way. It

filled him with awe to think that he had at last won her. As for her, she was looking forward, without

illusions, without regrets, to a life of work and content beside this strong, loyal, manly man who protested

On the way home in the train she told her mother, and her mother told her father. He, then and there, to the

great delight and pleasure of the others in the car, rose up and embraced and kissed first his daughter, then

Otto and then Otto's mother. And every once in a while he beamed down the line of his party and said: ``This

And he made them all come into the sittingroom back of the shop. ``Wait here,'' he commanded. ``No one

He went down to the cellar, presently to reappear with a dusty bottle of Johannisberger Cabinet. He pointed

proudly to the seal. ``Bronze!'' he exclaimed. ``It is wine like gold. It must be drunk slowly.'' He drew the

cork and poured the wine with great ceremony, and they all drank with much touching of glasses and bowing

and exchanging of good wishes, now in German, now in English, again in both. And the last toast, the one

drunk with the greatest enthusiasm, was Brauner's favorite famous ``Arbeit und Liebe und Heim!''

From that time forth Hilda began to look at Otto from a different point of view. And everything depends on

Thenthe house in which Schwartz and Heilig had their shop was burned. And when their safe was drawn

from the ruins, they found that their insurance had expired four days before the fire. It was Schwartz's

business to look after the insurance, but Otto had never before failed to oversee. His mind had been in such

He stared at the papers, stunned by the disaster. Schwartz wrung his hands and burst into tears. ``I saw that

you were in trouble,'' he wailed, ``and that upset me. It's my fault. I've ruined us both.''

There was nothing left of their business or capital, nothing but seven hundred dollars in debts to the importers

Heilig shook off his stupor after a few minutes. ``No matter,'' he said. ``What's past is past.''

He went straightway over to Second Avenue to the shop of Geishener, the largest delicatessen dealer in New

Geishener offered him a place at eleven dollars a week. ``I'll begin in the morning,'' said Otto. Then he went

``Not for a long time, several years. Everything's gone and I've taken a place with Geishener. I came to say

Brauner did not know what answer to make. He liked Otto and had confidence in him. But the masses of the

people build their little fortunes as coral insects build their islands. And Hilda was getting alongwhy, she

would be twenty in four months. ``I don't know. I don't know.'' Brauner rubbed his head in embarrassment

Hilda came in. Both men looked at her guiltily. ``What is it?'' she asked. And if they had not been mere men

they would have noticed a change in her face, a great change, very wonderful and beautiful to see.

``YesI know,'' interrupted Hilda. She went up to him and put her arm round his neck. ``We'll have to begin

Brauner pretended that he heard some one calling him from the shop. ``Yes right away!'' he shouted. And

when he was alone in the shop he wiped his eyes, not before a large tear had blistered the top sheet of a pile

``I know you don't care for me asas'' Otto was standing uneasily, his eyes down and his face red. ``It

``You can't get rid of me so easily,'' she said. ``I know I'm getting along and I won't be an old maid.''

He paid no attention to her raillery. ``I haven't got anything to ask you to share,'' he went on. ``I've been

working ever since I was elevenand that's fourteen yearsto get what I had. And it's all gone. It'll take

several years to pay off my debts, and mother must be supported. NoI've got to give it up.''

He went, and she sat at the table, with her elbows on it and her face between her hands, until her father came

in. Then she said: ``We're going to be married next week. And I want two thousand dollars. We'll give you

``We're going to start a delicatessen,'' she continued, ``in the empty store where Bischoff was. It'll take two

``You only get three and a half per cent. in the savings bank,'' replied Hilda. ``We'll give you six. You know

She went up the Avenue humming softly one of Heine's love songs, still with that wonderful, beautiful look

in her eyes. She stopped at the tenement with the vacant store. The owner, old man Schulte, was sweeping the

sidewalk. He had an income of fifteen thousand a year; but he held that he needed exercise, that sweeping

was good exercise, and that it was stupid for a man, simply because he was rich, to stop taking exercise or to

``Sixty dollars a month,'' answered the old man, continuing his sweeping. ``Taxes are up, but rents are down.''

