That afternoon when Von Barwig was admitted to her presence he saw a pile of boxes, flowers, jewelry—gifts of all sorts on the piano. He noticed also that the dolls were on the outside of the cabinet, instead of inside, where she usually kept them.

"It's my birthday," she said in explanation. "I've been having a good time with my dolls." She smiled as she saw that he was holding out a little bunch of violets.

"For you!" he said.

"You must really stop this sort of thing, sir, or I shall be very angry!" But she took them and pressed them to her face.

"They look very meagre among all this great horticultural display," said Von Barwig regretfully.

"They came from the heart and I love them," she said as she fastened them in her corsage.

"Well, now we begin," he said as he took out the lead pencil that he always used as a baton. "There must be progress to-day."

He opened the piano and she sat down and looked at the music he placed there for her. He had chosen a well-known exercise, a Czerny; not a difficult one, but requiring some technique to play with precision.

"Come, begin!" and she rattled off at a 6-8 allegretto, the music which was intended to be played in three-quarter andante.

"Very pretty," commented Von Barwig, "very pretty indeed, but you finish before you commence!"

"That's the rate at which I'm thinking," said Helene. "When I think rapidly I play rapidly. My thoughts can only be described as presto."

"That's rather hard on the composer, Miss Stanton. Come, I count for you! One, two, three. One, two, three; One, two, three. The fingers should be little hammers, so! One, two, three. Dear young lady, this is not a thumb exercise; it is for the fingers."

"Am I playing with my thumbs?" she asked.

"Come; please, please!" he entreated.

"I can't refuse when you plead so hard," she said.

"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted monotonously.

"You like me, don't you?" she asked irrelevantly, a mischievous smile on her face. Von Barwig tried to look stern but failed ignominiously. "Please attend," he said. "One, two, three; one, two, three. Ah, you play so unevenly! Sometimes you have the touch of an artist, at another you make bungles."

"Bungles?" repeated Helene, laughing. "What are they?"

"One, two, three; not six-eighth, dear lady, not six-eighth! So! One, two, three! one, two, three."

"Did I show you my new necklace?" she asked as she played on.

Von Barwig shook his head. "One, two, three," was all she could elicit from him.

"Father gave it to me; to-day is my birthday."

"Your birthday; so?" said Von Barwig, still marking time. "Your birthday?" he repeated.

"Yes, mio maestro; I am nineteen to-day."

"Nineteen! One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. Then after a pause, "nineteen?"

She looked up, he was still counting and beating time with the lead pencil as a baton. But there was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he were trying to recall something. "Nineteen to-day; nineteen to-day!" he repeated, as if he had not quite realised what she said.

"One, two, three; one, two, three." Was there a break in his voice?

"Nineteen to-day!" Then he looked at her as she played.

"Where were you born?" he asked suddenly.

"In Leipsic," she replied carelessly.

Von Barwig stopped counting, his baton poised in the air.

"In Leipsic!" he repeated hoarsely. "In Leipsic? She—would have been nineteen to-day. Ach Gott, Gott!"

Helene turned and looked at him.

"One, two, three; one, two, three," chanted the music master. He dared not let her see his agitation. "What does it mean? How can it be? Good God, how can it be?" His brain was in a whirl; the possibilities came to him in an overwhelming flood.

"You really must see that pearl necklace," said Helene, "and some of the other presents are very beautiful. Do look at them!"

"One, two, three; one, two, three," came in monotonous tones from the old man. Completely gone was his sense of rhythm now. "One, two, three; one, two, three," he continued, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "Does it mean that she is my—my— Oh, God! I must be mad, crazy! Barwig, Barwig, pull yourself together, for God's sake; or you lose her again." One, two, three; one, two, three seemed to be the only safe ground for him to tread on!

Helene felt that he was not following the music, for her fingers strayed idly over the keys, playing snatches of different melodies, a fact which he apparently did not notice.

"The necklace is over there," she said.

"Yes, yes," he gasped, going in the direction she pointed. "One, two, three; one, two, three. It is beautiful; beautiful!" He scarcely looked at it.

"Did you ever see my dolls? I don't think I ever showed them to you. They're over there in the cabinet."

"Your dolls? Yes, I look at them!" he said. He was glad of an opportunity to escape observation. After a while his mind became calm enough for him to be able to realise what he was thinking, and the urgent necessity for him to conceal from her his mad folly. Nineteen to-day, born in Leipsic, the daughter of the rich millionaire; yet, on the other hand, the image of his own lost Helene, born on the same day, at the same place and bearing the same name. It was all so consistent and yet so contradictory! What could it mean? Was it a phantasy of his brain, a dream? It seemed to him that he had once witnessed just such a scene as was taking place at that moment. Surely it had occurred before! He was now picking up first one doll, then another, but he did not see them——

"One, two, three; one, two, three;" he said pathetically, trying to control his thoughts. He realised that he was counting "up in the air," so to speak, but he was afraid of betraying himself. "If she suspected that I dared to think that she was my own Helene, she'd turn me from the house," he thought.

"I've kept all these old dolls since I was a little baby; even my little German doll is there," said Helene as she played on.

Von Barwig took up the dolls, one by one. "Your German doll?" he repeated.

"Yes, the one I had in Leipsic. It's a queer little sawdust affair, but I love it to pieces. It always reminds me of my mother. Do you know what I am playing?" but Von Barwig did not hear her.

"The little German doll," he repeated. "The one she had in Leipsic."

"I heard this at your house the night we first met," went on Helene, playing dreamily. "It's a beautiful melody; it has so much sentiment in it, so much pathos, but oh, isn't it sad," and she sighed deeply.

Was it illusion, too, that the ghost of his long-forgotten symphony should be played by the girl at the piano there, who so resembled his own lost loved one? Was it illusion that he should recognise that little doll, her doll, as the doll with which his own child, his own Helene, had played so long ago?

Von Barwig did not start as he picked up this mute evidence of the truth; he was almost prepared for it. It was as if he knew she was his own, and yet did not know it.

"That eye was never mended after all," he said in a pathetic, broken voice, and as he spoke the whole scene of years gone by came back to him. He saw once more his little girl pleading with him to mend the doll with the broken eye.

Von Barwig was quite calm now. He had grasped a certainty at last; he knew now that he did not dream. He looked over at the piano. The girl felt deeply the music that she was playing, for it responded to something in her own nature; and so interested was she at this moment that she almost forgot his presence. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at her longingly, lovingly.

"Little heart! Ach, lieber Gott, my little Helene; my little baby! How long, how long!" he murmured, smothering his emotion, but looking now at her, now at the little German doll clutched tightly in his hand.



After a while a feeling of great peace came upon him. His mission was ended; he had found her at last. His longing heart had reached its haven.

"That's the doll my mother loved best," said Helene, without pausing in her playing. "She loved to play with that doll and me."

He, too, was thinking of her mother. Was it telepathy that she should think the very thought that was uppermost in his mind?

"There's a portrait of her in the next room," and she pointed to the door off the main room. "It was painted by an artist here in New York three years before she died."

Von Barwig dared not trust himself to speak. He silently opened the door and looked. "Elene, Elene!" he murmured in a low voice. He stood there some time gazing at the portrait of his dead wife, and his eyes were swimming with tears. "Yes, there she is," he said, his low, sad voice scarcely audible through the music. "Elene! Ach, Gott! dead, dead! Better so; better—so——"

He closed the door gently. As he did so a tear ran down his cheek and dropped on the little German doll. "I baptise it," he said with a smile, and then he sighed deeply.

The feeling of deep, unsatisfied longing died out of his heart and from that moment a sense of great freedom took possession of him. He looked over at his beloved Helene. She was still rhapsodising on the piano, utterly unconscious of the great struggle going on in the heart of her music master. What could he offer her? Should he ruin all her prospects? Had he a home fit for her to come to?

These thoughts surged through his mind as he looked at her. His first great impulse was to tell her who he was and take her to his heart, but with a supreme effort he controlled himself. He had so often pictured the scene of his first meeting with his child that it seemed almost as if he had been through this crisis before, but he had never dreamed that she would be occupying such a high station in life, never dreamed that to make his relationship known would ruin her prospects, and perhaps her happiness. This realisation gave him a perspective of the situation and he resolved for the sake of her future not to betray himself. He walked slowly to the piano, and stood behind her a few moments, then suddenly he lost control of himself and took her hands in his.

"What is it?" she said, in some surprise, but with no tinge of anger in her voice.

"You slurred," he faltered, not daring to look her in the face, for fear his great love would show itself.

"You mustn't slur—please," he murmured apologetically.

"Did I slur?" she asked. "Well, I assure you, it was unconscious. I didn't mean to do it."

"You are very happy here?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, surprised at the irrelevancy of the question.

He was now stroking her hair with his gentle, loving hand.

"You have everything in the world, everything?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, scarcely conscious of his meaning.

"And you are happy?" he repeated.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she said. "I suppose I have everything to make me."

She stopped playing. This seemed to bring Von Barwig to a sense of his surroundings.

"Come," he said. "We must work! To the lesson! One, two, three; one, two, three."

He could not resist the impulse. He leaned over and again grasped her hands in his. She looked up at him, this time in utter surprise.

"You were slurring again, slurring again," he said, frightened at his lack of self-control.

