"We haven't a room vacant," said Miss Husted in a decided tone; "and if we had," tenderly, "no, professor, no top floor for you! I couldn't bear the idea of it; I couldn't really! Pay me when you get it," she said when the old man pleaded that he must live within his means.

"But I may never get it," expostulated the professor.

"Oh, yes, you will," confidently replied Miss Husted. "Mrs. Mangenborn says it is in the cards that great fortune is coming to you."

"In the next world, perhaps," said Von Barwig, laughing in spite of himself.

"Besides," went on Miss Husted, "it doesn't matter one way or the other. I could never bear the idea. Stay here for my sake," she pleaded when she saw that the professor was obstinate; and so he remained in his old rooms, though he squeezed every penny in order to pay her.

On the afternoon following his interview with his father, Beverly Cruger made up his mind to speak to Helene, to ask her to be his wife. He called at her home, and was informed by Joles that she was engaged; that a German gentleman was giving her music instruction, and that her orders were that she was not to be disturbed. Beverly left his card, intending to call the next day, but the fates were against him, and he was sent for by the State Department in regard to his diplomatic position and had to go to Washington. On his return to New York a week later, he again called on Miss Stanton. To his astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his extreme annoyance, he found Miss Stanton again "engaged." Herr Von Barwig, her music master, was there. "Please take up my card, Joles, and tell Miss Stanton that I wish to see her on a matter of the utmost importance—the utmost importance," repeated Beverly.

"Yes, sir," replied Joles.

"Herr Von Barwig appears to be persona gratissima," thought Beverly, and then it occurred to him that it was very strange that an accomplished musician like Helene Stanton should take music lessons. "He must be a very superior sort of a musical personage, very superior indeed." Beverly would not acknowledge even to himself that he resented Herr Von Barwig's presence at the Stantons'. "How can our American women be so deceived by the artificial deference, the insincere, highly polished politeness of these foreigners!" he mused. "Von Barwig is probably an offshoot of some noble German house, but she's not apt to be attracted by an empty title!" He had loved her for months, he told himself, and each time he had made up his mind to speak this foreigner had been the means of preventing him.

"Send him up please, Joles. I want you to meet Mr. Cruger, Herr Von Barwig," said Helene as she glanced at the card Joles handed her, and rose from the piano where she was taking a lesson. "I haven't seen him for days and days; I wondered what had become of him."

Von Barwig noticed the heightened colour in Miss Stanton's cheeks and he made a mental note that he must like Mr. Beverly Cruger, too, yet, if the truth must be known, he felt a pang of regret. "She loves him," he said to himself, "she will forget me."

"Shall we not continue the lesson?" he said aloud.

Helene shook her head. "No more to-day," she said.

"Then Miss Stanton will perhaps pardon my leaving," said Von Barwig.

"On the contrary, Herr Professor, Miss Stanton insists on your remaining," said Helene, motioning him to a seat. Von Barwig bowed deferentially.

"You have disappointed me to-day," he said. "Ach, your tempos change—like the winds! At one moment it is 6-8, the next 2-4, and almost in the same measure, you play 4-4. At one moment you play with your thumbs, like a little girl; at another, you play like a professional, an artist. I cannot understand it. Technically I don't know where you are. I am puzzled! I admit it; I am puzzled," and he looked at her in perplexed uncertainty.

Helene's only answer was a ripple of laughter. She was beginning to enjoy her own cleverness in deceiving him, and his confusion endeared him to her more than ever. The greater his perplexity the more she sympathised with him.

"Poor old gentleman," she thought, "It is downright wicked of me to deceive him. But what can I do? If I let him know I don't need his services he will not come."

"I have made up my mind to bring you some simple exercises for our next lesson, Miss Stanton. No more Bach and unevenly played Beethoven!" said Von Barwig. "It is necessary that we begin at the beginning and work up. That's it! We begin all over again, at the very beginning, and work up to the top. Then you will have some style, some form, some technique that you can call your own."

"Oh, dear, you're not going to make me play exercises, are you? Oh, Herr Von Barwig, dear Herr Von Barwig, please don't!" said Helene, with such a pleading accent that Von Barwig was compelled to smile.

"It just serves me right," she thought. "I shall literally have to face the music," she said to herself with a laugh.

Beverly Cruger heard that laugh as he came into the room, and he made up his mind that Herr Von Barwig was one of those highly entertaining foreigners who appeal to the feminine mind with their superficial brilliancy and capture all before them.

"Herr Von Barwig, this is Mr. Beverly Cruger," broke in Helene, and Mr. Cruger was formally introduced to his rival.

Beverly could hardly repress a smile as his eyes fell on the slim figure of the poor, grey-headed, homely old artist. Was this the noble young foreigner, the handsome German music master he had pictured to himself? Was this Helene's romance?

"Gott in Himmel, what a squeeze he gives the hand!" thought Von Barwig, as he tried to release his injured digits from the vice that held them.

"I am so glad to see you, Herr Von Barwig," said Beverly; and he meant it.

"Yes, and I, too," groaned Von Barwig as he rubbed his fingers. "A fine fellow," he thought. "Such a welcome as that must come from the heart. But ach Gott, what a muscle! It's like iron!"

Helene was surprised. Beverly Cruger was far and away the most undemonstrative man of her acquaintance, and his cordial greeting of her old music master went straight to her heart. "He likes him because—perhaps, because I do," she thought.

"Do you know you remind me very much of a splendid bust of Beethoven I saw in the British Museum? Upon my word you do!"

Von Barwig bowed.

"Oh, I think Mozart rather than Beethoven," suggested Helene. "He's not stern enough for Beethoven."

Again Von Barwig bowed.

Beverly Cruger shook his head. "Beethoven," he said, looking at Von Barwig critically. "Still—well—I'm not sure, perhaps——"

"Mozart," insisted Helene.

"Are you sure you don't mean Liszt? We really do look alike!" Von Barwig said, with a twinkle in his eye. Then he added, "Ah, you are very kind to me, very kind! Dear me, I am afraid you spoil me. Those are the giants, the leaders of a great art. I am the most humble of all its followers. Even to resemble them is in itself a great honour."

Helene could never quite clearly remember how or when Von Barwig took his leave that memorable afternoon, but when he came on the following day to give his lesson she held both his hands in hers.

"You shall be the first one to hear the news," she said almost in a whisper. "I'm so happy, so very, very happy!" He looked at her, and understood.

"Herr Cruger?" he asked. She nodded affirmatively.

"How did you know?"

"Ah! He is an excellent young man; I approve very highly of him." Then he was afraid of his own temerity. "What right had he to approve? He must curb his tongue," he thought. "I beg your pardon! I mean he is a most excellent gentleman."

Helene hardly heard him, for her thoughts were far away at that moment. "I wonder what father will say?" she said.

Von Barwig started. The word father sounded strange, as if a discord had been struck in the midst of a beautiful harmony. "Why should I feel like that?" he asked himself. "Barwig, you are a fool, a madman! Mr. Stanton is her father; I must love him, too. My heart must not beat every time I hear his name. Come! Let us go to work; our studies—" he said aloud, tapping the book. "We must go to work. I have brought with me the book of exercises."

"No! no study to-day. But please don't go—just yet," she added as Von Barwig prepared to take his departure. "Sit down! I am going to be very angry with you."

"Angry with me?" the old man smiled. He knew it was only the girl's way of finding some little trivial fault with him. "Angry with me," he repeated. "And you said you were so very, very happy."

"Yes, I forgot when you came in that I ought to be very angry with you."

"Ah, you ought to be, but you are not! No, surely not," said Von Barwig gently.

"Why did you send me back my cheque? This one! Don't look so innocent; you know what I mean, sir!" and Helene held up the cheque that Von Barwig had found awaiting him at his room the night before, and that he had carefully mailed back to her.

Von Barwig looked pained.

"Herr Von Barwig, let us have a little understanding!" said Helene in a far more serious tone than she usually took with her music master.

"Ah, don't be angry, please don't be angry to-day! Not on such a day as this!" he urged. "To-morrow you may scold me if you like; but to-day, no, please, no!" and he looked at her so pleadingly that Helene was forced to smile. "I wish nothing to happen that shall interfere with the happiness that has come to you," he added.

But Helene was insistent. "It has been on my mind some time to ask you why you take such an interest in me," she said, "and now this," and she looked at the cheque.

Von Barwig was silent. What could he say? He dared not tell her the real reason.

"When I came to your studio with the little boy and asked you to teach him, you refused to accept money. Your reasons were that you were devoted to your art and that you loved to help the children of the poor. Surely I don't come under that classification, Herr Von Barwig?"

"Oh, no, no!" faltered poor Von Barwig.

"Then why do you refuse to take my money? Heaven only knows you've worked hard enough for it! Your efforts to instill your ideas into my head deserve far greater recognition than mere money payment."

"No, no! I have not worked. It has been so great a pleasure. No, decidedly there has been no work! I do not feel myself entitled to take, until you show some progress." Von Barwig felt himself on terra firma again.

"All that is begging the question, my dear Maestro! Whether your work affords you pleasure or no, it is still your work. Teaching is your means of livelihood, is it not?"

"Not altogether; I play at—" and then he thought of the Dime Museum and was silent. He looked at her; she was regarding him quite seriously, and he was afraid he had offended her. There was a pause during which he tried to think out a course of action calculated to offset his mistake. Helene broke the silence.

"You left your own country, where I understand you were well known and successful, and you came over here, where, pardon my saying so, you are not known and where you—" Helene hesitated slightly, "where you are not so prosperous. When I bring you a pupil you refuse to take money for his tuition. When I take lessons from you myself, you refuse to take money from me. Now, my dear Herr Von Barwig, I confess that I cannot understand! You must explain." There was a dead silence. "What does it mean?" demanded Helene. Von Barwig looked at her helplessly. He had no explanation, or, rather, he realised that the one he had was insufficient.

"Why do you take so much interest in me?" she asked.