``Not with you, I guess. Otto Heilig and I are going to get married and open a delicatessen. But sixty dollars a

Schulte leaned on his broom. ``What's your hurry?'' he called. ``You can't get as good a location as this.''

Hilda turned, but seemed to be listening from politeness rather than from interest.

``I might let you have it for fifty,'' Schulte called after her, ``if you didn't want any fixing up.''

``It'd have to be fixed up,'' said Hilda, halting again. ``But I don't care much for the neighborhood. There are

She went on more rapidly and the old man resumed his sweeping, muttering crossly into his long, white

beard. As she came down the other side of the street half an hour later, she was watching Schulte from the

corner of her eye. He was leaning on his broom, watching her. Seeing that she was going to pass without

stopping he called to her and went slowly across the street. ``You would make good tenants,'' he said. ``I had

to sue Bischoff. You can have it for fortyif you'll pay for the changes you wantyou really won't want

``I was looking at it early this morning,'' replied Hilda. ``There'll have to be at least two hundred dollars

``I can get a store round in Seventh Street for thirtyfive and that includes three rooms at the back. You've

``No, forty for two years. We can't pay more. We're just starting, and expenses must be kept down.''

``Well, forty then. You are nice peoplehard workers. I want to see you get on.'' The philanthropic old man

returned to his sweeping. ``Always the way, dealing with a woman,'' he growled into his beard. ``They don't

know the value of anything. Well, I'll get my money anyway, and that's a point.''

She spent the day shopping and by halfpast five had her arrangements almost completed. And she told every

one about the coming marriage and the new shop and asked them to spread the news.

``We'll be open for business next Saturday a week,'' she said. ``Give us a trial.''

By nightfall Otto was receiving congratulations. He protested, denied, but people only smiled and winked.

``You're not so sly as you think,'' they said. ``No doubt she promised to keep it quiet, but you know how it is

When he called at Brauner's at seven he was timid about going in. ``They've heard the story,'' he said to

She had been bold enough all day, but she was shy, now that the time had come to face him and

confessshe had been a little shy with him underneath ever since she had suddenly awakened to the fact that

he was a real heroin spite of his keeping a shop just like everybody else and making no pretenses. He

He could not speak. He put his arms round her and pressed his face into her waving black hair. ``MY Hilda,''

he said in a low voice. And she felt his blood beating very fast, and she understood.

The next day Mr. Feuerstein returned from exile. It is always disillusioning to inspect the unheroic details of

the life of that favorite figure with romancersthe soldier of fortune. Of Mr. Feuerstein's six weeks in

Hoboken it is enough to say that they were weeks of storm and stress wretched lodgments in low

boarding houses, odd jobs at giving recitations in beer halls, undignified ejectments for drunkenness and

failure to pay, borrowings which were removed from frank streetbegging only in his imagination. He sank

very low indeed, but it must be recorded to the credit of his consistency that he never even contemplated the

idea of working for a living. And now here he was, back in New York, with Hoboken an exhausted field,

with no resources, no hopes, no future that his brandysoaked brain could discern.

His mane was still golden and bushy; but it was ragged and too long in front of the ears and also on his neck.

His face still expressed insolence and vanity; but it had a certain tragic bitterness, as if it were trying to

portray the emotions of a lofty spirit flinging defiance at destiny from a slough of despair. It was plain that he

had been drinking heavilythe whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot, the muscles of his eyelids and

mouth twitched disagreeably. His romantic hat and collar and graceful suit could endure with good

Mr. Feuerstein had come to New York to perform a carefullyplanned last act in his lifedrama, one that

would send the curtain down amid tears and plaudits for Mr. Feuerstein, the central figure, enwrapped in a

somber and baleful blaze of glory. He had arranged everything except such details as must be left to the

inspiration of the moment. He was impatient for the curtain to risebesides, he had empty pockets and

At one o'clock Hilda was in her father's shop alone. The rest of the family were at the midday dinner. As she

bent over the counter, near the door, she was filling a sheet of wrapping paper with figurescalculations in

connection with the new business. A shadow fell across her paper and she looked up. She shrank and clasped

her hands tightly against her bosom. ``Mr. Feuerstein!'' she exclaimed in a low, agitated voice.