"Was I, indeed?" said Helene. "Well, you'll have to punish me severely if this goes on."

"One, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. His voice was choked with emotion, and he could barely see for his tears.

"No, no; I could not punish you. I could not put one straw in your way—only—I want to meet your father. Yes," he said in a more decided tone, "I want to meet your father! One, two, three; one, two, three." Whenever Von Barwig wanted to conceal his real feelings he counted.

"I've gone into the 4-4 exercise," commented Helene.

"Yes, yes! One, two, three, four," counted Von Barwig timidly. "One, two, three, four; yes, I want to meet him." Then he added almost savagely, "I must meet him!"

The lesson was interrupted by Denning.

"If you please, miss, will you come down in the library?"

"What is it, Denning?"

"Mr. Stanton wishes to see you at once, miss," said Denning in a low voice, so that Von Barwig could not hear.

"My father?" repeated Helene. "Please don't go till I return, Herr Von Barwig," and Helene left the music master alone.



Chapter Twenty-two

Helene found her father awaiting her in the library. His manner was excessively nervous. He seemed to be labouring under a strain.

"Sit down," he said briefly. His voice was harsh, his manner commanding. Helene sat down. In front of Mr. Stanton lay a pile of letters. He pointed to them.

"Here are your letters to this man, and his letters to you. They were withheld by my orders."

"Then Joles," began Helene.

"I am responsible, not Joles," he interrupted.

Helene arose; the blood mounted to her face.

"Why have you done this?" she demanded.

"I wished to bring your association with this man to an end. I ordered him to be turned from the house, his letters kept from you and yours from him."

"But, father, why did you not come to me?" cried Helene.

"Please don't interrupt me!" thundered Stanton. "I won't have that man in this house! Please understand that. Send for him, tell him you do not wish to continue your lessons, and dismiss him definitely, finally."

"Father, I cannot." Helene could scarcely go on.

"You must, Helene; you must," insisted Mr. Stanton.

"I cannot!" she repeated.

"You can say you have changed your mind."

"Impossible!"

"But I tell you you must! I won't have this man in my house again."

"What has he done? Tell me, what has he done?" demanded Helene.

Stanton paused. "He—he is a scoundrel, a disgrace to society—to—to—" Then in sudden fury he went on: "When a man gets down to playing for a mere pittance, as he does, in a disreputable theatre, and dwelling in a squalid neighbourhood, with low companions——"

"Can he help his poverty?" interrupted Helene, now thoroughly aroused. "The man has pride, he refuses to take money; he is a gentleman! You have no right to insult him because he is poor."

"There are other reasons," said Stanton quickly.

"What are they?"

Stanton was silent.

"What are they?" again demanded Helene.

"It is enough that I know," replied Stanton. "It is enough for you to know that I know."

Helene shook her head. "It is not enough," she said.

"If you don't tell him to go at once, you will force me to have him ordered from the house!"

"Father," Helene was almost calm now. "Tell me, for God's sake, tell me what has he done?"

Stanton bit his lip with anger. The obstinacy of the girl was fast driving him to extremes. "He is not fit to be in this house," he almost shouted, "or to associate with gentlefolk."

"But he is so good, so gentle! How can I suddenly tell him to go? Father, I cannot believe that."

"You don't believe me? Has it come to a question of my word—your father's word against a stranger, a beggar! Do you know I can have the man put in prison?"

Helene stopped suddenly; she was very quiet now. "Is it as bad as that?" she asked almost in a whisper. Stanton was silent. "Father, can you—put—him—in prison?"

Stanton felt that it was necessary to convince her.

"I think the situation speaks for itself," he said. He, too, was calm now, for he felt that he had to resort to extreme measures. "The man leaves his own country, where he is successful, and comes here, and lives with the lowest of the low. Would a man do that if he were not—afraid—or in danger?"

Helene's heart sank.

"Don't say any more, don't please!" She felt that her father had good reasons for speaking as he did.

"If you had only told me before," she said plaintively; "if you had only confided in me it would have saved so much suffering. Why didn't you speak before, father?"

Stanton shook his head.

"Very well, you—you shall be obeyed, father." she said in a low voice. "I'll tell him that you——"

"No," he interrupted quickly. "No! I don't wish him to know that I'm in any way cognisant of his presence here. Simply dismiss him and let him go. Above all, make him understand that he is never to come here again."

Helene nodded. "If his coming here is likely to endanger his liberty, he must not come," she thought Stanton thanked her, but she did not hear his words. Silently, sorrowfully, she returned to the music room, where she found Von Barwig awaiting her.

The old man looked up as she entered the room. She came toward him and looked at him a few moments in silence. The same tender, gentle smile that had so endeared him to her from the first was on his face. She could not bear to look at him, so she turned her gaze away and spoke without seeing him.

"Herr Von Barwig," she said, and then she paused. It was so hard, so very hard, to say what she had to say. He stood there expectantly, waiting for her to continue, as a little child looks up at the sound of its mother's voice.

"I'm very sorry," she said in a deep, low voice. "I—don't," still she hesitated, then finally, with much effort she said: "I cannot take any more lessons from you."

Von Barwig looked at her as if he did not comprehend her meaning.

"Not to-day, no, but to-morrow?"

Helene shook her head.

"Ah, the next day!"

Again Helene shook her head. "No," she said in an almost inaudible voice. Von Barwig noted that her face was sad, that her tone was low and mournful and his voice faltered as he asked, with his usual smile, "The day after that, perhaps?"

"No, Herr Von Barwig. I cannot take any more lessons from you."

"Cannot take any more lessons," he repeated mechanically; then as he realised her meaning he tried to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. There was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke.

"You wish me no more at all?" he asked finally.

"I am very sorry, I am very grateful; believe me I am, Herr Von Barwig, but—" she shook her head rapidly. She could not trust herself to speak.

"I—do—not—understand," he said, and his voice was almost inaudible, for his heart was beating so furiously that he could feel its palpitation. She could only shake her head in reply. Von Barwig suddenly found his voice, for he was desperate now.

"A moment ago we were here, good friends, and—" suddenly an idea occurred to him. "Some one has told you that I played at the Museum, the Dime Museum. Ah, is that Indeed so terrible? I do not play there from choice, believe me, dear—dear Fraeulein! It is poverty."

"Yes, yes; I know, I know!" cried Helene. She was nearly frantic now. "It is not your fault, but please, please, dear Herr Von Barwig, let us say no more! Good-bye," and she held out her hand, "good-bye! I hope better fortune may come to you."

"No better fortune can come if you—if you are not there," wailed Von Barwig. "You don't know—what I know; if you did you would realise that—" he paused. "I cannot stay away! It is simply impossible—I cannot!"

"You must," said Helene firmly. "Please go! Don't you understand that it is as hard for me as it is for you?"

"Why do you so punish me?" pleaded Von Barwig. "For what? What have I done?"

"I am not punishing you, Herr Von Barwig. I— Don't ask me to explain! You must not call again. Please go; go! There, I've said it; I've said it!" cried Helene in despair, and she walked to the window to hide her emotion.

Von Barwig looked at her in silence.

"Very well," he said after a few moments and then he looked around for his hat, which he always brought into the room with him.

He realised that it was useless to try and move her and he turned to go. He reached the door and had partly opened it when he felt impelled to make one more effort.

"I leave the Museum," he said at the door. "I go there no more."

Helene shook her head. The old man came toward her.

"You must forgive me, Miss Helene, I must speak," he said in a low voice choked with emotion; his English was very broken now. "A moment ago I was thinking what shall be best for you, for your future, your happiness; and I said to myself: 'Don't say that which will perhaps hurt her prospects, her future, her marriage with Herr Beverly Cruger!'"

"I don't understand," said Helene in surprise. "What can you say, Herr Von Barwig, that will hurt my prospects or in any way affect my marriage with Mr. Cruger?"

"Ah, I don't know what I say," pleaded Von Barwig, who felt at that moment that for her sake he must not tell her who he was. "I don't know what I say! I am struck down; I cannot rise, I cannot think! Ah, don't discharge me, please don't discharge me!" wailed the old man pitifully. "Let me come here as I always do; don't send me away!"

Helene was silent; she felt that she could say no more.

"It is the first time in my life I have ever begged of a living soul," pleaded Von Barwig, "and now I beg, I beg that you will not send me away! You have made me so happy, so happy, and now—please don't discharge me, don't discharge me!" It was all he seemed able to say.

Helene was looking at him now, looking him full in the face while a great storm was surging in her mind. "I can't obey my father," she was saying to herself, I can't! It's too hard—too hard! The old man mistook her silence for the rejection of his prayer and slowly turned to go. The shrinking figure, the concentrated misery, the hopeless expression on his face, the tears in his eyes, the pathetic woebegone listlessness in his walk were too much for her; she could resist no longer.

"Herr Von Barwig," she cried, her voice ringing out in clear strong tones, "I don't believe it, I don't believe it!" He turned with a slight look of inquiry on his face and gazed at her through his tear-bedimmed eyes. "I don't believe that you ever did a dishonourable action in all your life," she cried. "My father is mistaken, mistaken! I'm sure of it."