"At first for a likeness, a likeness to some one I knew," replied Von Barwig, in a low voice. "You resemble a memory I have known, a memory that gives me so much happiness. She is gone, and now you—pardon the liberty—you take her place. I take interest because it was she—and it is now—you—you—a fresh young girl that will never grow old! You have taken the place of—of—" Von Barwig could not go on. He knew what he meant, but he could not express it.

"As I said before, Herr Von Barwig," and Helene spoke now with less show of wounded dignity, "I do not understand. It is simply incomprehensible, but it amounts to this—you must not refuse this cheque. If you do, I—I shall be compelled to—to refuse to go on with my lessons," and Helene held out the cheque toward him. Von Barwig looked at her; his sweet melancholy smile deepened as he slowly shook his head.

"If you knew, if you knew, Miss Helene, how I love to teach you, you would realise that I am over-compensated now. I am a foolish old man, I suppose, a foolish, sentimental old man! Perhaps I do not understand the ways of this country. Here there is no what we call esprit de corps, no enthusiasm, no love of art for the sake of art, no love of beauty for the mere sake of beauty. All is exchange and barter; so much done, so much to be paid for. Music, bricks, painting, sculpture and sewing machines all in one item—all to be paid for. Here for me is fairyland! It may not be fairyland for others, but for me it is fairyland. When I walk up the steps of this house and ring the bell, I stand there impatiently till your Mr. Joles opens up for me heaven. When I tell you that Mr. Joles is for me an angel, the archangel that unlocks for me paradise, you will realise to what extent I separate this world of love, of joy, of happiness, the world over which you preside, from the outside world, where together come music and bricks and human misery. Here is my heaven, my haven of rest and sweet contentment. Shall I take money for it; shall I be paid for my happiness? Ah, Fraeulein, Fraeulein, I dream, I dream! For sixteen years I have not rested. Don't wake me, please don't wake me!"

Helene tore the cheque into little pieces.

"To-morrow at three, Herr Von Barwig," she said. And when he had gone she burst into tears without in the least knowing why.



Chapter Eighteen

Whatever Andrew Cruger may have thought in his inner consciousness on the subject of his son's engagement to Helene Stanton, he outwardly showed no sign that he was not well pleased. He simply gave the consent that Beverly asked of him, and accepted the new condition as another event in the continuity of life. "Of course there can be no formal engagement until her father returns from Europe," said he.

"Can't we get his consent by cable?" asked his son.

"I don't believe in these irregularities," said the elder Cruger, whose diplomatic training had made him something of a stickler for formality and precedent. "There will be time enough for that when he returns."

Beverly submitted without another word, for he felt that his father had already given way to him a good deal. The young people did not cable to Mr. Stanton for his consent, for all agreed that there would be time enough to acquaint him with the fact when he returned. Whatever Mr. Cruger's mental attitude toward the engagement might have been his manner toward Helene was most cordial. As for Beverly's mother, she was delighted beyond all words.

"The dear, dear girl, how I shall love her!" she said to Beverly, on hearing the news. And after she had showered mother kisses, plentifully mixed with mother tears, on them both, her happiness was well-nigh complete.

That afternoon the Crugers were to make a formal call on Helene. Andrew Cruger had finally yielded to his son's entreaties and consented to call on her, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Stanton was still in Europe and his formal consent had not been obtained.

"I have been looking forward to the day when I should see my son's wife," said the elder Cruger, somewhat pompously to Helene, as he greeted her with outstretched hand. He could never get over the idea that formalism was the soul of function.

"I have always felt that I would demand a great deal of her," went on Mr. Cruger, in his best after-dinner manner. "I thank you for giving me everything I could desire! You are the daughter of a man whose charity and beneficence we all respect and admire, and—" Here he paused to take breath.

"Thank you," said Helene simply. She was surprised that he did not kiss her instead of making a formal speech.

"I know that father means what he says," remarked Beverly to his mother; "but I do wish he would say it in a less stereotyped manner."

"Hush!" replied his mother, "your father is speaking again."

"I want your married life to begin auspiciously," continued the elder Cruger, as if he had not been interrupted. "So I have made what I consider to be a sacrifice for you. I had hoped to retire from public life, but I have altered my decision. I shall again represent my country in a foreign land."

Helene gratefully acknowledged the sacrifice, although she did not quite see where it came in. She had heard that most American representatives at foreign courts managed rather to enjoy life than otherwise.

"When I go abroad as hostess in the Embassy that Mr. Cruger represents," Mrs. Cruger said, taking up the thread of the conversation, "I want my son's wife to share my honours. A sweet young woman, far younger than I, is almost a—a—"

"A charming necessity," added Mr. Cruger, who made it a habit to finish his wife's sentences.

"Yes, a charming necessity," echoed his wife, and, then she continued:

"The fact that Octavie is engaged suggests a double wedding. They will marry in June, if the weather is good."

"What has the weather to do with Octavie's wedding?" inquired Mr. Cruger.

"Simply that it's an automobile wedding, Andrew," replied his wife.

Mr. Cruger looked almost pained. "Permit me to remark, Mary, that no Cruger was ever married in an automobile and I trust that no Cruger will so far forget himself or herself as to establish so ridiculous a precedent."

"The motor business comes in after the wedding, father; at least so Octavie said," whispered Beverly.

"Your niece is very frivolous," remarked Mr. Cruger to his wife. "I shall take pains to remind her that we Crugers marry quietly in Trinity!"

Helene laughed aloud. The idea of Octavie doing anything quietly appealed to her sense of humour.

"She does not take us very seriously," thought Mr. Cruger. Mrs. Cruger glanced at her husband and noticed a rather injured expression appear upon his face. Evidently he was not highly pleased at Helene's levity.

"You have written to your father?" Mr. Cruger asked her presently.

"No, Mr. Cruger," replied Helene after a pause.

"No, my dear?" echoed Mr. Cruger in surprise.

"I will tell him when he returns," said Helene.

Mr. Cruger was almost dismayed. "You have not written to your father?" he repeated. "My dear Helene, these formalities must be complied with! Your father's consent is of the utmost importance. Not that I anticipate any—er—opposition from that quarter, but it's merely the idea of the thing! Of course, I am somewhat old-fashioned, I admit."

"In France, for instance, it is against the law," interrupted Beverly in a satirical tone.

Helene smiled. Her prospective father-in-law appeared to her somewhat punctilious, but she determined to humour him.

"Your father is quite right, Beverly," she said. "I should have cabled at once."

At this moment Joles entered, apparently somewhat nervous. "Mr. Von Barwig is here, miss," he explained. "I told him you were engaged, but——"

"Ask him to come up, Joles." Joles was surprised, but being a well-trained servant, his face gave no outward indication of his feelings.

"It is my music master, Mrs. Cruger. I think this is a splendid opportunity for you to see him about your niece's music lessons." Mr. Cruger looked almost shocked. A music master invited to take part in a family function! Such conduct savoured of socialism, and socialism did not appeal to him.

"Herr Von Barwig is a most exceptionable person," said Helene, quite unconscious of the thought her words had aroused in her prospective father-in-law.

"Von Barwig? Von Barwig?" repeated Mr. Cruger, apparently interested in the name. "Don't I know that name? It seems quite familiar. A music master, you say? Yes, it seems to me that I do know it!"

"He's one of the dearest old chaps I ever met," broke in Beverly, "such a gentle creature, a most excellent musician, but rather unfortunate."

"I know the name quite well, but if it's the man I mean it's impossible that it can be the same. He was a fine musician, from Dresden I think. Was it Dresden?" he asked himself, as if annoyed that his memory had played him false. "It must have been Dresden or Leipsic."

"Herr Von Barwig," announced Joles, in his most formal and freezing manner.

Poor old Von Barwig came into the room expecting to see no one but Helene, and was painfully astounded to see so many strangers. He wore his old broadcloth suit; it was well brushed, but more shiny than ever. Poons had carefully brushed it for him that morning and it was more than scrupulously clean. His gloves were old, but Jenny had mended up the holes the night before, so he looked even neater and more genteel than usual this afternoon. He carried the cheap little bunch of violets, wrapped in paper, in one hand and his hat in the other, for Joles had never been able to persuade him to leave it in the hall. He stood by the door, as close as he could get to it, as if afraid to come in, and then bowed low to Helene and the others. There he waited with timid dignity, uncertain as to what he should do next. There was a dead silence for a few moments.

"I'm so glad to see you," said Helene in an affectionate tone, coming to the rescue; and taking him warmly by the hand she led him away from the door into the middle of the room.

"Glad to meet you again, Herr Von Barwig," said Beverly, coming forward, and shaking hands with him far more cordially than the occasion called for. He then introduced Von Barwig to his mother and father. The elder Cruger looked at him very closely.

"It seems to me that we have met before, sir. Your face is very familiar. Yes, yes; Prince Holberg Meckstein introduced me to you at one of your concerts."

"Holberg Meckstein," repeated Von Barwig in a frightened voice. "Yes, I—I knew him; but—but—I—forgive me, I—I do not remember!"

"It was in Leipsic; oh, it must be fifteen years ago!" said Mr. Cruger. "At that time I had the United States Embassy at Berlin. Surely, you must remember! You became nervous that night while conducting your own symphony, and you fainted away right before the audience. Don't you remember?"

"I remember," said Von Barwig, in a low hoarse voice, which he controlled with great difficulty.

"And then a few months later you made some inquiries at the Embassy for me," went on Mr. Cruger, "but I was unfortunately not there at the time, and so was unable to be of service to you. You had some mission, some object in going to America, the Secretary of Legation said. You wanted a list of all the large towns in the United States. I hope you were successful in finding what you were searching for?"

"No, sir, I did not accomplish—my mission," replied Von Barwig, who had gained command of himself to some extent, and could speak without giving evidence of his emotion. "It is extremely kind of you to remember me!" His retiring, bashful manner was somewhat disconcerting, but beneath it there was the unmistakable evidence of birth, breeding and dignity.