He stood silent, his face ghastly as if he were very ill. His eyes, sunk deep in blueblack sockets, burned into

``Do not fly from me,'' he said in a hollow voice, leaning against the counter weakly. ``I have come only for a

She paused and watched him. His expression, his tone, his words filled her with pity for him.

``You hate me,'' he went on. ``You abhor me. It is justjust! Yet''he looked at her with passionate

``You must go away,'' said Hilda, pleading rather than commanding. ``You've done me enough harm.''

``I shall harm you no more.'' He drew himself up in gloomy majesty. ``I have finished my life. I am bowing

``That would be cowardly!'' exclaimed Hilda. She was profoundly moved. ``You have plenty to live for.''

He misunderstood the gentleness of her voice. ``She loves me still!'' he said to himself. ``We shall die

together and our names will echo down the ages.'' He looked burningly at her and said: ``I was madmad

with love for you. And when I realized that I had lost you, I went down, down, down. God! What have I not

suffered for your sake, Hilda!'' As he talked he convinced himself, pictured himself to himself as having been

``That's all past now.'' She spoke impatiently, irritated against herself because she was not hating him. ``I

A customer came in, and while Hilda was busy Mr. Feuerstein went to the rear counter. On a chopping block

lay a knife with a long, thin blade, ground to a fine edge and a sharp point. He began to play with it, and

presently, with a sly, almost insane glance to assure himself that she was not seeing, slipped it into the right

outside pocket of his coat. The customer left and he returned to the front of the shop and stood with just the

``It's all over for me,'' he began. ``Your love has failed me. There is nothing left. I shall fling myself through

the gates of death. I shall be forgotten. And you will live on and laugh and not remember that you ever had

Another customer entered. Mr. Feuerstein again went to the rear of the space outside the counters. ``She loves

me. She will gladly die with me,'' he muttered. ``First into HER heart, then into mine, and we shall be at

When they were again alone, he advanced and began to edge round the end of the counter. She was no longer

looking at him, did not note his excitement, was thinking only of how to induce him to go. ``Hilda,'' he said,

The counter was no longer between them. He was within three feet of her. His right hand was in his coat

pocket, grasping the knife. His eyes began to blaze and he nerved himself to seize her

Both heard her father's voice in the hall leading to the sittingroom. ``You must go,'' she cried, hastily

``Hilda,'' he pleaded rapidly, ``there is something I must say to you. I can not say it here. Come over to

Meinert's as soon as you can. I shall be in the sittingroom. Just for a moment, Hilda. It might save my life. If

Brauner was advancing into the shop and his lowering face warned Mr. Feuerstein not to linger. With a last,

``He'd just come in,'' answered Hilda absently. ``He won't bother us any more.''

``If he comes again, don't speak to him,'' said Brauner in the commanding voice that sounded so fierce and

Hilda could not thrust him out of her mind. His looks, his tones, his dramatic melancholy saddened her; and

his last words rang in her ears. She no longer loved him; but she HAD loved him. She could not think of him

as a stranger and an enemythere might be truth in his plea that he had in some mysterious way fallen

Almost mechanically she left the shop, went to Sixth Street and to the ``family entrance'' of Meinert's

beergarden. She went into the little anteroom and, with her hand on the swinging door leading to the

``I must be crazy,'' she said half aloud. ``He's a scoundrel and no good can come of my seeing him. What

would Otto think of me? What am I doing here?'' And she hastened away, hoping that no one had seen her.

