"Ah, yes, Madame; I see," said he. "I see. Society must be protected from such folk as I. Yes; that is very clear indeed. We menace it. The place for us is where stone walls surround us—to protect society; locks hold us—to protect society; death comes quickly to us—to protect society. I see all that, Madame. I will go to prison as a punishment, of course. But you will let me see my Anna for a moment—you will let me say goodbye to Anna? She is here, in the next room. I had hoped, you see, that I could make you think that prison was not necessary; I had hoped that I could fool you into thinking that I was not, very much, a danger to society. But you have found me out. You realize how terrible I am. When I thought that I could fool you I had her go to the next room, so that, perhaps, she might know nothing of it. Now, of course, she will know all, but—you will let me say goodbye to her? You will wait for me, out here?"

Mrs. Vanderlyn was not too willing, but, as she thought of it, it seemed quite safe, and she could tell her friends, she rapidly reflected, that she had been swayed by irresistible impulse of mercy. That would sound well, told dramatically.

"I suppose so," she said grudgingly. "But any attempt at escape will be useless. You—"

He looked at her with a sad dignity.

"I shall not try to escape," he said. "I only ask that if it can be done, as long as it may be possible to do it, my Anna shall not know about my sin, discovery, disgrace. Let her think, please, Madame, if you will, that I have gone on a long journey."

This, too, she granted grudgingly. "Oh, very well, if you imagine such things can be hidden. I won't tell her. Just as you wish."

"You will wait here for me while I say goodbye to her?"

"Well, don't be long."

The old flute-player was turning towards the kitchen door, when a loud rap upon the hall door halted him.

"I suppose the officer has grown tired of waiting," Mrs. Vanderlyn explained.

"Come in," said Kreutzer, wonderingly. Few visitors had ever knocked at his door since he had moved to that tenement.

To Mrs. Vanderlyn's amazement, and his own, the door, when it had opened, revealed John Vanderlyn. He was very plainly worried. He did not even stop for greetings, but said, immediately, to his mother:

"Well, mother, what are you doing here?"

Mrs. Vanderlyn was quite as much surprised, apparently, to see him there, as he was to discover her in the old flute-player's rooms.

"My dear boy!" she cried. "How in the world did you learn that I had come here? What do you want? Has something happened at the house?"

Her son advanced into the room with a low bow to his host. It was quite plain that, for some reason, he wished to show Herr Kreutzer every courtesy; it was plain that he had reason to suspect that, possibly, his mother had not done so and that this fact worried him.

"The butler heard you give the order to the chauffeur to drive you to Herr Kreutzer's home," he told his mother briefly. Then, turning to Herr Kreutzer, he said earnestly: "My dear sir, if my mother has said anything harsh or disagreeable to you—"

Kreutzer was astonished, but had no complaint to make. His only wish was, now, to have his opportunity to bid his girl farewell and then to go to prison, where, as quickly as was possible, he might serve out whatever sentence was imposed on him. After his release, if the sentence was not of such duration that it spanned the few short years of life remaining to him, he would once again work for his Anna and endeavor to atone to her for the misfortunes which his own incompetence, he argued, had oppressed her with.

"Your mother," he assured the youth, so that the situation might not be prolonged, "has been polite. Your mother has been most polite."

The young man, with an expression of relief upon his face, turned then, to his mother. "Tell me, mother, what has brought you here," he said.

She did not hesitate. The situation did not in the least depress her. Rather was she somewhat proud of her own part in it. "It's really painful, my dear boy," said she, "but I flatter myself that I've been quite a Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you haven't even discovered, yet, that the diamond ring is gone—is stolen."

He looked at her in sheer amazement. It was clear enough that he did not, immediately, know what she was talking of. "The ring gone? Stolen, mother?"