"I am glad to find you in the house of such a distinguished citizen of the United States as Mr. Stanton," said Mr. Cruger at parting with Von Barwig.

"Ah, you know him, her father! He is a distinguished citizen?" said Von Barwig, and the last ray of hope died within him. "He is a distinguished citizen," he said to himself, "and he is her father." He sighed deeply, and reproached himself for ever having hoped.

"That old man has a history," thought the elder Cruger, as he went up to Helene, intent on saying good-bye to her. Joles had announced his wife's nieces, and he did not care to stay longer. He had done his duty by Beverly and that was all that was necessary. As he shook hands warmly with Helene, he said to her:

"I should like to see Herr Von Barwig again."

Helene squeezed his hand warmly; it was the first note of affection that had been sounded between them.

"Let me know if I can be of any service to him," he said.

"I will, I promise you I will," replied Helene, and Mr. Cruger took his departure, accompanied by his son.

The girls were introduced to Herr Von Barwig. "And this is Helene's romance," thought Octavie, as she looked at Von Barwig and laughed aloud. Von Barwig thought she was a very pleasant young lady, and smiled back in return.

"I should like Charlotte to study for the next two years, Herr Von Barwig, and Octavie till about June," said Mrs. Cruger, who was determined to get Herr Von Barwig to teach her nieces, since Helene had recommended him so highly.

"I don't want to study at all," said Octavie. "Who ever heard of an engaged girl studying?"

"And pray, am I not an engaged girl, as you call it?" asked Helene, who was pouring out tea. "And do I not study?"

"Yes, but you're an accomplished musician and——"

"One lump or two, Herr Von Barwig?" broke in Helene, to change the conversation.

"No lumps! Yes, thank you, I take one," said Von Barwig, somewhat confused by the incessant chatter of the young ladies, who smiled at his awkwardness.

"Cake, Herr Von Barwig?" Helene held out the dish to her music master.

"No, thank you," he replied quietly, and then catching an appealing look from her, he took a cake, and then another.

"The idea of waiting on a music master," whispered Octavie to Charlotte; "she'll spoil him."

"She's a socialist," said Charlotte.

"Come, girls, tell Herr Von Barwig what you know. If he can teach such a finished pianist as Helene, I am determined that you shall have the advantage of his tutelage."

"A finished musician?" thought Von Barwig. "Heaven save us! You have had lessons before?" he continued to ask one of the gay young ladies. "You have studied a great deal, yes?"

"We've had lots of lessons," replied Octavie, "but I don't think we've studied; at least I haven't!" she confessed.

"Don't count on me! I know nothing; absolutely nothing!" volunteered Charlotte.

"Well," said Von Barwig sententiously, "that is something at all events! Many musicians take years to discover that."

"I only want to know enough to do a few stunts," said Charlotte to him gaily.

Von Barwig's face fell. "Stunts! they do not love music," he thought, "they want to do tricks." And then the girls talked on the subject of musical comedies, popular songs and dance music, until their aunt interrupted them.

"Come, Charlotte," said the excellent Mrs. Cruger. She thought her nieces had had time to prevail on the eminent professor to take them. "Remember your appointment at the museum."

Von Barwig, in the act of drinking tea, nearly choked. He thought of his Dime Museum. "If they should ever dream of such a thing!"

"My drawing master is meeting me at the Museum of Art," explained Charlotte to Von Barwig.

"Will you play something before you go?" asked Von Barwig. Charlotte went to the piano and banged out a two-step march that was the raging popular tune of the day.

"Ah, that is the stunt! Now, if you will play some music," ventured Von Barwig, "I can just tell you where you are."

"Isn't that music?" asked Charlotte.

"It is rhythm and jingle—a stunt as you call it. Real musicians do not write such things."

"Isn't there a method of learning how to play without practising?" broke in Octavie.

"From nothing comes nothing," said Von Barwig with a sigh.

"Quite true," assented Mrs. Cruger.

"Some day," said Von Barwig prophetically, "some day they will invent a machine that will play itself. All you will have to do is to pump a bellows, or turn a wheel and the music will play itself! You will see; there is so much demand for it, some one will rise to the occasion."

"Splendid!" said Charlotte. "Won't that save lots of hard work!"

"We'll write and make an appointment; Helene will give us the address," said Octavie, as they said good-bye to Von Barwig.

"Thank you so much, Herr Professor, for your patience and courtesy," said Mrs. Cruger at parting.

Herr Von Barwig bowed. The girls accompanied by their aunt took their leave, and he was left alone with Helene. He took the paper from the little bunch of violets he had brought with him, and handed them to her.

"Ah, thank you so much! But why do you always bring me flowers?"

"Why do we love the light?" he asked. "Because it gives us joy."

She took an orchid she was wearing and tried to pin it on his coat. "I am afraid," said Von Barwig, "that it is healed up!" Helene laughed.

"What a curious expression!" she said. Then she walked up to the window and looked out.

"Shall we begin where we left off?" asked Von Barwig as he opened the music. He had been waiting some time for her to come to the piano.

"You like him, don't you?" said Helene in a low voice.

"The young Herr Cruger?" asked Von Barwig. Then without waiting for an answer he went on: "Yes, he has a fine noble heart. He is different to the young men here; quite different."

"I am glad you like him!"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I am glad, that's all!"

At that moment Von Barwig was supremely happy. Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

"Shall we not begin?" he said, breaking the silence.

Helene walked slowly to the piano and sat down.

At that moment Joles entered the room with a message for Miss Stanton.

"Put it down, Joles," she said, striking a note here and there on the piano.

"It's a telegram, miss."

"Oh! bring it to me, then." He obeyed. She opened it and read:

"Left Paris this morning en route to New York. FATHER."

A feeling of dread crept over her; the smile on her face gave way to a hardness of expression. Gone was the joy, the happiness, in the girl's face, and in its place was doubt, apprehension, anxiety.

Von Barwig looked at her; the keen eye of love quickly detected the presence of fear. He did not speak, but his look demanded an answer to its question.

"My father is coming home," she said, forcing herself to smile.

"Ah? So? I shall be glad to meet him," said Von Barwig.



Chapter Nineteen

Henry Stanton's return to New York was not marked by any special outburst of joy on the part of the large retinue of dependents that constituted the machinery of his household. He was feared rather than loved by his servants, and this feeling, as has been indicated, was shared by his daughter in common with others. It was not that he did not want to be loved, or that he was indifferent to the feelings and opinion of others concerning him. On the contrary, he, of all men, was most anxious that others should think well of him. But his manner was stern, harsh and repellent, and he did not seem to have the capacity to gain the confidence or sympathy of those around him. Although generous even to extravagance where it gratified his vanity, of broad-minded charity in its higher and nobler sense the man knew nothing. He gave not because he loved, but because his charities reflected lustre on his name; and here was the man's most vulnerable point, his sensitiveness as to name, fame, honour, reputation dignity, public opinion. "What will the world think?" stood out in blazing letters on a glittering signpost pointing to the motive of all he did. And so when Mr. Stanton told his daughter, the day after his arrival, that he approved of her engagement to Beverly Cruger and that it gave him great happiness, the utter absence of genuine fatherly tenderness in his manner showed the girl plainly that his happiness was brought about mainly by the fact that it advanced him several rungs in the social ladder, and not because she was going to marry a man who would make her happy.

"He is a splendid catch," were Mr. Stanton's words on first hearing the news. "He belongs to a fine solid family and you will have entree into the first establishments in America and Europe."

Helene was instinctively repelled by the manner of his congratulations. Not one solitary word was uttered as to love, happiness, or the sacred nature of marriage itself, not a regret at parting with her; nothing but an adding up of the advantages that would accrue to him from a social point of view.

"The Van Nesses and the de Morelles can't refuse to meet us now. We can snap our fingers at them! Bravo, my girl, you have achieved a splendid victory. They can't dig up hidden and dead scandals now."

Helene had never known that the Van Nesses and the de Morelles had refused to meet them. She knew that several of the historic New York families did not make it a point to ask them to their functions, but she had always thought it was because her father was personally unpopular with the more exclusive set. His reference to hidden and dead scandals she did not in the least understand, for she had heard nothing.

"At a moment like this," Helene thought, "if he had only opened his heart, if he would only let me love him!" But no, he had not shown the slightest encouragement, not a particle of sentiment.

"With your husband's people and my money back of you," he said, "you ought to become a leader, nothing less than a leader! I'd give half a million to see you take Julia Van Ness's place."

Helene was disappointed. "Oh, father, please don't speak of those things now! It's not a question of social advantage. It's my whole future happiness; my whole life itself is Involved."

"Do you know, Helene, you are rather selfish in your love affair as I suppose you call it," cried Mr. Stanton angrily. "My ambition is for you, not for myself."

"I have no ambition," said Helene, stifling a tendency to burst into tears, "that is, no social ambition. I love my friends and they love me. Indeed, father, I have no desire to extend my circle of acquaintances; I can't do justice to those I know now! If it is for my sake you are trying to——"

At these words Mr. Stanton completely lost his temper. "Of course it is for your sake, don't you believe me when I say so? Please remember that I am your father, and it is your duty to believe me whether my statement convinces you or not. It is your duty to believe me and to love me!"

"God knows I try hard enough," broke from the girl, and now she too lost control of herself. "I hate myself for saying it, but it's true, father, it's true! I don't seem to love you, not as most girls love their fathers, and I want to, I do so want to! You believe that, don't you, father?"

Mr. Stanton was silent, and Helene went on: "I always feel that there is something between us. I think of myself only as one of your possessions. You were so good, so gentle to mother; why aren't you more kind, more loving to me?"

"Is there anything you want that you do not get?" demanded Mr. Stanton.

"Yes," cried Helene, "there is love, love! I do not get it! Your manner is cold, hard, repellent!"

"How dare you!" shouted her father.