Mr. Feuerstein was seated at a table a few feet from where she had paused and turned back. He had come in

half an hour before and had ordered and drunk three glasses of cheap, fiery brandy. As the moments passed

his mood grew wilder and more somber. ``She has failed me!'' he exclaimed. He called for pen, ink and

paper. He wrote rapidly and, when he had finished, declaimed his production, punctuating the sentences with

looks and gestures. His voice gradually broke, and he uttered the last words with sobs and with the tears

streaming down his cheeks. He signed his name with a flourish, added a postscript. He took a stamped

envelope from his pocket, sealed the letter, addressed it and laid it before him on the table. ``The presence of

death inspired me,'' he said, looking at his production with tragic pride. And he called for another drink.

When the waiter brought it, he lifted it high and, standing up, bowed as if some one were opposite him at the

table. ``I drink to you, Death!'' he said. The waiter stared in openmouthed astonishment, and with a

He sat again and drew the knife from his pocket and slid his finger along the edge. ``The key to my

sleepingroom,'' he muttered, half imagining that a vast audience was watching with bated breath.

``Pay! Haha! Always pay! Another drink, wretch, and I shall pay for allfor all!'' He laughed, with much

When the waiter had disappeared he muttered: ``I can wait no longer.'' He took the knife, held it at arm's

length, blade down. He turned his head to the left and closed his eyes. Then with a sudden tremendous drive

he sent the long, narrow blade deep into his neck. The blood spurted out, his breath escaped from between his

lips with long, shuddering, subsiding hisses. His body stiffened, collapsed, rolled to the floor.

When Otto came to see Hilda that evening she was guiltily effusive in her greeting and made up her mind

that, as soon as they were alone, she must tell him what she had all but done. But first there was the game of

pinochle which Otto must lose to her father. As they sat at their game she was at the zithertable, dreamily

playing May Breezes as she watched Otto and thought how much more comfortable she was in his strong,

loyal love than in the unnatural strain of Mr. Feuerstein's ecstasies. `` `Work and love and home,' '' she

As he spoke, he was pushed aside and she, her father and Otto sat staring at the two callers. They were

obviously detectives ``plain clothes men'' from the FifthStreet Station House. There could be no chance

of mistake about those police mustaches and jaws, those wide, squaretoed, police shoes.

``My name is Casey and this is my side partner, Mr. O'Rourke,'' said the shorter and fatter of the two as they

seated themselves without waiting to be asked. Casey took off his hat; O'Rourke's hand hesitated at the brim,

then drew his hat more firmly down upon his forehead. ``Sorry to break in on your little party,'' Casey went

Casey looked triumphantly at O'Rourke. Otto half rose, then sank back again. ``Where did you see him?''

Hilda nervously laced and unlaced her fingers. ``Only here,'' she answered after a pause.

Hilda started violently. The detectives exchanged significant glances. ``No,'' she protested. ``I saw him only

The blood flew to Hilda's face, then left it. ``To Meinert's,'' she answered. ``But only as far as the door.''

``Oh!'' said Casey sarcastically, and O'Rourke laughed. ``It's no use to hold back, lady,'' continued Casey.

``We know all about your movements. You went in Meinert'sin at the family entrance.''

``Yes,'' replied Hilda. She was shaking as if she were having a chill. ``But just to the door, then home again.''

``Now, that won't do,'' said Casey roughly. ``You'd better tell the whole story.''

``OhfatherOttoit was nothing. I didn't go in. HeMr. Feuersteincame here, and he looked so sick,

and he begged me to come over to Meinert's for a minute. He said he had something to say to me. And then I

went. But at the door I got to thinking about all he'd done, and I wouldn't go in. I just came back home.''

``I won't tell,'' Hilda flashed out, and she started up. ``It's nobody's business. Why do you ask me all these

``Now, now, lady,'' said Casey. ``Just keep cool. When you went, what did you take a knife from the counter

``A knife!'' Hilda gasped, and she would have fallen to the floor had not Otto caught her.