"Your father?" There was no hesitation in his voice now. "Your father," he repeated, his voice rising higher. "Ah!" and a flood of light came in upon him. "When you left me a few moments ago, you went to him, and then, on your return—you—you sent me away; is it not so? Tell me," he demanded, "is it not so?"

Gone was the hopeless misery, gone were the shambling gait, the pathetic smile, the helplessness of resignation to overwhelming conditions. Gone, too, were the tears, the pleading look, and in their place stood Anton Von Barwig, erect and strong, his eyes glittering with fire, the fire of righteous indignation, his voice strong and clear. Helene looked at him in amazement. She could not understand the transformation.

"Your father!" repeated Von Barwig in a loud, stern voice. "So! the time has come! I think perhaps I see your father. It is time we met; a little explanation is due. Miss Stanton, I shall see—your—father."

"Yes, you shall see him!" said the girl. "I'll—I'll speak to him for you; I am sure you can explain."

"Yes, I can explain," said Von Barwig with a low, hard laugh. "Where is he?"

"In the library," replied Helene.

"Ah? Then I go there and see him," said Von Barwig in a decided tone. This new mental attitude of the music master amazed her. The little low, shambling figure was transformed into an overwhelming force.

"Perhaps I had better see him first," suggested Helene.

"No," said Von Barwig. "I see him." His tone was almost commanding. Helene looked at him in astonishment. She was pleased; at least these were not signs of guilt on his part. She no longer hesitated.

"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Come, we'll see him together."

Von Barwig followed Helene through the corridors that led to the library. She paused a moment as she stood at the door and looked around at Von Barwig. There was a stern, cold, hard look in his face which was new to her. "He feels the injustice as I do," thought Helene, "and he is angry. Thank God, he will be able to clear himself!" She turned the handle of the door and went in. Von Barwig followed her. Stanton was sitting at a desk table, writing, as they entered.

"There has been a mistake, father," she said.

Stanton looked up and started as if he had been struck. He saw his daughter, and he saw the man he had wronged standing there in the doorway like an avenging Nemesis. He tried to speak, but could not.

"What's the matter, father?" cried Helene in alarm.

"Nothing—nothing!" replied Stanton incoherently. He was trembling in every limb.

"Helene," he said, forcing himself to speak, "I will have a word with Herr Von Barwig alone."

"I beg your pardon for coming in unannounced, but we wanted to see you, father," began Helene.

"Yes, yes; please excuse us now, Helene. I'll see him alone," said Stanton, speaking with great difficulty. "Alone!" he repeated sharply.

Helene turned and looked at Von Barwig. He stood there in silence, his slight figure seeming to tower above everything in the room. Even Stanton, tall as he was, seemed dwarfed by the strong personality of the music master. At this moment Joles made his appearance. "A number of ladies have arrived, miss," he said to Helene, his quick eye catching sight of Von Barwig without looking at him. "They are in the reception-room."

"I must go at once," said Helene. "I forgot all about my birthday reception."

"Young Mr. Cruger and his father are asking for you, sir," Joles said quietly to Mr. Stanton.

"Ask them to wait—I must see this gentleman," said Stanton, indicating Von Barwig. Joles bowed himself out. Helene was pleased that her father acceded so readily to her wishes. She went to him and placing her hand on his arm said in a low voice:

"Let him explain, father! I want him to come back to me. It will make me very happy—please—this is my birthday."

Stanton nodded, but made no reply. Helene gave Von Barwig an encouraging smile and went out of the room, quietly closing the door after her.

Von Barwig had been studying the man before him. There was quite a silence.

"Well, Henry?" he said after a few moments.

"Anton," murmured Stanton in a low tone as if ashamed to speak. Von Barwig's eyes glittered as he heard his name familiarly pronounced by the man he was regarding with deadly enmity.

"The world has revolved a few times since I last saw you—but I am here," he said, repressing his anger; and this repression gave a curiously hard and guttural effect to his voice.

"I have been expecting this moment for a long time," said Stanton in a conciliating tone. "I've tried to forget."

"You have been very successful," replied Von Barwig. "You have forgotten your own name for sixteen years. A prosperous friend has a poor memory, Henry."

"I have not prospered," said Stanton quickly; "that is, not in the real sense of the word. I am rich, yes; but I am not prosperous."

"You have changed your name?" said Von Barwig.

"Yes; my uncle Stanton died in California. I took his name when he left me his great fortune."

"That is why I could not find a trace of you," said Von Barwig thoughtfully.

Stanton thought he detected signs of relenting in Von Barwig's voice.

"I suppose there's no use my telling you how sorry I am for——"

"Sorry, sorry!" almost screamed Von Barwig. "Does that bring back anything? Does that put sixteen years in my hands? Damn the empty phrase 'I am sorry' when there is no use in being sorry!"

"I have repented, Anton! Before God I have repented!" said Stanton huskily. "She made me repent, and God knows she repented. She never had one happy hour since she left you!"

Von Barwig was silent.

"This is the only blot on my life—the one blot on my life," cried Stanton.

"And that one blot was my wife and child," said Von Barwig. "While you were at it you accomplished a great deal. Mein Gott, you were colossal! You always were a damned successful fellow, Ahlmann," he added vindictively.

"Before God, Anton," cried Stanton with a show of emotion, "I didn't mean to do it; I swear I didn't. It was a mad impulse! It's not in my real nature."

"Nature never makes a blunder. When she makes a scoundrel she means it," said Von Barwig.

Stanton started and then looked through the library window. His sharp ear had detected the sound of carriage wheels stopping in front of the house.

"What are you going to do?" he asked quickly. The fear of exposure was doubly increased by knowledge of the fact that his guests were arriving. Von Barwig made no reply.

"Barwig, for God's sake don't ruin me! At least, I've given the child everything. She knows nothing, and the world respects——"

"The world always respects a successful rascal," interrupted Von Barwig with a harsh laugh. "Of all people he is the most respected. Why, if I had not found you, I have no doubt you would live on a church window-pane after you died! But now I anticipate that everybody shall know your virtues while you are alive. I cut off that window-pane! I am going to baptise you, Ahlmann; I give you back your name."

"Anton, Anton! Why not sit down calmly and talk it over?" pleaded Stanton.

"Ah, you were always a polite man, the kind women like; a man born with kid gloves and no soul. Now we take off the gloves; we show you as you are," and Von Barwig shook his finger at the man opposite him.

There were echoes of laughter out in the hallway; Stanton heard them and trembled. He recognised the voices of Mrs. Cruger's nieces. If these gossips, ever found out the truth, he thought, not a family in New York but would be acquainted with the facts in twenty-four hours.

"Anton, be calm," he pleaded. "Give me a few days to think it over."

"No!" declared Von Barwig.

"A few hours," pleaded Stanton.

"No!" repeated Von Barwig; "not even a few minutes."

Stanton moved toward the door.

"Stay here!" commanded Von Barwig. He was plainly master of the situation now, for Stanton instinctively obeyed him. "If I let you go into the next room it might be sixteen years before you got back again! Sit down."

Stanton obeyed him and there was a slight pause.

"You know what a scandal this will make," he pleaded.

"I know," replied Von Barwig in a quiet tone. "I know!"

"The whole country will ring with it," said Stanton.

"You shouldn't have prayed so loud, Ahlmann," replied Von Barwig with a sardonic smile. "You laid too many cornerstones; your charities are too well known. You should have kept them a secret and not blazoned your generosity to the whole world. When you fed an orphan or a widow you shouldn't have advertised it in the newspapers."

Stanton looked at him and saw no hope.

"You're going to ruin me?" he asked.

Von Barwig made no reply.

"You're going to tell her?" demanded Stanton.

"Yes," replied Von Barwig in a quiet tone; "I'm going to tell her."

"You'd better think first."

"I have thought."

"How will you explain her mother's shame?"

"Ah!" Von Barwig glared at him in silence. "You will shield yourself behind the mother, eh?" he asked.

"How will you explain her mother's shame?" again asked Stanton.

"I don't explain it! You talked her mother's name away—now talk it back! You're a clever man with words. You'll find a way out of it, Ahlmann."

Stanton was now almost beside himself with fear and anger.

"What can you do for the girl after you have disgraced her? Think what I have done for her," pleaded Stanton. "She is honoured, respected, cultured, refined, a lady of social distinction. Are you going to drag her down to Houston Street, to the Bowery, to the Dime Museum?"

Von Barwig felt the force of this argument, and he knew there was no reply to be made. His anger was gone—he was thoughtful now.

Stanton saw that he was gaining ground. "For her sake, Von Barwig," he pleaded; "for her sake! Just think!"

Von Barwig interrupted him with a gesture, motioning him to silence.

"Look here, Ahlmann," his voice was strangely quiet now. "I knew! I knew an hour ago who you were, whose house I was in. As she sat at the piano near me I could have touched her with my hand. My heart cried out, 'I am her father; I am her father!' For sixteen years I wait for that moment and then I get it; I get it! It's mine; but I pass it! I put it aside; I would not tell her."

"You knew," interrupted Stanton, "and you did not speak!"