"I repeat it!" cried Helene, now utterly regardless of consequences. "Something in you repels me. I came to you this morning with the news of my engagement of marriage. I came to you with earnest longing to have you take me into your arms and kiss me, to have you congratulate me on my happiness. Instead of this you repelled me with cold calculations as to the effect the marriage would have on your own social position. Oh, father, father! is that the way to sympathise with a girl? I have no mother; you should supply her place. All the luxuries in this palace don't make up to me for the lack of love I find in it."

"Is it my fault that your mother died when you were eight years old?" said Mr. Stanton in a milder tone. The reference to his dead wife had had a softening influence upon him.

"No, no, father; no, no! I can't help thinking of her now, that's all! I need her now, so much. I have no one to go to but you, and—" the girl shook her head helplessly. "I can just remember her, so delicate, so beautiful! She was an angel, wasn't she?"

He nodded assent. "I remember that she was always in tears, always afraid to go out in the streets, afraid to be seen," said Helene somewhat irrelevantly. "You did love her, didn't you? I always feel you did! Why, why can't you love me as you did her? Why am I not as near to you as she was? Your own flesh and blood should be very near and very dear to you; especially at such a time as this."

He regarded her more tenderly. "You are near me," he said and kissed her. "Poor little thing," he muttered to himself. "I suppose I am selfish," he said aloud, "but you'll have my money some day. Surely that should give you a great deal of comfort!"

Helene smiled sadly. Her father seemed incapable of understanding her. She could only shake her head and say, "That's nothing, nothing!"

"You'll find it a great deal, my girl," he said.

That afternoon when her music master came he was astonished to find her pensive and downcast instead of joyful and happy, as he expected. "There has been a lovers' quarrel," he said to himself. "Little missie wanted her way and young master wanted his. It is nothing," he decided, as he opened the music books.

"Have you studied your lesson?" he asked.

"No," replied Helene, without thinking.

"Well, do the best you can," he said. To his utter astonishment she played the whole exercise through without looking at the music, without any effort and without playing a single false note.

To say that Von Barwig was astounded is putting it mildly. He simply gasped for breath.

"Gott in Himmel, Fraeulein! Ach, du lieber Gott! what style, what touch, what progress! Ah," and then it came to him all at once, "your father has come back; you want to show him progress, is it not? You have practised on the sly, eh? Ah—" and he shook his finger reproachfully at her.

Helene looked at him and laughed. "If father was only like you," she thought.

"Yes," she said aloud. "I suppose I wanted to show my father the progress I have made, so I practised on the sly."

"Let us continue," said Von Barwig, who was now very anxious to see what new surprise his pupil was going to give him.

"Have you arranged with Mrs. Cruger about giving her nieces lessons?" asked Helene, carelessly striking a few chords on the piano.

"Not yet," replied Von Barwig, "I am to go next week." Then he added with a little laugh, "The young ladies postpone me as long as possible."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Denning, the under-butler, who informed Miss Stanton that her father wished to see her in the library. Von Barwig saw a downcast expression on Helene's face as she left the room. "Perhaps he does not approve of the marriage, this Mr. Stanton. Well, I do!" he said with emphasis. "I do, and I am determined that she shall marry the man of her choice. He is a splendid fellow, fully worthy of her. If this father interferes, I shall— Let me see, what shall I do?"

Von Barwig laughed at his own foolishness in allowing his thoughts to run on unchecked. Somehow they always led him into a ridiculous position from which he could never extricate himself.

"I shall tell this father," he went on in a more compromising vein of thought, "I shall tell him that his daughter's happiness is at stake, and that he must not allow personal considerations to interfere with that happiness. Then he will have me flung out of his house. No, thank you, Barwig, you will not speak; but none the less that is what I think! Her happiness first, last and all the time. Let me tell you a secret, Mr. Stanton," said Von Barwig mentally. His thoughts rushed him along pell-mell now and he followed them, thoroughly enjoying the mental pictures they brought up. "Let me tell you my secret, Mr. Stanton! She is my daughter as well as yours. I have adopted her. She does not know it, nor do you, but I do! She has taken the place of my own little one and I love her, Mr. Stanton. I love her just as much, aye, even more than you do, sir, and this love gives me the right to speak. You shall not interfere with her happiness! Do you hear me, sir?"

Von Barwig had now lashed himself into a whirlwind of imaginary indignation and was pacing up and down the music room; his thoughts completely engrossing him. They were the only realities in life to him now, these thoughts, and he treasured them as philosophers do the truths of existence. All at once his eye caught a pile of music that lay on the table next to Miss Stanton's dolls' cabinet in the corner of the room opposite the piano. He observed the Beethoven Concerto for pianoforte which had Helene Stanton's name on it, also the C Minor and F Minor concertos of Chopin, besides other compositions for pianoforte of an exceedingly difficult character; all this music was marked with her name and the date.

"There must be some mistake," he thought, as he read the names. "She cannot play these difficult compositions, surely! It may be her mother had played them, but no, they are dated within a year or so of the present day!"

Everything was explained to him now. He was no longer surprised at the unaccountable unevenness of her playing. She had deceived him. "Why, why?" he wondered.

Then it came to him. "Of course! Fool, dolt, idiot! she wanted to benefit you, so she pretends she cannot play and takes lessons she does not need. But why should she wish to befriend you, why?"

Von Barwig was silent a long time. "Why, why?" he kept asking himself and his thoughts could get no further. "Am I dreaming?" He looked around. "Is it all a dream? Do I merely believe these things happen, or are they real? Sometimes these people seem like phantoms of the past; phantoms that come and vanish like the thoughts that give them existence. There seems to be no substance in them. But real or phantom, dreaming or waking, my love for her is real. That is God's truth! I feel it, I know it! I love her, I love her! Of that alone I am certain. That is truth, if nothing else is!"

In the meantime, Helene found her father awaiting her in the library. Mr. Stanton was in very excellent spirits.

"Why did you trouble to come down, my dear child? I intended to come up and see you," he said as she entered the door. "I told Denning to find out if you could receive me; servants are so stupid!"

"Oh, it doesn't matter! I was only taking a music lesson."

"Yes, so Denning said. I didn't know you'd taken up your musical studies again," and then before Helene could reply, he went on:

"Sit down, my dear, I want to ask, no, not ask; I want to make a suggestion. I want you to do something for my sake. The spring has fairly set in; in a few weeks it will be summer, and I may want to go abroad again. Can you arrange to have your marriage take place late in June or early in July?"

"No, father!" replied Helene in a somewhat decided tone. "I am sorry," she added quickly, as she saw an expression of disappointment in his face.

"Why not, may I ask?" inquired her father.

"Because Beverly is engaged in Washington at the State Department. The secretary has promised him an under-secretaryship in one of the European embassies if his work there is satisfactory, and our marriage would interrupt his work."

"Not necessarily," said Mr. Stanton. "Besides he doesn't need any career! He will have plenty of money, and——"

"I don't think all the money in the world would be sufficient to support Beverly Cruger in idleness," responded Helene with some spirit. "The Crugers are not well off, and he refuses to accept anything from his father; and as for living on my income, it's out of the question, father! He insists on earning his own living and working out his own career."

"Well, after all, that shows a good spirit," said Mr. Stanton, "but I really don't see how an early marriage would interfere with his resolutions on that point. He could go on working."

"His income is insufficient just at present," said Helene, "and it will be until next year. The marriage cannot take place till then. I am sorry."

"Some time next winter, eh? That's a long time, Helene; so many things may happen," said Mr. Stanton thoughtfully.

"What could happen?" asked Helene in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know; I'm nervous and apprehensive. I want to see you married and settled," replied her father almost peevishly, as if he didn't want to go into explanations. "I've a curious notion that I want to see you married and settled. It's a—a—my anxiety for you, Helene," added Mr. Stanton, forcing a smile.

"You're very kind," repeated Helene. She did not understand her father in the least. He seemed to be afraid of something, his manner was distinctly apprehensive. She moved slowly toward the door, deep in thought.

"Are you going?" asked Mr. Stanton.

"My music master is waiting for me," replied Helene.

"Your music master? Oh, yes, you said you'd taken up your studies again."

Helene smiled. "You can hardly call it taking up my studies," she said. "Herr Von Barwig just—so to speak—goes over; I hardly know how to describe it. I think he tries to improve my technique."

Was it imagination or had her father turned ashen pale? He looked at her, barely able to speak; he seemed to have received an awful shock and he was gasping for breath. What had happened? There was a pause during which Helene wondered why she had not noticed before how pale and ill her father looked, and how his hands trembled.

"What did you say was his name?" asked Mr. Stanton, barely able to repress the emotion in his voice.

"Professor Von Barwig. Oh, he's not known here as well as he was in Germany! What's the matter, father?" she cried out as the man almost tottered into his chair. "Father, father! what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing; what should be the matter? I—these attacks come periodically now. A little heart trouble—it will soon pass away. Ring for Joles!"

She obeyed him instantly.

"Good God, good God! Is it possible? Right under my own roof!" muttered Stanton, "and with her! Oh, God!"

"I rang for him, father," said Helene, looking at him anxiously.

"It's Ditson I want to see. Ditson, Ditson! not Joles." Then he added quickly, "No, I don't want to see any one! I'm better now; these attacks pass away quickly. Sit down, my dear child; I want to talk to you. What were you saying?" he asked, anxious to hear and yet not wishing to arouse her suspicion as to the cause of his anxiety.

"Nothing of any importance, father."

"Yes, yes; I insist! Go right on with our conversation where we left off. You were speaking of your—your—musical professor, Anton Von Barwig." Mr. Stanton had almost completely recovered himself now.

"How did you know his first name, father?"

"You mentioned it, you must have done so," said Mr. Stanton quickly. "Yes, I remember you did! When you first mentioned his name, you called him Anton. And he is upstairs," added her father with a curious laugh, "in this house."

Helene thought his manner most strange. He was regarding her now with a curious, searching gaze. "He can have told her nothing," he muttered, "he must be as ignorant of the truth as she is. Good God, what a coincidence!"

Joles came and Ditson was sent for. When the confidential secretary arrived, Mr. Stanton and he went into the private study. Helene followed them.