``That settles it!'' said Casey, in an undertone to O'Rourke. ``She's it, all right. I guess she's told us enough?''

O'Rourke nodded. ``The Cap'n'll get the rest out of her when he puts her through the third degree.''

They rose and Casey said, with the roughness of one who is afraid of his inward impulses to gentleness:

``You'll find out soon enough,'' said Casey in a blustering tone. ``The less fuss you make, the better it'll be for

``This is an outrage,'' interrupted Otto, rushing between Hilda and the detectives.

``Drop it!'' said Casey contemptuously. ``Drop it, Dutchy. I guess we know what we're about.''

``Yesand I know what _I_'m about,'' exclaimed Otto. ``Do you know Riordan, the district leader here?

Well, he's a friend of mine. If we haven't got any rights you police are bound to respect, thank God, we've got

``That's a bluff,'' said Casey, but his tone was less insolent. ``Well, if you must know, she's wanted for the

Hilda flung her arms high above her head and sank into a chair and buried her face. ``It's a dream!'' she

Otto and Brauner looked each at the other in horror. ``Murder!'' whispered Brauner hoarsely. ``My

``She's got to come,'' said Casey angrily. ``Now, will she go quietly or shall I call the wagon?''

This threat threw them into a panic. ``You'd better go,'' said Otto in an undertone to Hilda. ``Don't be

frightened, dear. You're innocent and they can't prove you guilty. You're not poor and friendless.''

At the pressure of his arms Hilda lifted her face, her eyes shining at him through her tears. And her heart went

out to him as never before. From that moment it was his, all his. ``My love, my dear love,'' she said. She went

to the closet and took out her hat. She put it on before the mirror over the mantelpiece. ``I'm ready,'' she said

In the street, she walked beside Casey; her father and Otto were close behind with O'Rourke. They turned

into Sixth Street. Half a block down, in front of Meinert's, a crowd was surging, was filling sidewalk and

street. When they came to the edge of it, Casey suddenly said ``In here'' and took her by the arm. All went

down a long and winding passage, across an open court to a back door where a policeman in uniform was on

The policeman opened the door. He let Casey, Hilda and O'Rourke pass. He thrust back Brauner and Otto.

``Not much! Get back!'' He had closed the door and was standing between it and them, one hand meaningly

``Cap'n's orders,'' said the policeman in a gentler voice. ``The best thing you can do is to go to the station

Meanwhile Casey, still holding Hilda by the arm, was guiding her along a dark hall. When they touched a

door he threw it open. He pushed her roughly into the room. For a few seconds the sudden blaze of light

Before her, stretched upon a table, wasMr. Feuerstein. She shrank back and gazed at him with wide,

fascinated eyes. His face was turned toward her, his eyes halfopen; he seemed to be regarding her with a

glassy, hateful starethe ``curse in a dead man's eye.'' His chin was fallen back and down, and his lips

exposed his teeth in a hideous grin. And then she saw Sticking upright from his throat was a knife, the

knife from their counter. It seemed to her to be trembling as if still agitated from the hand that had fiercely

As she crouched there, Casey said cheerfully to Captain Hanlon, ``You see she's guilty all right, Cap'n.''

Hanlon took his cigar from between his teeth and nodded. At this a man sitting near him burst out laughing.

The manDoctor Wharton, a deputy coronerlaughed again. ``I suppose you think she acts guilty,'' he said

``Any fool would see it, you'd better say,'' said Doctor Wharton. ``No matter how she took it, you fellows

Hanlon looked uneasily at Hilda, fearing she would draw encouragement from Wharton's words. But Hilda

Hilda recovered herself somewhat and sat before the captain, her eyes down, her fluttering hands loose in her

lap. ``What was the trouble between you and him?'' Hanlon asked her presently in a not unkindly tone.