Suddenly he burst into a laugh—so hearty, so spontaneous, so wholly foreign in its fine expression of good-natured raillery, to the tense atmosphere of accusation on the part of Mrs. Vanderlyn and supreme self-abnegation on the part of the old flute-player, which had, until this time, been vibrant in the room, that it seemed strangely, shockingly incongruous.

"John!" said his mother, in a tone of stern reproof, demanding of her son for the victim of misfortune consideration which she, herself, had scarcely shown, "you must not laugh. It is too heartless—right in this poor man's presence!"

This stopped his laughter, for it puzzled him. He looked from one of his companions to the other with an air of most complete bewilderment. "What's Herr Kreutzer got to do with it?" he asked.

"Why, he has just confessed."

"Confessed to what?"

"That he is guilty."

Kreutzer interrupted earnestly and hastily. He did not wish to have her even tell her son that Anna ever had been suspected. "Yes," he assured him earnestly, "I—I alone am guilty."

The youth's evident amazement doubled. Sinking into a chair he looked from his mother to Herr Kreutzer, from Herr Kreutzer to his mother, with an expression of bewilderment so genuine that, for the first time, his mother was a bit in doubt about her cleverness, for the first time Herr Kreutzer wondered if there might not, somewhere, be a ray of hope for him and for his Anna.

"Guilty of what?" said Vanderlyn, at length. "Of being the father of the dearest girl in all the world, who has promised to become my wife?"



CHAPTER X

"Your wife!" cried Mrs. Vanderlyn. "Good heavens!" She sank back in her chair as much aghast as Kreutzer had been when she had amazed him by accusing Anna.

"And I bought that ring and gave it to her," John went on. "The dear girl! It's our engagement ring."

Kreutzer, who had been staring at him with the strained and anxious look of one who sees salvation just in sight, but cannot understand its aspect, quite, relaxed now and, also, sank into a chair.

"Oh, mine Gott sie dank!" he fervently exclaimed. "Mine Gott sie dank! You gave it to her! Oh, oh, oh, thank God!"

"Why certainly I gave it to her. It's our engagement ring. Bless her heart—she's promised me to wear it as soon as Herr Kreutzer gives consent."

Mrs. Vanderlyn found this too much for calm reception. She did not wish to, she would not believe.

"Why do you say such things?" she demanded of her son. "You're just trying to save him. Why did he confess?"

Kreutzer, now, looked at her with calm, cold dignity. His turn had come. Had she been a man he would have taken it with vehemence and pleasure; because she was not a man he took it with a careful self-repression but no lack of emphasis.

"I will tell you, Madame, why I made confession. It may be that you will not understand, but so it is. I told you that it had been I who stole the ring because I love my little girl so much that I would go to prison—ah, Madame, I would die!—rather than permit that she should suffer. For a mad moment, overborne by your amazing claims, I did believe that she had taken that ring. I thought that she had taken it to help her poor old father—the old flute-player who never has been able to give to his daughter what he wished to give, or what she deserved to have. I thought, perhaps, that Anna, swept away by sorrow for my struggling, had yielded to temptation to help me—the mistaken impulse of a loving child. No crime—no crime! I understand, now, what she meant when she was speaking with me. Her 'secret!' Her 'temptation!'"

He turned to John, now, and addressed him, solely. "Her 'temptation' was to be your wife when I had made her promise that she would not think of men until I came to her and told her that I had picked out the one for her. I see it, now; I see it. Her 'temptation'—it was only to become your wife!"

John laughed. "I'm mighty glad it was!" said he. "Yes; that was it; and it's all settled."

Mrs. Vanderlyn now rose in wrath. Was it credible that her own son, whom she had reared, as she had thought, to worship all the things she worshiped, wealth, position, rank, could have conceived an actual affection for this penniless, positionless, impossible flute-player's daughter?

"Settled that you marry her?" she cried. "The daughter of this old musician? It's impossible! Impossible!"