"I would have come here, to this house," went on Von Barwig, his voice quivering with excitement and emotion; "I would have come and gone as a friend, an old friend, if you had kept silent. But no, two fathers cannot live so with a child between them. One of them is bound to speak out and that one is you, you! You spoke. 'Twas you who said to your servants, 'Take this man and throw him into the streets like a dog.' 'Twas you who destroyed my letters; 'twas you who destroyed my child's letters—letters to me. 'Twas you who told my own flesh and blood to treat me as a dog—a dog! You made me plead and beg; you made me suffer for sixteen long and weary years. Now I take what is mine," screamed Von Barwig. "You hear! I take what is mine!" and he strode over to the bell and deliberately rang it.

"Don't, don't for heaven's sake!" shouted Stanton, trying to restrain him. It was too late and Stanton almost fell back into his chair.

"Come, stand up! To your feet, Ahlmann!" shouted Von Barwig in a loud voice. "I cannot throw you from your house as you would me; but I can empty it for you. Come! I want to introduce you to your friends." He threw the door wide open. Stanton came forward as if to close it, but Von Barwig waved him back. "Stay where you are," he cried. "I introduce yon to your friends as you are. She shall choose between us. Against your money and respectability I put my life. Your friends shall choose; she shall choose; the young man she is to marry—he shall choose." The old man was now almost incoherent. "I have her back! she is mine, she is mine!" At this juncture Joles entered.

"Speak; tell him!" shouted Von Barwig. "If you don't, I do!"

"Call Miss Stanton," said Mr. Stanton.

"And her friends," commanded Von Barwig.

Stanton nodded acquiescence; and Joles left the room.

"You've ruined me; and you'll ruin her," said Stanton in despair.

"I get her back, I get her back!" repeated Von Barwig over and over again. "She is mine."

"Very well! she is yours, then," replied Stanton in desperation. "Yours with this disgraceful scandal over her head."

"I don't care! She is mine—I get her back," was all Von Barwig could say.

"Yours with her engagement at an end, her heart broken! Yes, her heart broken! Do you think they'll take her into that family, do you think they will receive your daughter, the daughter of a——"

Von Barwig was now almost hysterical. "If they don't take her, I take her! If they don't want her, I want her. She's mine, I'm going to have her! I want my own flesh and blood. Do you hear, Ahlmann? I'm tired of waiting, tired of starving for the love of my own. I'm selfish, I'm selfish!" in his excitement the old man banged his clenched fist several times on the table. "I'm selfish! I want her, and by God I'm going to have her!" At this juncture Helene came into the room. There was a dead silence. Von Barwig saw her and his clenched fist dropped harmlessly by his side. He stood there silently waiting. Helene looked at Mr. Stanton; his head was bowed low and he uttered not a word. She looked inquiringly at Von Barwig. He seemed incapable of speaking.

"Father," she said in a low, gentle voice. Neither man answered. Stanton dared not, and Von Barwig steeled himself against telling her the truth. Stanton's words had had their effect; Von Barwig was unwilling to ruin the girl's chances for his own selfish interests.

"You have explained?" she asked Von Barwig. He nodded, but did not speak. The sound of approaching voices caught their ears. Joles threw open both doors and Mr. Cruger came into the room with his son and Mrs. Cruger, followed by many others. They greeted Mr. Stanton, who welcomed them as well as he could. In a few moments the conversation became general. Von Barwig stood apart from them. Mr. Stanton, nervous and anxious, watched him closely. Mrs. Cruger fastened a beautiful diamond pendant on Helene's neck. Mr. Cruger kissed her.

"We cannot give you the wealth of your father, my dear child," said he; "but we can give you a name against which there has never been a breath; an honoured name, a name with which we are very proud to entrust you!"

Von Barwig heard this, and groaned aloud in his misery.

"I'm very happy, very happy!" said Helene.

Others gathered around the happy pair and showered congratulations on them. After a short while Beverly saw Von Barwig in the corner of the room and went over and greeted him. Helene joined them.

"Is it all arranged between you and father?" she asked.

Von Barwig nodded.

"I knew you could explain," said Helene.

"Yes, he has let me explain!" said Von Barwig with a deep sigh. He was quite calm now. "Pardon the liberty I take—I—forgive me—" he placed Beverly's and Helene's hands one in the other. "Pardon the liberty I take; I am an old man," he said in a low voice. "I wish you both—long life—much prosperity—much happiness—much joy to you both. God bless you, children; excuse me, I speak as a father. God bless you!" and the old man picked his hat up from the table on which he had deposited it and wiped away the tears that were coursing down his cheeks. Stanton, who had been watching him closely, uttered a cry of joy. Von Barwig went out of the room slowly, shutting the door behind him.



Chapter Twenty-three

It was midwinter nearly a year later. The cold was the severest in the memory of any inmate of the Houston Street establishment, including Miss Husted herself. Everything was frozen solid. It was nearly as cold inside the house as it was outside, greatly to Miss Husted's dismay, for added to the increased expenditure for coal, the services of the plumber to thaw out frozen water and gas pipes were in constant requisition. Houston Mansion was a corner house with an open space next door, and the biting north winds on three sides of the unprotected old walls added greatly to the discomfort and suffering of the "guests" within. In every sense it was a record breaker. There had already been three blizzards in the past month and a fourth was now in progress. It was on the top floor, however, that the extreme severity of the winter was felt. The cold biting winds howled and wailed over the roof, circling around the skylight and forcing their way through the cracked and broken panes of glass. It was impossible to keep the draughty old hallway warm with the one small stove intended for that purpose. Pinac, Fico and Poons, huddled together around the fire bundled up in their overcoats, had to place their feet on the stove to keep them warm or blow on their fingers and walk about the room to keep their blood in circulation.

At this time Pinac and Fico were playing at Galazatti's for their dinners, being unable to obtain more profitable engagements, and Poons was playing in an uptown theatre. Poons was trying to save enough money to get married, and neither Pinac nor Fico would touch a penny of his earnings, although the boy generously offered them all or any part of his savings to help them tide over until the Spring, when they were reasonably sure of obtaining lucrative engagements. The men had just finished their breakfast and Jenny was washing the dishes for them.

"I shall lay a cloth for the breakfast of Von Barwig when he shall wake up," said Pinac, suiting the action to the word and spreading a red tablecloth on the rickety wooden table. "His work at the Museum keeps him so late he must sleep late."

"Sacoroto, the rotten museum he play at, I wish it was dead," growled Fico.

They knew now that Von Barwig played at a cheap amusement resort on the Bowery, and that it kept him out till early morning; and they loved him for it all the more. They knew that necessity, not choice, had driven him to it. Besides, it made them more akin to him, for it brought him nearer their own artistic standard, and yet they did not lose one atom of respect for the old man. Gone was his commanding spirit, and in its place was a quiet, gentle dignity which called forth respect as well as love; but above all—love.

"He is sleeping later than usual," said Jenny as she restored the crockery to its proper place in the cupboard.

"All the strength of the coffee will boil away," murmured Fico.

"Parbleu! we make new coffee for him," replied Pinac.

"He have sleep long enough. I call him," said Fico, tapping lightly on the door of the lumber room that served Von Barwig as a bedroom. Receiving no reply, Fico knocked louder. Finally he pushed open the door. It had no lock on it and the catch was broken. Fico looked into the room, shook his head and then turned and stared at his friends. "He have gone up," he said with an anxious look. "You mean he have get up," suggested Pinac. "Got up!" corrected Jenny. "Yes," replied Fico. "He is got up and out."

Poons, who had not quite followed the intricacies of the conversation, went into Von Barwig's room and satisfied himself that his beloved friend was not there. The three men stared at each other. They said nothing, but the expression on their faces denoted anxiety. "Where has he gone?" seemed to be the question each asked silently of the other.

Von Barwig had been very quiet in the past year, so quiet that his actions seemed to his friends to be almost mysterious. Not that he was more reserved than usual, but there was a calmness, a resignation to existing conditions, a listlessness that seemed to them to amount to almost a lack of interest in life, and this mental attitude on Von Barwig's part caused them no little anxiety.

"It's such an awful day," said Pinac as he looked out of the window.

"By God, yes!" assented Fico. "Another bliz."

The wind was howling up and down the streets and flurries of snow were being driven against the windows, banging the shutters to and fro as the great gusts of wind caught them in their grasp. The iron catch that held the shutter had long since been torn out by the winter blizzards, and the constant banging sound grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the musicians. Poons suffered more than the rest, and swore roundly in German every time the shutter struck against the window jamb.

"Jenny," came the shrill voice of Miss Husted up the stairway at the back of the hall. That lady was more than ever set against her niece's "taking up with a musician," as she called the love match between Poons and Jenny. Whenever Miss Husted missed Jenny on the floors below she invariably found her upstairs talking to young August.

"We were looking for the professor," said Jenny, as her aunt's head came up into view from the staircase below.

"Looking for the professor! Why, where is he?" asked Miss Husted. "Surely he hasn't gone out on a day like this! Why, it's not fit for a dog; not fit for a dog! Oh dear, dear! I'll be worried to death till he comes back," and Miss Husted pressed Skippy more closely to her and went down stairs again; not, however, without first sending Jenny to the floor below, out of the reach of Poons's love-making eyes.

"It is true; he has gone out," said Pinac dolefully, as he looked out of the window at the blizzard.