``Must I tell?'' pleaded Hilda, looking piteously at the captain. ``I don't know anything about this except that

She looked at Feuerstein's dead face and shivered. And as she looked, memories flooded her, drowning

resentment and fear. She rose, went slowly up to him; she laid her hand softly upon his brow, pushed back his

long, yellow hair. The touch of her fingers seemed to smooth the wild, horrible look from his features. As she

gazed down at him the tears welled into her eyes. ``I won't talk against him,'' she said simply. ``He's

But Wharton said in an unsteady voice, ``That's right, Miss. They can't force you to talk. Don't say a word

Hanlon gave him a furious look. ``Don't you meddle in this,'' he said threateningly.

Wharton laughed. ``The man killed himself,'' he replied. ``I can tell by the slant of the wound. And I don't

``We've got the proof, I tell you,'' said Hanlon. ``We've got a witness who saw her do itor at least saw her

``Well, at any rate, do all your talking in court. These fellows will twist everything you say.''

``But I'm innocent,'' said Hilda, clasping her hands on her heart and looking appealingly at the captain.

Casey laid hold of her arm, but she shook him off. They went through the sittingroom of the saloon and out

at the side door. When Hilda saw the great crowd she covered her face with her hands and shrank back.

``There she is! There she is! They're taking her to the station house!'' shouted the crowd.

They sat waiting until the patrol wagon came. Then Hilda, halfcarried by Casey, crossed the sidewalk

through a double line of blue coats who fought back the frantically curious, pushed on by those behind. In the

wagon she revived and by the time they reached the station house, seemed calm. Another great crowd was

pressing in; she heard cries of ``There's the girl that killed him!'' She drew herself up haughtily, looked round

Her father and Otto rushed forward as soon as she entered the doors. She broke down again. ``Take me home!

Take me home!'' she sobbed. ``I've not done anything.'' The men forgot that they had promised each the other

to be calm, and cursed and cried alternately. The matron came, spoke to her gently.

Hilda kissed her father, then she and Otto clasped each the other closely. ``It'll turn out all right, dear,'' he

said. ``We're having a streak of bad luck. But our good luck'll be all the better when it comes.''

Strength and hope seemed to pass from him into her. She walked away firmly and the last glimpse they had

of her sad sweet young face was a glimpse of a brave little smile trying to break through its gray gloom. But

alone in her cell, seated upon the board that was her bed, her disgrace and loneliness and danger took

possession of her. She was a child of the people, brought up to courage and selfreliance. She could be brave

and calm before false accusers, before staring crowds. But here, with a dim gasjet revealing the horror of

She sat there, hour after hour, sleepless, tearless, her brain burning, the cries of drunken prisoners in

adjoining cells sounding in her ears like the shrieks of the damned. Seconds seemed moments, moments

hours. ``I'm dreaming,'' she said aloud at last. She started up and hurled herself against the bars, beating them

And she flung herself into a corner of the bench, to dread the time when the darkness and the loneliness

The matron brought her up into the front room of the station house at eight in the morning. Casey looked at

her haggard face with an expression of satisfaction. ``Her nerve's going,'' he said to the sergeant. ``I guess

They drove her to court in a Black Maria, packed among thieves, drunkards and disorderly characters. Upon

her right side pressed a slantfaced youth with a huge nose and waferthin, flapping ears, who had snatched a

purse in Houston Street. On her left, lolling against her, was an old woman in dirty calico, with a faded black

bonnet ludicrously awry upon scant white haira drunkard released from the Island three days before and

``So you killed him,'' the old woman said to her with a leer of sympathy and admiration.

At this the other prisoners regarded her with curiosity and deference. Hilda made no answer, seemed not to

``She needn't be afraid at all,'' declared a young woman in black satin, addressing the company at large. ``No

``Good business!'' continued the old woman. ``I'd 'a' killed mine if I could 'a' got at himforty years ago.''