Her son looked at her deprecatingly. There was not a sign of yielding on his face, but there was plainly written there a keen desire to win her to his side. "Don't say that, mother," he implored, "I love—"

But she was not so easily to be placated. She had an argument to use, which, in her wrath, she fancied might be an effective one—and this showed that the poor lady did not even know her son.

"Your father left me all his money," she said viciously. "If you are fool enough to marry this girl, you shall have nothing—nothing!"

It did not seem to have, on the young man, the instantaneous effect which she had thought it would have. He merely looked at her with a grieved little frown, and, bending towards her, said with earnest emphasis: "That wouldn't make the slightest difference. I'm young and strong. We'll get along somehow—and we shall be together."

"You'll starve together!" she said viciously.

For a moment the two men remained in an embarrassed silence. Young Vanderlyn, with downcast eyes, was feeling greater mortification than he ever in his life had known before. Just then the loss of millions did not matter to him—what really distressed him was that his mother should make such an exhibition of cold-hearted snobbery before the father of the girl he loved.

"That wouldn't matter, mother, in the least," he said, at length. "Money! Do you think it possible that it would sway me? We won't starve together—quite. I'm strong—I am a man and I can do a man's work in the world. But you—remember, mother, you will have to take your choice between receiving Anna—and myself—together—or of being left alone."

Without another word he left the room—left it with an old man's dimmed and misty eyes agaze upon him, full of love and admiration.

Mrs. Vanderlyn rose, too, beside herself with shame and grief and indignation. She turned upon the flute-player.

"Alone!" she cried. "Did you hear that? Oh, the ingratitude, the selfishness, of children!"

"Madame," said Herr Kreutzer gravely, "do you not think he has a right to his own life—his happiness?"

"His happiness!" A rasping scorn was in the voice of the unhappy woman. "Nobody thinks of mine! He is my only son. He knows quite well that I can't live without him—that I could not give him up!"

Kreutzer smiled—not with an air of triumph—the discomfiture of the unhappy woman did not make him feel the least exultant. It was pure happiness that made him smile—joy to think that Anna's wedding would not, after all, be shadowed by her husband's sorrow for the loss of mother-love.

"Then Madame will yield?" he cried. "Madame will make the dear young people happy?"

"Upon one condition. Positively only upon one condition."

"What is that, Madame?"

"Your daughter, really, is charming."

"There I agree with you."

"She is wonderfully well-bred—I do not understand it. I could pass her, anywhere, for a distinguished foreigner—a foreigner of noble birth."

The father of the subject of her praise smiled gravely. "That is very true. She will—what you call it?—look the part."

"But to be quite frank," the lady went on "you, yourself, are quite impossible, Herr Kreutzer. Quite impossible, I must assure you."

"I, impossible? I—you say that I am quite impossible?"

She nodded very positively. "I don't like to hurt your feelings, my dear man; but I must make you understand. I can't have people saying that my dear son's father-in-law is a shabby old musician—a flute-player in a theatre. You see that clearly, don't you. How could I—"

"It is quite true," Herr Kreutzer admitted humbly. "I am a shabby old flute-player and you do not make it quite as bad as it is really, Madame." He looked at her and smiled a rueful smile. "It is not even a theatre in which I play, Madame, it is a beer-garden."

"A beer-garden!" she cried in horror. "Oh—Herr Kreutzer! Worse and worse!" Then, wheedlingly: "Listen. You say you love your daughter."

"Yes; surely; I love my daughter very dearly—almost as much, perhaps, as Madame loves her son. Almost. Almost."

"You would have gone to prison for her."

"Yes; to prison. Gladly would I go to prison for my Anna, if, by doing so, I could save her one moment's pain."

"Well, I'm going to suggest a thing not half so hard as that. I will give consent to my son's marriage to your daughter if you will agree to give her up entirely—to give her up entirely. You understand? You must never see her any more."

This was too much. The old man drew back with a cry of pain. "I give my Anna up! I never see her any more! Madame, do you know what you ask?"