"Will you need me any more, father?" she asked anxiously.

"No, no!" replied Mr. Stanton.

Helene went out and closed the door. As she reached the stairway she heard the key turn in the lock. "Why does he lock himself in?" she thought. When Helene returned to the music room she found her music master waiting patiently for her.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting!" she said.

"There is great pleasure even in waiting for those we love; we love to teach, I should say," he added quickly.

Inwardly Helene found herself contrasting her father with this man. "If only he had the tenderness, the lovable qualities of this old musician," she thought, "how I could love him!" As he was taking his leave, her eye caught the music on top of the cabinet and in a moment she saw it had been disturbed. She looked quickly at Von Barwig, but he gave no sign that he knew of its existence.

"I hope some day to be able to play those compositions for you," she said, pointing to them.

"Yes," replied Von Barwig with a smile. "I hope so."

"I'll surprise you some day," she added.

"Yes," said Von Barwig simply, and he determined to allow her to surprise him. "Good-bye!" he said, bowing. She held out her hand.

"Good-bye!" she replied almost tenderly.

"To-morrow at the same time?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, of course."

Von Barwig breathed a sigh of relief. "She is not angry," he thought. "And it will very soon be to-morrow!"



Chapter Twenty

As Von Barwig walked down Fifth Avenue on his way home to his lodgings in Houston Street he could not help contrasting his present happy existence with the miserably hopeless state in which he had found himself on his first arrival in New York. "And it is to her, Miss Stanton, that I owe all this blessedness. I am a changed man," he said to himself, almost gaily, "I live, I enjoy, for to-morrow I shall see her again. To live that one hour of restful blessedness," he thought, "is well worth the bare existence of the other twenty-three." His friends felt the change, too. They all knew that something had happened, that something had entered the life of the old professor and changed it, but not one of them attempted to pry into his secret.

"Ma foi," said Pinac, "he shall tell himself if he wants to. If not, he shall not!"

Fico's reply was characteristic of that Italian's sunny disposition, and it inverted a familiar saying.

"What the hell we care, so long as he is happy," he said.

Poons loved Von Barwig as a son, but the best of sons are self-centred when they are in love; and Poons saw nothing.

Jenny was silent, she felt that she had lost her dear professor, but with that spirit of sacrifice of which woman alone is capable, she resigned her place in his heart to another. Be it said to her credit there was not a jealous pang, not a moment of envy, nothing but mournful regret and sweet resignation to the inevitable. As a mother gives her son to another woman in marriage, so did Jenny give up Von Barwig; to whom she knew not, nor did she seek to know.

His secret was sacred to all his friends, all, save one, and this solitary exception led to a slight change in the Houston Street establishment. It came about as follows:

"When a man comes home with orchids pinned to his coat," confided Mrs. Mangenborn to her friend Miss Husted, "it looks as if it was only a question of time when he would move uptown into more elegant apartments. Orchids in winter only goes with blue diamonds and yellowbacks!"

Miss Husted shook her head. "Move upstairs more likely than uptown," replied that lady regretfully. "Why, the poor old gentleman don't even get enough to eat. You mark my word for it, some day he's going to keel over! Only yesterday morning I had to beg him almost on my bended knees to join us at dinner and then he only came in to oblige me. He ate scarcely anything, poor dear!"

"Does he pay regularly?" inquired Mrs. Mangenborn, with a lack of sympathy noted by her friend.

"As regularly as clockwork," snapped Miss Husted. "Half price, but how long will he be able to pay even that? Only three pupils, and only one of them pays him in cash. Oh, how people round here have changed since I first came here; how much they do expect for their money nowadays!"

"He's out every afternoon, regularly. He's out evenings with his fiddle; home at four in the morning, he doesn't do that for nothing. I don't think he tells all he knows," concluded Mrs. Mangenborn with a significant wink of the eye, which brought her fat cheek very close to her eyebrow.

"Well," said Miss Husted with a sigh, "of course it's no business of mine where he goes and what he does, but—whatever it is, it's all right! That you can depend on, it is all right."

This was intended to be a rebuke to Mrs. Mangenborn, but it was entirely lost on that lady, for with the very next breath she said bluntly: "Why don't you ask him?"

Miss Husted set her lips firmly together, and this movement might have warned a less obtuse person.

"Why don't you ask him?" repeated Mrs. Mangenborn.

"Because," replied Miss Husted, with more temper than she had ever exhibited before to her friend, "because, Mrs. Mangenborn, it's none of my business!"

There was a slight pause.

"Not wishing to give you a short answer, my dear," supplemented Miss Husted, sorry that she had been compelled to take extreme measures to stay her friend's curiosity.

To her utter surprise Mrs. Mangenborn still persisted.

"Well, it is your business, in a sense," went on that lady. "This is your house, and it is your duty to see that it is conducted respectably!"

"Respectably? Am I to understand, Mrs. Mangenborn, that you intend to convey a hint that my house is not conducted respectably?" demanded Miss Husted. Her back at this moment could not have been straighter had she been leaning against the wall.

"Why, no!" assented Mrs. Mangenborn, who saw that she had gone a little too far. "I merely said that it was your duty, and so it is! People should always do their duty," she added somewhat vaguely.

"I trust I know my duty, Mrs. Mangenborn," said Miss Husted severely, "nor do I require to be put in the path of my duty by anybody, be it he, or be it she, be it transient, or be it permanent."

This was a direct shot and Mrs. Mangenborn gave signs that it had gone home; for she arose. "I am very sorry," she said with heavy-weight dignity, "I am very sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for, only this, Mrs. Mangenborn! I'd like it to be thoroughly understood that no person in this living world can besmirch the character of Professor Von Barwig without besmirching me," and Miss Husted folded her arms somewhat defiantly.

"Oh, Miss Husted, Miss Husted, how can you say such a thing! Did I besmirch even a particle of his character? Just prove your words, please; did I, did I?"

Mrs. Mangenborn now came slightly closer to Miss Husted and for a moment it looked as though there would be a personal altercation between the two ladies.

"You said that his hours were not respectable hours, and that he didn't tell all he knew, and—and—oh, I can't remember all you said, Mrs. Mangenborn, nor does it matter in the least! Pray, why should he tell all he knows? It's no lady's business—what he knows! For that matter, do you tell all you know? No," went on Miss Husted, now thoroughly aroused, "but you tell a great many things that you don't know! Not one of your fortunes has come true, lately, not one!"

The cards had toppled over, there were no more fortunes in them, and Mrs. Mangenborn saw that her reign had come to an end.

"I do not care to discuss the question any further," she said loftily, and giving a wide sweep to her skirts she added somewhat grandiloquently:

"Kindly send my bill to my room, and please consider yourself at perfect liberty to dispose of it to some one else."

"With great pleasure, Mrs. Mangenborn," replied Miss Husted, "with very great pleasure! And I may add I was going to ask you for your room this very evening."

Mrs. Mangenborn's only answer was a loud and prolonged laugh, which she kept up all the way to her room and which only ceased when she had shut her door with a loud bang.

"Good riddance!" thought Miss Husted, "a very good riddance!"

Thus the friendship of years was sundered.



At this precise moment the innocent object of their strife let himself in at the front door.

"Ah, my dear Professor Von Barwig, I was just thinking of you," said Miss Husted, as she followed him into his rooms. "I've got rid of her at last; Mrs. Mangenborn is going."

Von Barwig smiled. "Is she?" he said simply, "I am glad for your sake. Now you will be mistress of your own establishment."

"I was always mistress of my own establishment, professor," replied Miss Husted with dignity. "Always."

"Except sometimes when the cards would direct the policy of the house," said Von Barwig. "Whenever there is a superstition, dear lady," he went on, "there is no freedom! We become slaves of our own beliefs."

"Well, I'm glad she's going, anyway," said Miss Husted, not quite comprehending, but not wishing to dispute with Von Barwig. "Why, professor!" and Miss Husted started. She had just noticed that his clothes and books were packed into bundles, as if ready to be carried away. "Professor, professor!" she gasped, "what is the meaning of that?" and she pointed to a big stack of music tied up, "and that, and that, and that," pointing to various articles.

"It means, dear lady, that I'm going to move," said Von Barwig complacently.

"Move!" almost shrieked Miss Husted.

"Yes, as the top floor will not come down to me, I shall move up to the top floor. You see I am nearly all ready. Pinac and Fico will help me; and up I shall go! It is one way of getting up in the world, eh, Miss Husted?" he said with a little laugh, and he looked at her as if he expected her to laugh, too, but she did not join in his merriment.

"There's no room upstairs," she said at last, as if determined he should not go.

"Oh, yes, in the hallway; a nice little room, large enough for my wants."

"But that is a storeroom," cried Miss Husted.

"When I occupy it, it will be a bedroom," laughed Von Barwig, "and just think," he added, "I shall be nearer my friends! They can visit me without running up and down stairs. I shall have additional advantages, at a less rental."

Miss Husted looked at him sorrowfully. She knew it was useless to argue with him, so she gave her consent, but insisted on taking a very small sum for her room. And so Von Barwig moved from the ground floor to the attic. This floor with its huge atelier window on the roof and its stair running down at the back had been used by an artist on account of the splendid light. Although a hallway, it was fitted up as a room. There was a stove, a sink, a large cupboard, and other conveniences for light housekeeping. There were four bedroom doors opening into this hallway, three of which were occupied by Pinac, Fico and Poons, and the fourth Von Barwig took possession of. They all begged him to take their rooms, but he shook his head and smiled and they knew it was useless to ask him, so the skylight musketeers, as they called themselves, had complete possession of the hall, which served them as a common parlour.