Von Barwig had risen very early that morning and dressed himself with more than his usual care. He had much to do, for on the morrow he was to depart from the shores of America and return to his old home. He was going back to Leipsic, and the steamship sailed very early the next morning. The real cause of his absence at that moment was the fact that his daughter Helene was to be married that day, and he desired to witness the ceremony. Altogether, there was much to be done and little time to do it in. He had told Mr. Costello the night before that he was not going to return to the Museum; so that was ended, and his few clothes were packed in his little portmanteau with the assistance of Jenny, who was the only one who knew his secret. He also had to go downtown and buy his steamship ticket and make arrangements with an expressman to take his trunk, and he felt he must say good-bye to a few acquaintances before he went away forever. So, in order to complete all these arrangements in time to get to the church where the wedding was to take place, he had to get up quite early.

Von Barwig did not mind the cold weather at all. He trudged along the streets and stamped his feet to keep them warm while he brushed the snow off his face as it blew under his umbrella. His heart was light, for he rejoiced that his darling Helene was going to marry the man she loved. Her happiness was assured, he thought; besides, he himself was going to do something. He had a plan of action and he was going to carry it out. During the last few months he had had a great yearning to see his old home again, to hear his native language spoken, to hear the folk songs and familiar German airs sung once more and to look upon the faces of his fellow-countrymen again. Now that he knew his child was happy, he felt that he would be content simply to sit placidly in an obscure corner of the market-place in Leipsic, and watch the ebb and flow of life as it is lived over there in the beloved Fatherland. He did not ask to take part in it or to be one with his countrymen; all he asked was the privilege of watching their life for the few remaining years of his earthly existence. His pride had completely gone now, and it caused him not one pang to feel that he had left his native land in the flush and prime of success and was going to return an old, broken-down failure. On the contrary, the thought of again walking the streets of his native land, breathing the atmosphere, and hearing the voices of his beloved countrymen so lightened his heart that his steps were almost elastic. He kicked the snow aside with vigour, and jumped on the street car as if he were a boy. He saluted the conductor with such a hearty good-morning, that the man looked at him in astonishment.

"You must be feeling pretty good to call this a good morning," said that functionary, as he collected his fare.

"Back of this awful blizzard is the beautiful sunshine," said Von Barwig, with a smile.

"Yes, if you can see it!" replied the man, compelled to smile when he looked into Von Barwig's beaming face. "How far are you going downtown?" asked the conductor to prolong the conversation. The car was empty, and Von Barwig's cheery smile encouraged him to talk.

"Fowling Green," replied Von Barwig. "I buy my ticket back to Germany," he added lightly.

"Ah!" said the man, as if that explained everything. "You're glad to go back, eh? Most of 'em would never have come if they knew what they were going to get over here."

Von Barwig shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little.

"If you don't strike it right," went on the car conductor, "it's worse here than anywhere in the world!" Von Barwig nodded. "There's no room in America for the man who fails," he added, ringing up a fare with an angry jerk and then relapsing into moody silence.

After many delays, owing to the packing of the snow on the car tracks, Von Barwig arrived at the steamship office, bought his ticket, and commenced his weary journey uptown.

"I shall see her to-day," he thought. "I shall see her. How beautiful she will look in her white dress and her orange blossoms! He—he—will give her to her husband. That scoundrel!" Von Barwig's heart sank. "But she is happy, she is happy!" and this thought sustained him.



He had not seen her since the memorable moment in which he had placed the hand of his beloved pupil in that of her affianced husband and wished them joy and happiness. He had written to her and told her that her father, Mr. Stanton, was right; that it would be better that he did not resume his teaching. He had done this, that her happiness might not be destroyed by the coming to light of the scandal that had been dead and buried so many years. He felt it would not be right in the highest sense for him to expose Stanton merely to gratify his own sense of revenge. He believed that his child had learned to love Stanton as her own father; that it would be a cruelty to her to expose him; that it would rob her of her social position and perhaps of the man she loved. The girl might even turn on him and hate him for his selfish indulgence of revenge at the expense of her happiness. At the very best, he had nothing to offer her, and he knew she would refuse Stanton's bounty when she learned the truth. Von Barwig had reasoned it out on these lines, and at every fresh pang of suffering he found comfort in the false logic that seemed so like truth. It never occurred to him that Helene disliked Stanton; that she felt in her heart that the man was not her father; and that young Cruger would have married her in spite of a dozen scandals. Furthermore, he did not even dream that his pupil loved him and grieved for him to such an extent, that Stanton felt it absolutely necessary to separate them completely by telling her that her old music master had gone back to Germany and had died there. The car windows rattled noisily and the bells jangled monotonously, as the horses tramped through the snow on their way uptown, but Von Barwig heard them not, for his brain was thronged with thoughts of his darling Helene and his impending departure to his own country. How could he leave those kind hearts in Houston Street—Jenny, Poons, Miss Husted, Fico, Pinac! What would they all say?

Von Barwig bought a morning paper and in it he read that his daughter's marriage was to be attended by a very large and fashionable audience; that admission to the church was only by personal invitation. Von Barwig started. How was he to get into the church? He had no card of invitation. He almost laughed aloud as he thought of his position; her own father would not see her married because he had no invitation. He must invent some story to get in, but he must attract no attention. No one who knew of his association with the family must see him. He dare not risk a public expose at the eleventh hour. No, her happiness must not be clouded even for a moment! But he must get in; he made up his mind to that.

When Von Barwig arrived at the church there were quite a number of people gathered there in spite of the inclemency of the weather, for news of the wedding had been largely heralded forth by the New York daily papers, owing to the great wealth of Mr. Stanton and the high social position of the Crugers, and it was looked upon as one of the great fashionable events of the year.

Thanks to Mr. Stanton's love of display and lavish outlay of money, the presents had been enumerated, the trousseau described, the names of the guests published in all the fashionable papers, greatly to Helene's annoyance. She would have preferred a quiet little wedding unattended save by those directly interested in the marriage, but Mr. Stanton wanted to spend money, and he did, most lavishly. A special orchestra and tons of flowers were ordered, notwithstanding that it was midwinter, and every prominent social and political person available had been invited to attend. In consequence, a platoon of police was needed to keep the crowds back, and when Von Barwig arrived, a long line of carriages had already formed at the church door.

A policeman barred his way when he attempted to enter without a ticket. "Sorry, sir; but we must obey orders," said the man in uniform. It was the same at all the doors, and Von Barwig soon saw that it was useless to attempt to get in without a ticket. He stood there for a few moments trying to think what he should do, when he saw several men carrying violins and other musical instruments going through a small side door on the side street, off Fifth Avenue, that led into the vestry situated at the end of the great church. "I am a musician; I go in with the musicians," said Von Barwig, and he followed the men, unchallenged and unquestioned through the passage leading to the vestry and from thence into the body of the great church. "For the first time in my life," thought Von Barwig, "my profession is of service to me!"

The great church was beautifully decorated with flowers, and the guests were now beginning to arrive. Von Barwig, unobserved, crept silently to the darkest and farthest end of the church. He seated himself in a great pew on the centre aisle, where he could see without being seen. The church was now filling up; it was a splendid sight. The orchestra and the organ played some selections; finally the wedding march from Lohengrin sounded, and every one arose to get a peep at what was happening in the centre aisle. Von Barwig craned his neck to see. The bride had entered the church and was coming up the aisle on the arm of Mr. Stanton, her supposed father, preceded by the ushers. The bridegroom and his best man awaited them at the chancel steps. At the sight of Stanton Von Barwig felt his heart beat thickly. This man had broken up his home, robbed him of his wife and child, and now posed as the girl's father. What a splendid revenge he could take by publicly denouncing him in the midst of his friends. Von Barwig quickly stifled any impulse in that direction. He had come to witness his daughter's happiness, not to mar it by the demonstration of publicly unmasking a villain. He sat back in his seat and watched the proceedings with breathless interest. The marriage ceremony proceeded. The old clergyman who read the service, unlike most of his class, read it with feeling, as if he understood the meaning of the words he was uttering. So clear, so natural was his utterance that Von Barwig followed every word of it, scarcely realising that the man was reading and not merely speaking. When he came to the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the clergyman looked around the church as if expecting some one in the vast congregation to rise and say, "I do." There was no answer. It seemed to Von Barwig that the minister was looking directly at him, and not only looking at him, but tacitly asking a reply. Once more in compelling tones came the momentous question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" Von Barwig was now quite positive that the clergyman was addressing himself directly to him, and he felt that the moment had come to declare the truth to the whole world.

As in a dream one makes no effort to connect the present with the past or future or to account in any way for the logic of events, so did Von Barwig make no effort to understand how or why his secret was known to the clergyman. He simply accepted the fact as it appeared to him and made no effort to resist the impulse to rise and declare himself. So when Henry Stanton uttered the words, "I do," almost at the same moment from the back of the church came the loud, deep voice of Von Barwig quivering with emotion, "I do, I do!" Everybody arose and looked around. For a moment there was great consternation in the church. Cries of "Hush, hush!" came from every quarter and several of the ushers came over to the pew in which Von Barwig sat. At the sound of Von Barwig's voice, Helene started as if she had received an electric shock. Beverly thought she was going to faint and supported her with his arm.