She was not vividly impressed. "I suppose it may be hard, at first," she went on, casually, "but—"

He interrupted. "Hard! I am old—and poor. I have nothing—nothing—but that little girl. All my whole life long I work for her. My love for her has grown so close—close—close around my heart that from my breast you could not tear it out without, at the same time, tearing from that breast the heart itself. You hear, Madame? She is my soul—my life—all I have got—all—all—"

"But am I not giving up a great deal, too? I had hoped my son would marry well—perhaps, even, among the foreign nobility. That's what I took him off to Europe with me for. I'm simply wild to be presented at some court! Surely if I give all that up for my son's sake, you can do as much, at least, for Anna's."

"As much? Why, what you ask of me, Madame, is to abandon all!"

Mrs. Vanderlyn became impatient. It seemed to her that he was most unreasonable.

"I tell you that unless you do, I shall do nothing for them," she cried petulantly. "My son has no idea of money. He's never had to earn a dollar and he don't know how. They'll starve, if you don't yield, and it will be your fault—entirely your fault."

Herr Kreutzer bowed his head. His heart cried out within him at the horrible injustice of this woman, but, as he saw life, to yield was all that he could do. To stand in Anna's light, at this late day, when, all his life, he had, without the slightest thought of self, made sacrifices for her, would be too illogical, too utterly absurd. "Madame, I yield," he said. "I know too well what poverty can be—what misery! Yes, Madame, I will go. But sometimes I shall see her."

"Absolutely no!" said Mrs. Vanderlyn. "I'll run no risk of disagreeable comment. I have social enemies who would be too glad to pull me down. You must give her up to-day and go out of her life forever."

"I do not think she will consent to that. She, Madame—why, she loves her poor old father just a little."

"Of course, of course," she grudgingly admitted, "but she'll get over it. Ah, wait! I have it. You must find some way to make her think it's all your fault—that it's exactly what you want—"

"What I want! To give my little Anna up?"

"Certainly. If you are going to do it, you must burn your bridges behind you."

A big thought had been growing in Herr Kreutzer's mind. The execution of the plan which it suggested would involve the breaking of a resolution which had been unbroken for a score of years, but in emergency like this—

"Very well," said he. "Madame, my bridges burn!"

"You'll do it?"

"You shall see."

With a firm step and an erectness of fine carriage which surprised the weak, self-centred woman who was watching him, he stepped, now, to the door, and, opening it, called loudly:

"Come, sir."

For a moment, after he had reached it, he stopped to listen, for from the lower hallway came the sounds of altercation. He waited till a curse or two had died away, until the thudding of a heavy body on the boards was heard. It merely meant a fight, and fights were not uncommon in the tenement. He stepped out into the hall. "Come, sir," he called into the darkness.

A bounding step upon the stair responded and an instant later John entered, anxious faced and fixing his entreating eyes immovably upon his mother. He was a bit dishevelled.

"Excuse me," he said nervously. "I had to settle with Moresco. He was the officer you had. I'll have to pay a little fine, I guess; but it was worth it. What have you—decided, mother?"

"Your mother," Kreutzer said, before she had a chance to speak, "has given her consent."

John went to her with beaming face and caught her hands. "You're a brick, mother." Gaily he caught her in his arms.

His transport was rudely interrupted, though, by Kreutzer's voice, this time so harsh, so stern, so utterly unlike the old flute-player's usual genial tone that he was startled.

"But I, sir," he said raspingly, "I—I have, myself, something to say."

Son and mother looked at the new Kreutzer (for, suddenly, an utter change had come upon the man: he was majestic) with amazement, almost with alarm. He paid no heed to them but went firmly to the kitchen door.

"Anna, Anna," he called sternly. "Come, I want you. I have something which I wish to say."

Hurriedly the girl came in, looking at him wonderingly. Never in her life had she heard such a tone from her father's lips before.