It was roomy and airy in the summer, but draughty and cold in the winter; as it was now warm weather, Von Barwig and his friends did not suffer any inconvenience at this time. The men did not see much of each other in these days. Pinac and Fico had secured engagements on an excursion steamboat that plied its way to Coney Island and back. They were away all day, and when they came back late at night Von Barwig was at the Museum. He saw more of Poons than he did of the others, for that young man had no regular engagement, but played now and then as substitute in one of the downtown theatre orchestras, so he just about managed to eke out an existence on a cash basis, and the three older men were as proud of this fact as if he were their own son. Von Barwig was strangely happy; he took no interest whatever in his physical existence. His immediate surroundings, the people he saw, the food he ate, made no mental impression upon him. Life was a mechanical process, a routine existence to him till midday, when he would, to quote his own words, "begin to live," that is, he would start uptown on his walk to Fifty-seventh Street. Rain or shine he would not ride, for the motion of riding on the bumpy stages interfered with the flow of his thoughts. "Now begins my day," he would say to himself as he started on his journey to his pupil's house, some four or five miles from Miss Husted's establishment. The old man was happy; happy in going, happy when there, happy when thinking that the next day he would see her again. So when, for the third successive time, in as many days, Joles informed him that Miss Stanton was not at home, Von Barwig experienced a feeling of disappointment accompanied by a sense of fear.

"She—Miss Stanton is well?" faltered he to the dignified Mr. Joles, who was regarding him with a haughty expression, not unaccompanied with disdain.

"I beg your pardon!" said Joles in anything but an apologetic manner.

"Miss Stanton is well?" repeated Von Barwig.

"Oh, yes," replied Joles. "Indeed, yes." His answer intended to convey to Von Barwig that such a question was entirely unnecessary, not to say uncalled for.

"It's very strange," Von Barwig mused as he walked home. "She always writes me a little note or leaves a message for me with one of the servants, letting me know when to come for the next lesson."

Then he tried to assure himself that it was all right, that in the stress of her social obligations she had forgotten.

"It's all right, Barwig, you make yourself miserable for nothing. You expect too much. She is a petted, pampered, feted young lady of fortune, the daughter of a Croesus; do you think she can always think of you? Who are you that she should spare you so much time? You overrate yourself; you—you idiot." People stopped in the streets to look at the old man, who was walking so rapidly and gesticulating so excitedly. When Von Barwig saw that he was observed, he calmed down. "It's all right," he said. "To-morrow! I shall see her to-morrow!"

That evening at the Museum the night professor was strangely inattentive. So deeply was he engrossed in his own thoughts that he entirely forgot to play when Bosco was announced. He was rewarded by that young lady with a look that was intended to annihilate him on the spot, but the professor did not happen to be looking that way. "She will be there to-morrow, or she will leave a message," he was saying to himself.

"Bites their heads off; bites their heads off! Holy gee! Don't you hear, profess'? It's her cue," came in thundering tones from the throat of Mr. Al Costello. "What the hell's the matter, profess'? Eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" he bawled, glaring at Von Barwig, and then the night professor "found himself."

"Oh, my gracious," he thought as he banged on the piano—the chords intended to depict musically the armless wonder's cannibalistic proclivities. Bosco not only bit their heads off, she bit her lips with vexation. It was too late; not a hand applauded when she came on and the fat lady laughed aloud and fanned herself vigorously. She hated Miss Bosco, who, being a headliner, had lorded it over the rest of the unfortunate freaks in a manner deeply resented by them; so the fat lady was glad to see Bosco's act fall down. The skeleton looked wise and tapped his bony forehead with his bony fingers.

"Dippy," he articulated. "All musicians are dippy," he added.

The midgets looked serious, for they loved the professor. Tears started in the little lady's eyes; she expected a storm, for she was terribly afraid of Bosco.

"I do hope that Mr. Costello won't haul him over the coals," said the albino to the tattooed girl. "He's such a nice old guy!"

After the show Mr. Costello listened to Von Barwig's apology in silence, and silence meant a great deal of self-restraint for him.

"It's all right if she don't raise a holler," he said, taking his diamond ring off his necktie and placing it on his finger for the night. "But you must keep awake, see? It looks like blazes to see the profess' asleep! It not only sets the audience a bad example, but it looks as if we was givin' a bum show." Then he added warningly, "We had one profess' last year who went to sleep on us regular, and snored so that we used his noise instead of the snare drums. Well, we left him sound asleep after the show one night and turned the lights off. When he woke up he thought the wax figures was ghosts, and he threw a fit right on the piano. Holy Mackerel! It took nearly two quarts of whiskey to get him right for the next show; so don't do it again, profess'," he ended solemnly.

Von Barwig promised that he would not—but he made up his mind that just as soon as terms for teaching Mrs. Cruger's nieces were arranged, he would at once give Mr. Costello notice of his determination to resign from the night professorship at the Museum. This thought contributed in no small degree to his peace of mind, for he had begun to loathe the very thought of this place.

When Von Barwig arrived home he found a letter on the hall table. He went up to his little room, lit the candle, sat down on his bed and read the following:

"Mrs. Cruger presents her compliments to Herr Von Barwig, and regrets to inform him that unexpected circumstances have arisen which will obviate the necessity of his calling upon her in regard to her nieces' studies."

"Very well," he said to himself, as he folded up the letter. "I shall have more time to think of her," and he went to bed and slept peacefully.

A week elapsed. Each day he had patiently gone uptown to Miss Stanton's house. He had started out full of hope and returned home in despair. On each occasion he had been informed by Mr. Joles that Miss Stanton was out, that she had left no message for him, and that he did not know when she would return. Finally he wrote to her and waited patiently for an answer; but there was no word. The old man's hope of seeing her again gradually grew smaller and smaller until at last the old feeling of dull despair, the old gnawing pain of unsatisfied affection came back to him again. "I am doomed," he thought; "doomed to live my life alone!" He would sit for hours and hours and try to think out why she did not see him, why she did not answer his letter. Was she away? If so, why did she not let him know? Had she found out that he played in a Bowery museum? Or did she suspect that he knew that she did not need lessons? If so, was that sufficient cause for her neglect? No, he could not reason it out on those lines! Why did Mrs. Cruger send him a note dismissing him after practically promising to engage him as music master to her nieces? Did Mrs. Cruger dismiss him at all, or had circumstances arisen that obviated the necessity of engaging him? Was it merely a coincidence that she should dismiss him at the same time that Helene avoided seeing him? Were these two conditions in any way connected with each other? Was Helene really trying to avoid him? Had she received his letter? Did she really know? This last question gave him much comfort and he persistently dwelt on that phase of the situation. To believe that she knew; it was inconceivable to him. She would surely have written. "Did I address the letters properly? Did I put stamps on?" he asked himself. "There is a mistake somewhere," he concluded; "a mistake that time will surely adjust."

The next day, after going through the usual performance of asking for Miss Stanton and being informed by Mr. Joles of the young lady's absence, Von Barwig ventured to extend the field of his inquiry.

"Is Mr. Stanton in?" he asked in a low voice, scarcely knowing why he should ask for her father, or what he should say if he was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with him.

"Mr. Stanton!" repeated Mr. Joles, almost horrified at the idea of Von Barwig's asking for his master.

"Mr. Stanton?" he repeated. "Have you an appointment with him?"

Von Barwig admitted that he had not.

"Mr. Stanton sees no one without an appointment," said Mr. Joles, slowly recovering from the shock Von Barwig had given him. "Besides which, he is at present at Bar Harbour."

"Are you sure there is no message for me?" pleaded Von Barwig.

"Quite sure," responded Mr. Joles.

"But there must be," pleaded the old man. He was desperate now. "Did she get my note?"

"My advice is for you to go home and wait till Miss Stanton signifies that your presence is required. That's the best thing to do—really." Mr. Joles volunteered this advice, which contained little comfort, but Von Barwig's lip quivered and he nodded his head thankfully. Even the advice to go away and stay away contained more hope than the cold stolid stone-wall indifference he had encountered day after day from Mr. Joles.

"Thank you, Mr. Joles! I will, I will," and Von Barwig plodded his way wearily back to Houston Street. For one whole week he did not go near the Stanton house. He contented himself with hoping. He would sit in his little room and rush out every time he heard the letter-carrier's whistle, but no letter came. One day, when he could no longer restrain himself, he carefully brushed his clothes and prepared to walk uptown again.

"She must be in, she must be in; and she will see me. This time I know she will see me; I am sure of it; sure of it," he kept repeating to himself. "She can't be so cruel!"

He found himself looking into a florist's window and started with a cry of joy.

"That's a good omen, a very good omen! You're all right, Barwig; she will see you."

He had recognised the florist in Union Square that he had bought the violets he presented her with on the day he first called upon her. He went in and bought a bunch of violets.

"We begin all over again," he said to himself. "We forget all this weary waiting, all this stupid fear. Now, Miss Helene, we are prepared for our lesson," he said, as he took the box of flowers and walked uptown with renewed hope. His heart beat very rapidly as he walked up the steps.

"Courage, Barwig," he said to himself; "the tide turns I You will see!"

He rang the bell. There was no answer. Several times he repeated this action; each time he waited several minutes. Finally he rang the bell, and added to it a loud knock. His persistence was rewarded, for Mr. Joles came to the door. He did not wait for Von Barwig to speak, as he usually did, but proceeded to inform the old man that his actions were "simply disgraceful."

"Miss Stanton is not in and what's more she is not liable to be in," he said severely. "Some people cannot take a hint! If Miss Stanton wanted to see you, Miss Stanton would have sent for you," added Mr. Joles, and his manner was quite ruffled. He took it as a personal offence that Mr. Von Barwig should so persist in calling at a house where it was evident he was not wanted.

Von Barwig was speechless; he could make no reply. Insulted, turned away, humiliated by her servants! She must know, he felt sure she knew now and his degradation was complete. The old man turned to go now desiring only to get away, somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide his head, where he could hide his grief from the world. Joles shut the door with a bang. He evidently intended that the music master's dismissal should be final. That door bang put a new idea into Von Barwig's bewildered brain.