She nodded vigorously and cackled. Her cackle rose into a laugh, the laugh into a maudlin howl, the howl

The old woman became abruptly silent. Hilda moaned and quivered. Her lips moved. She was murmuring, ``I

can't stand it much longerI can't. I'll wake soon and see Aunt Greta's picture looking down at me from the

``Step lively now!'' They were at the Essex Market police court; they were filing into the waitingpen. A

lawyer, engaged by her father, came there, and Hilda was sent with him into a little consultation room. He

argued with her in vain. ``I'll speak for myself,'' she said. ``If I had a lawyer they'd think I was guilty.''

After an hour the petty offenders had been heard and judged. A court officer came to the door and called:

Hilda rose. She seemed unconcerned, so calm was she. Her nerves had reached the point at which nerves

refuse to writhe, or even to record sensations of pain. As she came into the dingy, stuffy little courtroom she

didn't note the throng which filled it to the last crowded inch of standingroom; did not note the scores of

sympathetic faces of her anxious, loyal friends and neighbors; did not even see her father and Otto standing

The magistrate studied her over the tops of his glasses, and his look became more and more gentle and

Hilda took her stand with only the high desk between him and her. The magistrate's tone and his kind, honest,

old face reassured her. And just then she felt a pressure at her elbow and heard in Otto's voice: ``We're all

``No,'' replied Hilda. ``I haven't done anything wrong. I don't need a lawyer.''

The magistrate's eyes twinkled, but he sobered instantly to say, ``I warn you that the case against you looks

Hilda looked at him bravely. ``I've only the truth to tell,'' she insisted. ``I don't want a lawyer.''

``We'll see,'' said the magistrate, giving her an encouraging smile. ``If it is as you say, you certainly won't

need counsel. Your rights are secure here.'' He looked at Captain Hanlon, who was also on the platform.

``Meinert,'' said the captain in a low tone to a court officer, who called loudly, ``Meinert! Meinert!''

A man stood up in the crowd. ``You don't want me!'' he shouted, as if he were trying to make himself heard

``Come forward !'' commanded the magistrate sharply, and when Meinert stood before him and beside Hilda

``The manFeuerstein,'' began Meinert, ``came into my place about halfpast one yesterday. He looked a

little wild as if he'd been drinking or was in trouble. He went back into the sittingroom and I sent in to

``Stand down. I want evidence, not gossip. Captain Hanlon, who found the body? Do you know?''

The magistrate frowned at him. Then he said, raising his voice, ``Does ANY ONE know who found the

A bleached German boy with a cowlick in the center of his head just above his forehead came up beside

``Yes,'' said Wielert. He was blinking stupidly and his throat was expanding and contracting with fright.

``I take him the brandy in. And he sit and talk to himself. And he ask for paper and ink. And then he write

and look round like crazy. And he make luny talk I don't understand. And he speak what he write''

``A letter,'' answered Wielert. ``He put it in a envelope with a stamp on it and he write on the back and make

it all ready. And then I watch him, and he take out a knife and feel it and speak with it. And I go in and ask

``Your Honor, this witness told us nothing of that before,'' interrupted Hanlon. ``I understood that the

``No,'' replied the captain humbly. And Casey and O'Rourke shook their big, hardlooking heads to indicate

``I am curious to know what you HAVE done in this case,'' said the magistrate sternly. ``It is a serious matter

to take a young girl like this into custody. You police seem unable to learn that you are not the rulers, but the

``Silence!'' interrupted the magistrate, rapping on the desk with his gavel. ``Proceed, Wielert. What kind of

``The knife in his throat afterward,'' answered Wielert. ``And I hear a sound like steam out a pipeand I go

in and see a lady at the street door. She peep through the crack and her face all yellow and her eye big. And

Hilda was looking at him calmly. She was the only person in the room who was not intensely agitated. All

``Is that lady here?'' asked the magistrate. His voice seemed loud and strained.