"Anna, you love this man—Herr Vanderlyn?"

"Yes, father; I—I love him. Yes."

"You love him very, very much?" His voice, now, softened somewhat.

"More than I could ever tell you, father."

She turned her eyes from the old flute-player's to those of the young man, and smiled at him.

"Anna!" he exclaimed, and started towards her from his mother's side.

"Stop!" said Kreutzer and held up his hand. Then, turning again to Anna: "You would not even give him up for me?"

"You would not ask that of me, father," she said confidently, "for it is my happiness."

The old German nodded slowly, somewhat sadly. "No," he admitted, "no; I would not ask it.... You shall have—your happiness." He straightened, then, and looked as her so differently that it startled her a little. "But I, Anna," he said sorrowfully, "I go from your life—forever."

She stood, amazed. What could this mean? At first she thought he might be making game of her, but the look of bitter sorrow on his face convinced her that this could not be. "You, father!" she exclaimed. "No; I will not allow it! Why—why—"

She made a move as if to cast her arms around his neck in her appeal. He stepped back to avoid her and held his hand up warningly.

"Do not touch me," he said, chokingly. "I must be strong—strong enough, my little one, to tell you. Ah, my little girl, I go out of your life; but I shall not forget! I shall remember all our songs, and the old flute—when I play the old flute, Anna, always shall I think of you."

She would not be held back, but ran to him and put her hand upon his arm and thus stood, looking up into his face with pleading eyes.

"I will not give you up!" she cried. "You shall not go! Why ... why ..."

Here was the opportunity for which the old man had been waiting; here was his chance to pay in full for every pang, the haughty woman who had so egregiously insulted his and him; here the chance to show a parvenu her place—and yet to do these things without discourtesy. Drawing himself up proudly, without the scornful look which one of less fine sensibility might have thrown at her in similar circumstances, he gave his calm and dignified explanation with the air of a true prince.

"It is because," said he, "that in my family no father ever has allowed his daughter to marry any one who is not by birth her equal."

There could be no mistaking the amazement which his words aroused among his hearers. Anna and the youth who held her hand looked at him in frank surprise; but it was on the face of Mrs. Vanderlyn that most emotion showed. It was plain that the grand lady found it hard to credit what her ears assured her they had heard. Upon the ship she had remarked that Kreutzer looked as if he might belong to a distinguished family. Now his attitude and carriage were the attitude and carriage of a king—a dignified, but kind and gentle king; not arrogant, as her instincts would have made her in like circumstances, but stately and—decisive. The aristocracy of centuries expressed itself in his straight back; his face was that of one born over-lord of thousands; his steady and unwavering glance was that of a real Personage looking kindly but not with any fellowship upon a commoner, as it calmly swung from its intent pause on his daughter's face to hers.

"Of equal birth!" said she, amazed. "Why, what—"

"Madame," said he, with no abatement of his kindly dignity, "I must explain some things. My life has been a very hard one and my Anna has been all which made it livable. When her mother died—there were objections to the marriage and I also had some wicked enemies—they would have taken my dear child from me. Twenty years of dread of this, of dodging and evasion like a fugitive, in humble places have succeeded. Had they found me, then I might have lost my Anna, for her mother's relatives, who hate me, they are very, very powerful. I have worried, worried, worried, ever, lest I lose her. Even have I had to hide my little artistry in my profession because, had I exploited it, it would have told my enemies where they could find me. Such has been the life which I have led because I loved my daughter.

"Madame," he went on, not patronizingly but with a growing consciousness of his own impregnable position which impressed even the self-seeking woman he addressed, "to you I am only Kreutzer, the poor flute-player; but in my native country I am more—Count Otto Von Lichtenstahl."

"Good heavens!" she cried. "The man is mad!"

"No, Madame. I have been unfortunate. I have not even told my Anna of my title, because I have not wished to make her feel unhappy. It is so long since I have lived as would befit my rank, that, almost, I had quite forgotten it; but always I have kept the proofs."