Helene recognised in a moment that it was the voice of her old music master, the man she had been told was dead and buried months ago. She looked quickly at Mr. Stanton for an explanation. "He is not dead; what does it mean?" she asked. "Go on with the ceremony," was all the reply she could get from Mr. Stanton. The clergyman went on quietly with the marriage service. Von Barwig, as soon as the usher tapped him on the arm, realised that he had made a dreadful mistake, and sank back into his seat, trembling with excitement and shame. He had not intended to do such a thing and could not explain even to himself how it had happened. The wedding ceremony was now over, the process of signing and witnessing gone over in the vestry, and in a short while the bride and bridegroom came down the aisle to the sound of Mendelssohn's inspiring wedding march. As they passed by the pew in which Von Barwig crouched to avoid recognition, some of the roses in the bride's bouquet fell to the ground almost at his feet. He picked them up and tenderly kissed them. Apparently unconscious of his presence, Helene, surrounded by her friends, passed down the aisle, down the steps and out into her carriage escorted by Beverly. They were both radiantly happy.

"It's a happy marriage," said society with an approving nod.

"It's a happy marriage," alike said friends and relations.

"It's a happy marriage," said the stranger outside as the blushing bride stepped into her carriage and the smiling bridegroom closed the door shutting them out from view.

"It's a happy marriage," echoed Von Barwig as he trudged through the snow on his way home. "It's a happy marriage. Thank God for that!"



Chapter Twenty-four

As Von Barwig walked wearily up the stairway leading from the third floor to the top floor (or atelier as Miss Husted preferred to call it), he heard the sounds of music. It was Fico playing a waltz, "The Artist's Life," on the mandolin, while Poons extemporised a pizzicato accompaniment on the 'cello.

"Ah, my boys, they are in," he said to himself. "I hope they didn't wait breakfast for me."

"Professor, professor!" came the cheery voice of Miss Husted, as she greeted him warmly. "I'm so glad to see you!"

The music stopped.

"Hello, Anton, old friend," cried Fico as he grasped Von Barwig by the hand.

"Go on playing, don't stop for me!" said Von Barwig, taking off his rubbers and brushing the snow off his hat and coat.

Poons hurriedly put away his 'cello. He was ashamed of playing ordinary waltz music in the presence of Von Barwig. With him tradition was strong; the old man was still Herr Von Barwig, the great Leipsic Gewandhaus Concert conductor, with whom his father had had the honour of playing first horn.

The boy's mother had instilled this into his very soul.

"Why, Great Scott! Look at him! Where have you been? Ma foi, you look like a wedding; oh, Fico?" and Pinac pointed to Von Barwig.

"That's so, professor, you look just as handsome as a bridegroom," burst out Miss Husted.

Von Barwig wore a grey satin tie, a flower was pinned in the lapel of his old Prince Albert coat, and his spotlessly clean cuffs and kid gloves gave him an appearance of festivity that was most unusual. "A wedding? You are right, all of you!" said Von Barwig, with a deep breath. Then he added, "I have been to a wedding, yes, a wedding! Ah, Jenny, how is my little girl?" Von Barwig took the flower he had in his coat and placed it in her hand. "Wear it, Jenny, wear it! Perhaps it will bring you good fortune! There should be two weddings, not one," he added, looking at Poons.

"Two, indeed!" ejaculated Miss Husted, with a toss of her curls. "One is too many sometimes!" Then she asked suddenly, "Have you had your breakfast yet?"

Von Barwig shook his head.

"Then, professor, you won't say no to a bite of hot breakfast with me," and Miss Husted smiled sweetly. Von Barwig still shook his head.

"Ah, do," pleaded Jenny.

"Dear, good, kind hearts, no! Many thousand thanks, no! I have much to do. Early to-morrow morning, my—" He was going to tell them that the steamship on which he had taken passage was going to sail early next morning. He looked at them all and did not complete his sentence. "How can I tell them I am going to leave them forever," he thought.

"I am not at all hungry; I have had breakfast, I assure you," he added quickly, partly to change the subject, and partly to avoid breakfasting alone with Miss Husted. He was in no mood to listen to imaginary troubles.

"I'm sorry, very sorry!" sighed that lady, and she went downstairs, disappointed, taking Jenny with her.

Von Barwig put on his little velvet house coat. "What have you for lunch, boys?" he asked. "I am a bit hungry."

"I thought so," said Pinac, quickly jumping up and opening the cupboard which housed their slender stock of provisions. "Some sausage, some loaf, some cold potato," he said, as he surveyed the contents of the shelf on which reposed the articles mentioned.

"Good; splendid!" said Von Barwig.

Fico laid the cloth while Poons set the knives and forks.

"And here's a 'arf bottle of wine," said Pinac.

"The same wine as yesterday?" asked Von Barwig.

"The very same wine," replied Pinac, handing him the bottle.

The old man pulled out the cork and smelled the contents of the bottle. "It was wine; it is vinegar," he remarked tersely as he handed Pinac back the bottle. "I prefer coffee!"

Pinac rushed to get it. Poons put on a few coals and some more wood into the little stove, and the process of coffee-making began.

"There's nothing like hot coffee to cheer you up on a cold day," said Von Barwig, rubbing his hands. "Not that I need cheering up, boys," he added quickly; "but hot coffee, the smell alone is enough to—to—whoever invented hot coffee was a genius! The chord of the ninth and the diminished seventh were ordinary discoveries; any musician was bound to stumble across them sooner or later. But this," and he poured the ground coffee into the pot, "is a positive invention of genius!"

Pinac noticed that Von Barwig was thinking of something else than what he was saying, for his eyes were glistening, and he was obviously labouring under some great excitement.

"We could have waited for you, Anton, but we were cold," said Pinac. "And hungry," added Fico.

"You were right; quite right!" said Von Barwig.

"Whose wedding did you attend, Anton?" asked Pinac.

"A pupil's wedding," answered Von Barwig quickly; as if he expected the question and was prepared to answer it. "Gott in Himmel, it's cold! Ha, of course," and he looked up; "that skylight isn't mended! Dear Miss Husted, she always forgets it. I must fix it myself. Yes," he went on thoughtfully, "a pupil of mine was married; a young lady. She is very happy, very happy; and I am happy that she is happy—I must always remember that."

"Remember what?" inquired Fico after a pause.

"Always remember that this is a happy moment and that I must live on it. This moment is my future; it is all I have to live on. The wedding day of my pupil is the sum and end of all for me."

"Was it a fine wedding, Anton?" asked Pinac gently. He could see that the old man was much moved and he wanted to bring him out of the world of abstract ideas into the world of tangible, concrete thought.

"Very fine," replied Von Barwig. There was silence for a moment, then he went on reminiscently: "The father and mother of the bridegroom sat in church. The mother of my little pupil is dead, or she—she would have been there. When the minister said, 'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' perhaps you think I did not envy that father who answered 'I—I do!' Ah, he was a fine looking man, indeed yes, a fine looking man! After the wedding was over—I—I walked home. What is in my heart I cannot tell you; but she is happy, happy! What more can I ask? What more dare I ask?" he broke off suddenly.

"What is it, Anton?" asked Fico gently, "you are worried, anxious!"

"You are in trouble, Anton," said Pinac, taking Von Barwig's hand. "Come confide in your friends; they help you."

Von Barwig forced a laugh. "I troubled? Why, no, no! I have been to a wedding; a happy wedding, a smiling bride, a fine fellow of a bridegroom. A few tears, yes; but happy, happy tears! Come, come, long faces! Cheer up," cried Von Barwig hysterically, and he slapped Poons on the back to conceal his emotion.

"Mazette! Do you smell something?" inquired Pinac, sniffing the air. "Something is burning!"

Von Barwig started and hastily looked into the coffee pot. "Ach Gott, boys," he said, "it's the coffee!" and he laughed.

"Is it boiling?" asked Pinac.

"Boiling! No, it's burning! I—forgot to put the water in it," and he laughed aloud.

"Let me make the coffee this time," said Pinac, busying himself at that occupation without further delay.

"Yes, and I mend that skylight," said Von Barwig, climbing up the steps that led to the skylight window. But Von Barwig was not successful. The wind was so strong that it blew away everything that he tried to substitute for the missing pane of glass. Finally he determined, as he could not mend it, to stuff it up temporarily and to that end he asked Pinac to hand him up a cloak, which was lying on a chair, and which he thought was his own. His effort to stuff it into the broken skylight was only too successful, for, as it went through to the other side, the wind caught it, tore it out of his hands and blew it completely away. There was a great outcry as the men realised that Pinac's overcoat had blown away and was lost. It was only when Jenny brought up the missing article, which had fallen into the street below, that their excitement was allayed. Von Barwig made no further effort to mend the skylight.

A little later, after the men had gone out to their respective engagements, Jenny found Von Barwig busily engaged in packing his last few remaining possessions into the little old-fashioned portmanteau which he had brought over from Leipsic with him. He had pulled it out into the hallway, as his room was too small for him to pack comfortably.

"I've packed all your other things away. Everything is ready now," said Jenny in a low voice.

The old man nodded and patted her hand as if to thank her for all her goodness.

"Have you told them?" she asked.

"No," replied Von Barwig sadly; "I can't, I haven't the courage. I can't stand parting; I shall write them."

Jenny was so filled with emotion that she could hardly speak. "You told me," she said after a while.