"That does not come from her," he cried, "she does not insult, she does not lacerate the heart, she would not purposely humiliate me. No, this last degradation could emanate only from one who has the soul of a servant. This is revenge! He hates me, but why? Good God! Why? I've done nothing to him," and the old man groaned aloud in his misery. "I'll wait and see, perhaps she is at Bar Harbour with her father. How do I know? How do I know?"

After this, Von Barwig did something that he had never done before in his whole life; he hid himself in the shadow of the opposite corner, and watched. "It is a mean action," he said to himself, "but she will forgive, she will forgive!"

For hours he stood there watching and waiting, and the time slipped by almost without his being conscious of it, until the shadows of night began to fall. Once a policeman, seeing him crouched in the corner, stopped and looked at him.

"What are you doing there?" he asked.

Von Barwig turned his pale, tear-stained countenance and looked at the officer; then a gentle smile crept over his face.

"I am waiting," he said simply.

There was such utter pathos in the old man's voice, such gentle dignity in his manner, such a pleading look in his eyes that it seemed to satisfy the guardian of the law, for he walked on without uttering another word.

Von Barwig's weary vigil soon came to an end. A pair of horses and a carriage drove up to the Stanton mansion and stopped at its doors. Von Barwig instantly recognised the Stanton livery, but the carriage was empty.

"It is waiting for some one," he muttered to himself. "Courage, courage! We shall soon see!"

It was now nearly dark, and he could approach nearer to the house without fear of being seen. The carriage stood there quite a time, during which the horses pawed the ground impatiently.

"Patience, patience," said Von Barwig to himself. "You soon see."

His patience was rewarded, for the door opened, and Helene Stanton issued forth, clad in a handsome evening costume. To Von Barwig's fevered mind, she looked more radiantly beautiful, more tranquilly happy than he had ever before seen her. She walked rapidly down the brown stone steps, stepped quickly into the carriage and was whirled away before Von Barwig could realise what had happened. The old man could have shrieked aloud in his agony.

"She knows, she knows, she knows!" he kept saying to himself, as he groped his way toward home. He was dazed, benumbed. The many figures coming and going, this way and that way, seemed like a spectral vision to him. How he got as far as Union Square he never knew, but the first place he recognised was the open square. A large piano organ was playing and quite a number of people were grouped around it. This music recalled him to himself.

"I know the worst now; the sword of hope no longer hangs over my head. At least my suspense is over," he said, "thank God it is over!"

He now realised what had happened.

"No more waiting and watching for the word that never comes!" he thought. "My dream is over! I am awake again, I will think no more of it."

He was walking across the square now. The evening was warm and sultry and all the benches were crowded with people except one on which a woman was seated holding a babe that was crying.

"Either people do not want to disturb her, or they do not want to be disturbed by the crying infant," thought Von Barwig, mechanically taking in the situation. He was now acutely conscious of things going on around him.

"What is the matter with that baby?" he wondered. He stooped and looked at the infant. It was crying piteously, so he looked at the woman and was struck by the fact that she was taking no notice of her child. She seemed to be absolutely unconscious of the fact that it was crying.

"How strange!" thought Von Barwig.

She was a young, girlish woman with rather attractive features, but pale and wan. Von Barwig could not help noticing the look of abject despair on her face. The child cried on, but she seemed oblivious of the fact.

"Can she hear it?" he asked himself. "Is she the mother and yet allows the babe to suffer without trying to help it?" Von Barwig's interest was aroused and he determined to speak to her.

"I beg your pardon," he said gently to the girl. "Can I not do something for you?"

She turned to him and shook her head.

"Can I do something for the child? It—it suffers."

"Yes," responded the girl in a hoarse voice. "I suppose it does—it's hungry!"

Instinctively Von Barwig put his hand in his pocket, but the girl shook her head.

"Not that, not that!" she said quickly. "I have enough to eat, but—" She looked at him more closely, looked into his eyes, and felt rather than saw that it was not mere idle curiosity that was prompting his question.

"It's very kind of you to take an interest in a stranger. I'm feeding the child myself," she said after a pause; "but I can't now, I can't!" The girl tried hard to keep back her tears. "It would poison her if I did! I dare not until I feel different. I'm full of hate and misery and hell, and I dare not feed it to the child. Mother's milk is poison when the mother feels as I do!" she cried, striking her breast in her misery.

The old man took her hand. "Don't, please don't," he said gently; "unless you want the child to die. Compose yourself, my dear girl, and tell me what has happened. I'm a stranger to you, yes, but misery brings us together and makes us old friends." He seated himself beside her. "Tell me; I am old enough to be your father! You have none, eh?"

"Yes," said the girl, "I have, but—" she broke off suddenly. Then she said, "My husband has left me, and the child not eight weeks old. Isn't that hard luck? Left me—for another! Oh, I know it's an old story, but it's new enough to me. God knows it's new enough to me!"

Von Barwig comforted her as well as he could, and when the girl quieted down she told him her story. It was conventional enough. She had run away from home and married a young fellow she met in a Harlem dance hall. She knew nothing of his people or of his early life. She simply married him, and now he had deserted her after the arrival of her child. There was nothing uncommon or strange either in her story or her way of telling it. Von Barwig had heard such stories hundreds of times, but to him the pathos of the situation lay in the inability of the young mother to feed the crying child owing to her distracted mental condition. Further, the fact that she was sufficiently acquainted with the laws of physiology to realise this truth showed Von Barwig that the girl had received a better education than most of her class.

"Have you money?" he asked her.

"A little," the girl replied listlessly. "Oh, God, if the child would only stop crying," she said as she kissed and fondled the babe. Then she sighed. "I feel better now," she said, "much better. Perhaps in a little while I shall be myself again." Von Barwig handed her a five dollar bill.

"You will buy the little fellow something with the compliments of a stranger. What do you call him?" he said quickly, for he saw that his generous action had brought tears to the girl's eyes and he wanted to prevent her crying. "He's a fine little chap," he added.

"It's a girl," she said, the ghost of a smile coming into her face. "Her name is Annie. I'll take this for her sake. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"A little girl," he said in his low, gentle voice; "a little girl! I had a little girl once," and he stifled the sob that came into his throat. The girl heard this sob and squeezed his hand gently in sympathy.

"Let me tell you a story, my child, it may help you to bear the burden of life, as your story has helped me!"

Von Barwig reseated himself by the girl's side and recounted to her the whole story of his miserable unhappy existence from beginning to end. This stranger was the only one to whom he had ever told it all. The girl was intensely interested, and it had the desired effect of taking her thoughts off her own misery. When Von Barwig took his leave of her an hour or so later, the colour had come into her waxen cheeks and she was quietly nursing her baby.

"I have been asleep," he said to himself, "but I am awake now. Life is all about me; I must not be blind to it again!"

As Von Barwig turned the corner of Houston Street and the Bowery, he glanced at the clock in the watchmaker's on the corner. It was eleven o'clock. He did not go to the Museum that night.

"Are you quite sure there is no letter for me, Joles?" Helene asked anxiously, as she came in late that night.

"Quite sure, miss."

Helene thought a moment. "It's very strange," she said. "I've written to him so many times."

Joles's face expressed nothing. Helene shook her f head slowly and walked upstairs. Before she went to bed that night she sent the following note:

"MY DEAREST BEVERLY: Come to-morrow morning and take me to lunch. I want you to do a little diplomatic work for me.

"Your loving

"HELENE."



Chapter Twenty-one

Von Barwig now firmly made up his mind that it would never be his good fortune to see his beloved pupil again. "She has gone out of my life as suddenly as she came into it," he said with a deep sigh.

To a man of his mental activity the loss of almost the sole object of his thoughts created an aching void, and yet so hopeful was he in spite of the constant repetition of blasted hopes and unfilled desire that two or three days after the occurrences just narrated he had resolved on a new plan of action.

"Poons and Jenny shall marry at once," said he as he arose that morning and dressed himself to go to the rehearsal of a new songstress at the Museum.

"The son of your old friend and the niece of your good landlady shall mark a new epoch for you, Barwig. You overrated yourself, you loved the daughter of millions, you lived beyond your means, my friend. Now it is time you lived within your income," he said, looking at himself in the glass, as he combed his grey hair. "Love Jenny and Poons; poor little neglected ones, you had forgotten their existence! No more extravagances, no more reaching for the impossible! Here down in Houston Street is your life! It is your own, live it! Don't go after the fleshpots of Fifth Avenue, don't cheapen yourself that servants and lackeys may insult and deride you."

Yet ever as he spoke, a mental image of his beloved pupil came before him, and his heart sank as he thought that he should never see her again.

"Why has a mere thought, a stray idea the power to make us so unhappy?" he asked himself. This question was still unanswered when there came into his mind the memory of the unfortunate young woman he had met on Union Square a few nights before. Her misery, her agony of mind, the crying babe, all came before him in a flash. "My God, when I think of her, I am ashamed of myself! Here I howl and tear my hair and rail at fortune because I lose something that I never had; she was never mine—this girl of millions—I had no right to her. But the sufferings of that poor child-wife are real, deep, heartrending; and there are thousands of others like her in this world. Get up, sluggard, get up! Go out and comfort them; go out into the world and mend broken hearts. It is your trade! You have qualified, for your own is battered to pieces."

This idea gave him peace of mind for a short time, but presently his thoughts ran into the old groove. Try as he would he could not direct them away from the line of easiest mental resistance.

"If I could only see her once again," he thought, "perhaps I could explain away the cause of our separation. Perhaps I—" and he started up suddenly, the idea sweeping him off his feet. "By God, I make one more effort; just one more effort! And if that fails, I give it up; it shall be the last! This time I swear it shall be the last. Yes, I go, I demand an interview. It is my right." He was as full of hope now as he had ever been. As a gambler eagerly stakes his last bet, so Von Barwig hastened to finish dressing and go to her, to make his one last appeal.

As he brushed his coat hurriedly, there came a knock at the door. "Come in," said Von Barwig rather impatiently, thinking that it was Poons. He did not feel in the mood just at that moment for casual conversation. "Come in," he repeated in a louder voice, and to his utter amazement in walked Beverly Cruger.