Otto instinctively put his arm about Hilda. Her father was like a leaf in the wind.

Wielert looked at Hilda earnestly, then let his glance wander over the still courtroom. He was most deliberate.

``Point her out,'' said the magistrate it was evidently with an effort that he broke that straining silence.

``That lady there.'' Wielert pointed at a woman sitting just outside the inclosure, with her face halfhid by her

The magistrate rapped sharply, and, looking toward the woman, said, ``Stand up, Madam. Officer, assist her!''

The court officer lifted her to her feet. Her hand dropped and revealed the drawn, twitching face of Sophie

``Your Honor,'' said Hanlon hurriedly, ``that is the woman upon whose statement we made our case. She told

us she saw Hilda Brauner coming from the family entrance just before the alarm was given.''

``Are you sure she's the woman you saw?'' said the magistrate to Wielert. ``Be careful what you say.''

``That's her,'' answered Wielert. ``I see her often. She live across the street from Meinert's.''

Sophie, blue with terror, was almost dragged to the platform beside Hilda. Hilda looked stunned, dazed.

Sophie was weeping violently. ``It's all a mistake,'' she cried in a low, choked voice. ``I was scared. I didn't

mean to tell the police Hilda was there. I was afraid they'd think I did it if I didn't say something.''

``Tell us what you saw.'' The magistrate's voice was severe. ``We want the whole truth.''

``I was at our window. And I saw Hilda come along and go in at the family entrance over at Meinert's. And

I'd seen Mr. Feuerstein go in the front door about an hour before. Hilda came out and went away. She looked

so queer that I wanted to see. I ran across the street and looked in. Mr. Feuerstein was sitting there with a

knife in his hand. And all at once he stood up and stabbed himself in the neckand there was bloodand he

``Your Honor,'' protested Captain Hanlon with an injured air, ``SHE came to US.''

Sophie wept loudly. ``Your Honor,'' Hanlon went on, ``she came to me and said it was her duty to tell me,

though it involved her friend. She said positively that this girl went in, stayed several minutes, then came out

looking very strange, and that immediately afterward there was the excitement. Of course, we believed her.''

``Of course,'' echoed the magistrate ironically. ``It gave you an opportunity for an act of oppression.''

``I didn't mean to get Hilda into trouble. I swear I didn't,'' Sophie exclaimed. ``I was scared. I didn't know

``What did your men do with the letter Feuerstein wrote?'' asked the magistrate of Hanlon suspiciously.

Wielert, who had been gradually rising in his own estimation, as he realized the importance of his part in the

proceedings, now pushed forward, his face flushed with triumph. ``I know where it is,'' he said eagerly.

There was a tumult of hysterical laughter, everybody seeking relief from the strain of what had gone before.

The magistrate rapped down the noise and called for Doctor Wharton. While he was giving his technical

GERMAN THEATER, 3 September. YOUR HONORI hasten to send you the inclosed letter which I

found in my mail this morning. It seems to have an important bearing on the hearing in the Feuerstein case,

The magistrate handed the inclosure to a clerk, who was a German. ``Read it aloud,'' he said. And the clerk,

I have sinned, but I have expiated. I have lived bravely, fighting adversity and the malice which my superior

gifts from nature provoked. I can live no longer with dignity. So, proud and fearless to the last, I accept defeat

Exit Carl Feuerstein, soldier of fortune, man of the world. A sensitive heart that was crushed by the cruelty of

P. S. DEAR. MR. KONIGSMARCK Please send a copy of the above to the newspapers, English as well

The magistrate beamed his kindliest upon Hilda. ``The charge against you is absurd. Your arrest was a crime.

As they went up the aisle hand in hand the crowd stood and cheered again and again; the magistrate did not

touch his gavelhe was nodding vigorous approval. Hilda held Otto's hand more closely and looked all

Thus the shadow of Mr. Feuerstein of vanity and false emotion, of pose and pretense, passed from her life.