"Yes, you are the only one that could understand. I had to tell you, Jenny! I can't go like a thief in the night without letting some one know. You will tell them that I had to go, that there was nothing else to do. Explain for me; you will do that, won't you? Don't let them think that I—I didn't care."

Jenny nodded. Tears were running down her cheeks. "And you never found the baby, the lost little girl you came over to find; the baby that is now a young lady?"

"Ja, I go back without her," said Von Barwig, avoiding the question. "That is our secret, eh, little friend? You will never speak of it, never tell a soul, eh? And you write to me, you tell me all the news of the neighbourhood. Let me know how the poor pupils get on without their old music master. Here, Jenny! here is money for stamps."

The girl shook her head. "No, no!" she cried, "not that!"

"Hush! Money for stamps for the little letters, about the little pupils," and Von Barwig pressed a bill into her hand.

"Any one on these woiks?" bellowed a loud, deep bass voice from below.

Von Barwig started as he recognised the voice of Mr. Al Costello. "I see you again before I go, Jenny," he said quickly as the portly person of the Museum manager emerged up the stairway. He carried a large newspaper parcel in his hands. Jenny looked in amazement at the fat, florid face of the big man. The incongruity of this great big, noisy individual calling on the dear, quiet little professor was too much for her and she went away wondering.

"Say, profess'!" bawled he of the large diamond; "if the freak that runs this joint don't put some one on the door, one of these days she'll get her props pinched."

Von Barwig bowed. He had not the slightest idea what Mr. Costello was talking about, but he knew it was advice of some sort and that he must appear to be grateful.

After shaking hands with Von Barwig and making a few passing inquiries as to the night professor's health Mr. Costello came to the direct object of his visit.

"The members of my bloomin', blink house," began Mr. Costello in his most ponderous manner, "want me to present you with this—er—token, as a memento and a souvenir and a memorial of the occasion, in which our night professor gave us the grand shake, or words to that effect. I can't remember the exact hinkey dink they gave me; but, professor, it amounts to this," and Mr. Costello unwrapped the parcel he had so carefully brought upstairs with him. "This loving cup is a token of the regard and esteem in which you are held by us in general, and me and my wife in particular. And I can tell you my wife is particular, very particular," added Mr. Costello sententiously. "Here, take it!" and the Bowery Museum proprietor thrust a large pewter water pitcher into Von Barwig's hands.

The old man was quite surprised and not a little affected. This new proof of the affection of the poor, unfortunate creatures who made their afflictions the means of earning their livelihood touched him to the very heart, and for a moment he was unable to find words to express his feelings.

Mr. Costello lit a cigar.

Von Barwig looked at the water pitcher and then at Costello and began: "Mr. Costello, and—and—" he paused.

"Freaks," prompted Costello.

"No, no!" interposed Von Barwig quickly. "No, not freaks! Ladies and gentlemen of the Curio Salon."

"Very neatly put, but they'd get a swelled head if they heard it," broke in Costello, puffing on his cigar.

"I accept your gift with—with great—great pleasure," went on Von Barwig; "with more pleasure than I can say!"

"Drink hearty and often," said Costello loudly. "May it never be empty! Say, profess', the fat woman's all broke up; honest, she liked you!" and the big man roared with laughter at the bare idea of the stout lady's sorrow.

"The midgets," inquired Von Barwig. "How is their health?"

"You couldn't kill 'em with an axe!" replied Costello.

"And 'eat 'em alive!' She is still eating 'em, eh?" inquired Von Barwig with a slight smile.

"She does nothing but eat! Ah! she gives me a pain; she's a four-flush!" growled the Museum proprietor. "She don't make good!"

"Tell them, I have grown fond of them all, and I—part from them with regret, deep regret! They have kind hearts. Ah, there are many kind hearts in this world," and Von Barwig sighed deeply.

Costello looked at him and shook his head slowly: the man was touched. That any one could express anything like affection or sentiment for the poor creatures in his curiously assorted collection was a marvel to him.

"Put it there, profess'," he said, and held out his hand to Von Barwig. "You're all right, profess'; you're all right, and your job is always open for you, rain or shine, summer or winter! You can always come back—good or bad biz—the job is yours for the askin'. There ain't nobody that can touch you in your line; and you're all to the good at that! Good-bye, profess'," and shaking Von Barwig's hand heartily the big man went away, leaving the object of his praises standing alone, deep in thought.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of a slight scream. It was Miss Husted. She had met Mr. Costello on the stairway, and that gentleman had frightened her by playfully poking her in the ribs and bursting into a loud laugh.

Von Barwig hastily put the water pitcher into his trunk.

"What a rude man!" declared Miss Husted, as she came into the room, holding Skippy in one hand and a dish of hot steak and potatoes in the other. "Well, professor—" she said with her sweetest smile, "if Mahomet won't come to the breakfast, the breakfast must come to Mahomet! There's some hot coffee downstairs, oh, I see you have some," she said, as she looked at the coffee pot on the stove; "come now, sit down and eat!"

Von Barwig meekly obeyed her. In his excitement he had forgotten that he had not tasted a mouthful that day. He did not know how hungry he was until he sat down to the steaming hot coffee and the excellent little steak and potatoes furnished by Miss Husted. If she furnished the professor with food for the body, she also furnished him with food for the mind, for the dear good lady talked, and talked, and talked. Fortunately Von Barwig was a good listener; that is, he had the faculty of thinking of something else than what was being said. He had always been the repository for all her troubles, but until to-day she had never gone so far as to confess to him the reasons why she had never married, and would never marry, not if the last man in the world asked her. She told him of her first engagement and how it had resulted disastrously, how she had loaned the object of her affections large sums of money, until finally he ran away, leaving her penniless, and she had been compelled to work for a living. Von Barwig was very sympathetic that morning and it was this sympathy which drew her out.

"We live too much in the past, you and I," said Von Barwig. Then, after a pause, he added: "I, too, have had a loss. You live in your loss, I in mine. We remember what we should forget and we forget what we should remember. We must turn to the present, the here, and the now; the living claims our attention, not the dead. What is gone before is over and done with. Have done with it. The memory of the past kills the present and the future. It never cures it. Ah, dear lady, live in the present; it's your only chance of happiness. Jenny, August Poons, they are the present! Live in them, don't discount their happiness, your own happiness, by waiting for some impossible future for your niece. It is in them, my dear friend, you will find happiness. It is in them you will find affection and love. It is in their joy you will find joy; their children shall be your children. Don't deny yourself that happiness!"

Miss Husted was silent for a long while. Von Barwig took her hand in his, speaking in a low, gentle voice. "It is the last request I make before I go to-morrow!"

"Before you go!" cried Miss Husted. "Why, where are you going?"

Von Barwig still held her hand tenderly clasped in his. He looked at her sadly, but made no answer.

"Professor!" she gasped, and then for the first time she noticed that his trunk was outside his room; packed, ready to go.

"You're going away?" she wailed pathetically. "You're going away?" The tears came to her eyes. "Where, where are you going?" she asked in a tone of entreaty. "Where? Where?"

"Home," he replied simply.

"Home?" she repeated tearfully.

"Home, back to Leipsic. My life here is over. I should have gone months ago, but I waited to see a dear, dear pupil married. What I have come for is accomplished, and now I go back; my mission is ended. See, I have bought my ticket," and Von Barwig brought out his ticket to show her.

Miss Husted was fairly stunned. She could only look at him in silence.

"Look! see my ticket," repeated Von Barwig, handing it to her to look at.

"First-class?" she asked plaintively. She always thought for her dear professor's comfort.

"Yes, first-class steamer," he replied.

"Why it's a steerage ticket!" she said, looking closely at it.

"Yes, first-class steerage! Ach, what does it matter? I get there all right," said Von Barwig. "Here is what I owe you, all reckoned up to the penny! Here," and he thrust a small roll of bills in her hand.

"Oh, professor!" wailed Miss Husted. It was all she could say. She did not even realise that he had given her money.

"I shall not tell the others until the very last moment. I'll wake them up before daylight and say good-bye to them. Ah, it is not easy to see these old friends go out; one by one, like lamps in the dark!"

Miss Husted could only gaze at him through her tear-bedimmed eyes and shake her head mournfully. Von Barwig tried to cheer her.

"Come, think of Jenny, of Poons! New thoughts, new life, a new family! Now I say good-bye to one or two good neighbours, to Galazatti and the grocer, and the poor old Schneider. I'll be back, I'll be back," and Von Barwig put on his cloak and rushed off.

How long Miss Husted sat there at the table she never knew; she was too stunned to think. Going, her dear professor, going! It could not be true, she would not believe it! But she had seen his steamship ticket and there was his trunk. She went over to the little portmanteau and saw that the key was in the lock. She opened it to see if it was packed properly. She then noticed the little roll of bills in her hand and for the first time realised that it was his money she had taken. "Perhaps it is his last few dollars," she mourned. She stooped down and secreted the money in one of the pockets of his Prince Albert coat; then she closed the lid of the portmanteau. As she did so she burst into a flood of tears, and giving way completely to her feelings, she knelt by the little trunk and fairly sobbed as if her heart would break. When Pinac, Fico and Poons returned to their respective rooms they found her kneeling by the trunk. When they spoke to her she pretended to be singing a worn-out ditty of years gone by. It struck the men as being most tearful for a comic song.