Von Barwig could only stare at him in speechless astonishment. He was literally dumfounded. Young Cruger evidently saw this, for he seized Von Barwig's hand and shook it warmly.

"How do you do, Herr Von Barwig?" he said.

"Thank you, well! Sit down," the old man managed to gasp out, as he pointed to a chair. "You come from her, from Miss Stanton?" he articulated in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the younger man.

"Yes," said Beverly, taking off his gloves and placing them on the table. "I want to have a little talk with you. May I?"

Von Barwig did not answer his question.

"Did—she—did she send you?" he asked. His eyes glistened; his very life seemed to depend on the answer.

Beverly nodded. "Yes, she wanted me to ask you a few questions. Are you sure you have the time to spare?"

Von Barwig laughed from sheer joy. Time! to some one who came from her! He could only nod in acquiescence and wait for the young man to speak.

"How many letters have you received from Miss Stanton?" asked Beverly.

Von Barwig looked at him. "Not any," he replied, shaking his head sadly.

Beverly made no comment, but he made a mental note. It was not his intention at that moment at least to acquaint Herr Von Barwig with all that had passed between Helene and himself as to the letters that had failed to reach their destination.

"Didn't receive one, eh?"

"No, not one," said Von Barwig, in a low voice. "Has she written?" he asked falteringly.

Beverly made no reply, but thought a moment.

"How many letters have you sent Miss Stanton?" he asked.

Von Barwig hesitated. "Perhaps—perhaps some five or six," he said apologetically.

"Hum!" commented Beverly, "five or six, eh? How many times have you called during, say, the past month?"

Von Barwig shook his head; he could not remember. "Perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty times."

"And she was always out?" queried Beverly.

"Yes," said Von Barwig sorrowfully, "always!"

"Whom did you see?"

"Mr. Joles," came the ready reply.

"Every time you called?"

"Yes, I—I think so!"

Beverly Cruger looked at Von Barwig a few moments and knitted his brows thoughtfully. "It's damn queer," he said, after a pause.

"Has she written any letter to me? It did not reach me, that I am sure," began the old man.

"That's all right. Now let me give you Miss Stanton's message! She would like you to be at her home at four o'clock this afternoon. Can you manage it?"

Von Barwig did not trust himself to reply. He could only nod his head affirmatively.

"I'm glad I came up; awfully glad!"

Beverly arose from his seat and held out his hand to Von Barwig.

"Good-bye! Be on time, won't you?" he said.

Von Barwig smiled. "Yes, I'll be on time," he said joyfully.

The look in the old man's face went to Beverly Cruger's heart and he showed his sympathy as he shook hands with him again. He hurriedly passed through the group of children who had gathered to look at the not too familiar spectacle of a hansom cab waiting at the door of Miss Husted's establishment.

Von Barwig will always remember how wearily the hours dragged along until the time of his appointment uptown came. Finally they did pass, and though it lacked several minutes of the hour of four, Von Barwig walked up the stone steps of Mr. Henry Stanton's house on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.

There was no change in the expression of Mr. Joles's face to denote that he had received imperative instructions from Miss Stanton to admit Herr Von Barwig the moment he called. Nor did Mr. Joles appear to think it at all curious that young Mr. Cruger should happen to be in the hallway just as the music master came in at the door. His face displayed no emotion whatever when that young gentleman came forward and led the old man upstairs to Miss Stanton's room. Neither Mr. Cruger nor the music master saw the pale face of Mr. Stanton's secretary, Ditson, peering over the staircase at them. But a moment later a telegram was sent to Mr. Stanton, telling him that there was an urgent necessity for him to come home at once. Curiously enough at about the same time Mr. Stanton received this telegram, he also received a letter from his daughter begging him to come home as soon as he could, as her mail had been tampered with and she strongly suspected Joles of acting in a most deceitful manner for reasons she could not fathom. It was because she expected her father that she acted under Beverly's advice and did not mention the subject to Joles, nor even to Herr Von Barwig until her father had instituted an inquiry.

The meeting between Von Barwig and his pupil was marked by no special display of emotion or even more than ordinary interest; for Von Barwig had steeled himself for the occasion. They greeted each other cordially, but it was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to conceal his delight at seeing her once more. Again occurred the formal presentation of the little bunch of violets; again the casual remarks about the weather.

"You are not angry?" asked Helene tenderly.

Von Barwig dared not reply; he could only smile and look at her in silence. After a pause he ventured to say:

"I have offended Mr. Joles's feelings. I am sorry!" Helene held up a warning finger, indicating her desire to keep silence on that subject, at least for the present.

"Later on!" she said. "I intend to take up the subject with my father when he returns."

Von Barwig watched himself closely. He was determined to make no more mistakes, nor to yield to any temptation to give way to his feelings in the slightest degree.

"You have practised since I—during my absence?" he asked, assuming a sternness he by no means felt, and that she saw through at once.

"Yes, maestro," she replied meekly. "I have practised every day. I've really made great progress, caro maestro!" and she laughed softly.

"We shall see," said Von Barwig, with a critical frown on his face. He was a little self-conscious. He knew his own weakness, his temptation to become sentimental, and he had to watch himself continually to prevent his emotional nature from getting uppermost. This self-restraint made him slightly ill at ease, and Helene noticed it.

"You are strangely quiet this afternoon," she said. "I should have thought you would have had a great deal to tell me." Von Barwig merely looked at her.

"Come," said he, "we must get to work!"

"You did not receive a single line from me?" she asked as they neared the end of the lesson. "What must you have thought?"

"What right have I to think?" replied Von Barwig. "I am only a teacher! There are so many. I thought perhaps you had replaced me."

"Don't talk like that, please," said Helene quickly, and shutting the piano up with a bang, she arose. "You know that I esteem you very highly," and she stopped suddenly. "I am going to find out all about these stolen letters and father will punish the culprit. He is very strict in these matters; he always punishes the guilty."

"But it is over and done now, so why punish any one?" began Von Barwig. Helene shook her head.

"It hasn't begun yet," she said, ringing the bell. Denning answered it. "Send Joles please," she said.

Denning bowed and a little later Joles appeared.

"Herr Von Barwig, my music master, will be here at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You will please admit him at once."

"Yes, madam," and Joles bowed his head rather lower than usual.

Von Barwig took leave of his pupil, appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, but merely bowing to her as he said good-bye. Joles opened the front door for him and Von Barwig looked at him pityingly. His triumph over the servant was so complete that he felt sorry for him.

"Perhaps you did not mean to keep back the letters," said Von Barwig to him in a low, sympathetic voice.

Joles looked at him in blank astonishment.

"You have perhaps a family to support," went on Von Barwig. "I will ask Mr. Stanton to forgive you."

"Sir!" said Mr. Joles, with some slight show of indignation, "I do not understand you."

Von Barwig looked at the man a moment, and seeing that it was useless to discuss the matter with him he walked slowly down the stone steps, wondering what it all meant.

On the following morning Mr. Stanton arrived home. He appeared to be in very high spirits. Helene could not remember when her father had been so light-hearted and gay. She wanted to tell him about the suppression of her letters, of Joles's contempt for her orders, and his lies about Von Barwig, but these were matters that evidently did not interest Mr. Stanton, for he paid very little attention to her complaints.

"It is your birthday," he said, "let no unpleasant features mar the day! See, I have not forgotten!" and Mr. Stanton produced a box that came from the most fashionable and most expensive jewelry establishment in America. "A trifle," he said. "Put it with your other gifts and show it to your friends when they come this afternoon."

Helene opened the box. Accustomed as she was to beautiful jewels, she could only gasp. Within it was a magnificent pearl necklace, beautifully graded, with colour matching to perfection.

"A trifle!" she repeated. "Father, it's beautiful!" She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, to kiss him for his bountiful gift, but something in his manner checked her, so she stifled the impulse and contented herself with holding up her face. Mr. Stanton kissed her coldly and Helene drew back. It was an instinctive repulsion and she could not help showing it; he, on his part, appeared not to notice it.

"I will inquire into the matter of your letters being tampered with," he said, "although I am confident that you will find that you are labouring under some mistake. Joles is as honest as the day. What could be his motive?"

Helene was silent. Her father did not pursue the subject.

"The Crugers are coming to-day," he said finally.

"Indeed?" said Helene, somewhat surprised. "Beverly is coming, I believe; but I did not know his father and mother were."

"I informed the Crugers that I had returned to town, and that I should be very pleased to see them this afternoon. I told them it was your birthday and—" He paused, saying in a more decided tone:

"It is my intention to urge an immediate marriage, Helene." He spoke with an effort. "I may be called away at any moment, and——"

Helene noticed that her father looked pale and worried and decidedly ill at ease.

"I shall esteem it a great favour if you will not interpose any objection to my project for this marriage. I have asked several of our friends here to-day, and I have given them to understand that the date of the marriage would be announced. It is your birthday, so it will be a double event, as it were." He paused and looked at her.

"Do as you think best!" she said finally. She felt it was useless to contend with him. For some reason or other he wanted an early marriage; so be it!

"You have asked several friends," she said. "Have you asked any of my mother's people?"

"No," replied Mr. Stanton abruptly.

"Mrs. Cruger said she hoped some day to meet some of my mother's relations. Father, how is it I know nothing of her or her people? What is the mystery about her? Every time cards are sent out from this house for any function I am always reminded that there is not one of her family to come to this house. On an occasion like this I should have thought——"

"She had no relatives," interrupted Mr. Stanton, "or I should have asked them. Please discontinue the subject; it is by no means a pleasant one. Good God, what a girl you are! I come to you with a gift fit for a princess; and you, you ungrateful——"

Mr. Stanton looked at her with a look of intense anger, almost of hatred; then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Helene returned to her room. She was quite thoughtful. "An early marriage! Yes, the sooner the better!" She almost threw the necklace among the many gifts that had been sent her. She wished her father had not given it to her. It was evidently not in her to express the gratitude he deserved and she was angry with herself that she was not more grateful to him.