It was some time before Miss Husted had sufficiently recovered herself to knock at Poons's door and inform him that she had withdrawn her opposition to his marriage with her niece. How she made herself understood is one of the mysteries and must remain so, but Poons understood and felt that she was now his friend. With a boyish shout he seized her around the neck and hugged her so tightly and kissed her so fervently that her principal curl came near severing its connection with the portion of her hair that really and truly belonged to her. It was not until she had slapped his face several times, and told him she was to be his aunt and not his sweetheart, that he released her, and even then he insisted on holding her hand and telling her how much he loved Jenny. So much noise did the boy make that Pinac and Fico rushed out of their room to find out what was the matter.

Poons's explanation to them was nearly as lucid as his previous effort to enlighten Miss Husted. He threw his arms around their necks and kissed them on both cheeks and danced them around the room. He pointed to Miss Husted and tried to kiss her again, just to show his friends the relationship between them, but that good lady had had enough of Poons's osculatory manifestations and indignantly threatened to slap him again if he tried to carry on with her! Jenny joined them and there was more explaining and still more kissing. When Von Barwig came back he found them all in an uproar congratulating each other in mixed American and Continental fashion. His presence added to the general joy. He kissed Jenny tenderly and formally gave her to Poons. He squeezed Miss Husted's hand in silence as he realised that his efforts on behalf of the young couple had been successful and he shook hands with his friends.

"It is a day of rejoicing, so let us rejoice!" said Von Barwig, as he emerged from his little room with a violin bow and some music in his hand. He then took a ring off his finger. "Poons, here! This ring was given me by your father twenty-five years ago. Wear it for my sake! For you, Pinac, my Mendelssohn Concerto. See, here is Mendelssohn's own signature! Fico, here is my Tuart bow. It is broken in two places, but it is a fine bow."

"What is all this?" asked Pinac.

"It is my birthday!" replied Von Barwig, slightly at a loss for an answer.

"Your birthday is next month, Anton," said Fico.

"Well, I celebrate it now! It is my birthday, I celebrate it when I please. Come, no more questions, let us make this a day of rejoicing! Come, wish me luck! Your hands in mine, boys, and wish me luck and God-speed!"

They did not understand, but did as he asked them. Miss Husted and Jenny understood, and they were sad and silent as they watched the men wish Von Barwig good luck. As they stood there, clasping each other by the hands and singing one of their glees, Thurza rushed up stairs and shouted: "Some one to see Miss Husted." The good lady invited them all downstairs to her room to have a glass of wine in honour of the occasion, and disappeared below stairs, followed by the men. Von Barwig promised to join them later, but now he wanted to be alone.

After they had gone he seated himself by the stove.

"All is finished," he thought. "Helene is married; a happy marriage. Jenny and Poons are provided for, so my work is done. To-morrow I shall be here no longer! Leipsic, once more Leipsic. Heimweh, Heimweh!"

Although he spoke habitually in English, he thought in the German language. How strange it all seemed! The music of his last symphony had been running through his head all morning. He could hear it plainly.

"I pick up the pieces of my life where I left off," he mused. "Back to Leipsic I go. How strange it will seem after all these years?" Home, home; the thought soothed him. He was tired out, for he had been awake since early dawn and the food he had eaten and the warm glow of the fire on his face made him drowsy. With the music of his last symphony echoing in his mind, the old man fell asleep.



Chapter Twenty-five

Without doubt it was one of the largest and most fashionable weddings ever given in New York's social history. Society attended en masse, not so much because it was the fashionable thing to do, as that the young people were great favourites in their world.

The wedding breakfast was a crowded affair, and both Helene and her husband were glad when that function was finished, and the business of receiving congratulations and saying good-byes was over and done with.

The steamer on which they were going to Europe was to sail in three hours.

"Let us go early, and escape from our friends," whispered Beverly to his bride.

"I must have an interview with my father before I go. I must!" said Helen. Then she added in a voice that sounded strangely harsh, "He has avoided me ever since the ceremony!"

Beverly Cruger had noticed that Helene was nervous and emotional, and he attributed it to the excitement of the moment. But the deep-drawn lines of her mouth and the stern look in her eye indicated anger and deep-seated determination, rather than mere excitement.

"What is it, darling?" he asked tenderly. "Can't you trust me?"

"My father has purposely avoided me," she replied. "He knows it is necessary that I should see him," and Helene then told her husband of her recognition of Von Barwig in church. "I have mourned for him as one dead and gone, and when I saw him to-day rising up like a spectre, as if reproaching me for my neglect, I was terribly overcome. Oh, Beverly, I can't explain, I don't understand why, but I think of him constantly, and my heart goes out to him! Even at this moment I am haunted by the thought of his dear, sweet, gentle smile. Why did my father tell me he was dead? There is some mystery connected with Herr Von Barwig that I am determined to find out! You'll help me, won't you? I mean, you'll be patient with my—my unaccountable anxiety?" Beverly nodded.

"Of course I will," he said. "Aren't you my wife?"

"Somehow or other," Helene went on, almost unconscious of Beverly's presence, "I feel sure that he is in some way connected with my mother. I know you'll think I'm foolish, but whenever I look at her portrait I think of him. Why should I think of him, unless—" Helene paused. "I shall never forget that day, the day I dismissed him. He stood at the door gazing at her portrait, the tears running down his cheeks, and oh, such a sad, sad, longing expression on his face! Why should the sight of my mother's portrait make him cry? What is he to her, Beverly?"

Beverly shook his head. "I wish to God I hadn't sent him away," moaned Helene. "What is this man to me that even the memory of his face makes me suffer! To-day of all days I should be happy, but I'm miserable, miserable, miserable!"

"If Mr. Stanton knows, he must tell us," declared Beverly emphatically.

"Yes, he shall tell us!" echoed Helene. "Let's go to him and demand the truth."

"You stay here, Helene! I'll bring him to you."

Three minutes later Beverly had found his father-in-law surrounded by friends, and had taken him by the arm and led him to Helene's room. It was the room in which the old music master had given her lessons on the piano. Helene now confronted him; and Beverly going up to her stood beside her as if to protect his wife.

"Why did you tell me he was dead?" demanded Helene. Stanton was silent.

"You must tell her, sir," said Beverly. "It is necessary for her peace of mind!"

"It is necessary for her peace of mind that I remain silent," said Stanton.

"But she is suffering!" cried Beverly.

"She'll suffer more if I tell her the truth," and Stanton turned to go.

"One moment, sir," and Beverly laid his hand gently on Mr. Stanton's arm; "you must answer, this uncertainty and suspense must come to an end."

"What is he to me? Tell me!" entreated Helene. "Father, father, won't you tell me? for God's sake tell me!" and Helene clasped him by the arm.

"Tell her, sir," said Beverly in a commanding voice.

"I—I cannot," faltered Stanton; "it's impossible!"

"Then I'll find out from him," cried Helene. Stanton realised that he was cornered.

"Find out what you please, from whom you please," he said harshly.

"We'll go to him; he'll tell us. We should have done that at first," and Helene turned to Beverly.

"I warn you, you'll bring untold misery on your head!" shouted Stanton. He was infuriated at the idea of his authority being ignored.

"We want the truth, the truth!" cried Helene.

Stanton was now beside himself with rage. "Then have it; have it!" The words came in short gasps. "And pay the price for it! The man is your father! Now you know the truth; you can get the details from him!" and Stanton went out slamming the door behind him, the same door through which Von Barwig had gone out in despair the day that Helene dismissed him.

"Herr Von Barwig my father! My father!" Helene sank on her knees and clasped her hands. She was trembling with joy. "Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!"

* * * * * *

As Von Barwig partially awoke from his sleep he became dimly conscious that he was not alone. Without opening his eyes he realised where he was, and that he was still sitting by the stove, for he felt the glare of the fire on his face, and his immediate surroundings were familiar. The snow on the glass roof above, the portmanteau outside his bedroom door, packed and ready to go; the broken balustrade at the back of the hallway, the sink in the corner, the shelf with the lamps on it; all these familiar objects seemed to be present without his looking directly at them. But there was something else, for a dim figure hovered over him like an angel beckoning him to a fairer, happier land; and the perfume of flowers seemed to fill the room.

"I sleep," said Von Barwig to himself, "but I shall soon wake, and then—it will go." Soon the figure began to take form and to his half-conscious mind it seemed to assume the shape of his dead wife. It was her face, her figure as he had known her many, many years ago.

"Elene, Elene!" he murmured, "you have come to take me away from this place. Oh, God, I hope I never wake up!"

The figure now stretched out its arms, and seemed to be handing Von Barwig a bunch of flowers. The old man's eyes were fully opened now, and, as he gazed up, he recognised the face of his beloved pupil. Then he knew that he was not sleeping. The dreaming and waking process had probably occupied but a few seconds of time, but it seemed to Von Barwig to have lasted many hours. Helene was looking down at him now as he sat there, her great blue eyes suffused with tears. She beamed tenderness and love upon him and her outstretched hand held a bunch of orange blossoms.

"You didn't seek me out to-day, so I came to you," she said in a low, tender voice. "I have brought you my orange blossoms!"