From an inner pocket of his coat the old man drew a worn cloth envelope which held long, folded papers.

"Look, Madame."

Almost as one who dreams she took the little packet from his hand and hastily glanced through the papers which comprised it. Though evidently somewhat impressed her doubts still remained.

"It is easy to manufacture such documents," she said finally. "How am I to know that these are genuine?"

The old man, wounded to the quick, made no reply, but looked at her with a silent dignity and stern reproof that affected her more than any words could have. It was evident that his pent-up indignation, however, was on the point of breaking forth; but what he might have said must always remain mystery, for at that moment, M'riar entered, a large, impressive envelope held in her hand.

"Postman's bean 'ere," she explained, and held it toward the old musician.

As Herr Kreutzer saw this letter he gasped with astonishment and, taking it eagerly from her hand, quickly tore it open. As he read it great joy showed upon his face. He stood transfigured, speechless. At last he handed it to Mrs. Vanderlyn.

"Perhaps Madame will believe this," he said quietly.

Mrs. Vanderlyn gave an ecstatic little cry after her first glance at the imposing document.

"The Imperial Seal!" she exclaimed. "A letter from the Emperor himself!

"But, what is this?" she continued, as she read farther. "He speaks about a pardon. What have you done, Herr Kreutzer?"

"It is very simple, Madame," he replied. "Now that I have this, now I can tell all. It had been necessary, as I have explained, that my marriage to my dear Anna's mother be kept secret. When, after one short year, she died, as I have already told you, all came to light.

"I was an officer in His Majesty's Imperial guards. One day a fellow officer, an enemy who had always hated me, insulted me because of my marriage—insulted the memory of my dead wife. There was a duel. He fell, as I thought, mortally wounded. The law was strict against participants in duels, and because I could not be parted from my little Anna I took her in my arms and we left Prussia—I believed forever. But at last the Emperor has relented and has pardoned me. He calls me back to Prussia! Ah, it is like him! He has not forgotten!"

"Were you such friends?" asked Mrs. Vanderlyn with awe.

"We were schoolmates at the College in Bonn," he answered. "We have drunk the hoffbrau together—in a beer garden."

Gone was all the scorn of Mrs. Vanderlyn. Quite forgotten, to all outward seeming, were her apprehensions lest the old musician's daughter might be unworthy of her son, her fears lest the old man, himself, should prove to be a handicap upon her social aspirations. She was still running through the papers, and, it must be said, with real intelligence and understanding, and her face was beaming with delight. It was as if from the beginning she had favored him and Anna and was now delighted to find confirmation of the confidence which she had felt in them.

"How absolutely splendid!" she exclaimed. "John, it is really true. I know my Almanach de Gotha—all the titles." Turning, now, to Kreutzer, she beamed upon him with a cordial smile which plainly took no count of all the frowns which, in the past few minutes, she had sent in his direction. "But Lichtenstahl is a magnificent estate. How does it happen that you—"

"The estate was lost to me, Madame, through the folly of my ancestors; but—their pride I have inherited. Therefore, although I know that I cannot prevent this marriage, I will not give consent to it." He turned, now, to his daughter. "Rather, Anna, I go from your life forever!"

"You shall not!" the girl cried. "You are my dear, kind father. I won't let you go alone. I'll stay with you, close beside you, while you live."

She threw herself into his arms and Kreutzer, there enfolding her, looked proudly out above the wonderful bowed head of the distressed and sobbing girl at Mrs. Vanderlyn. This time there was a note of triumph in his voice—a note of triumph which had not been there, even when he had made the announcement of the glory of his birth and family.

Mrs. Vanderlyn looked at them in chagrin. A slow flush spread upon her face.

"Now, mother," her son asked, "what have you to say?"

She forced a sigh as of a self-effacing resignation, but upon her face there lurked, in spite of her, a little smirk of satisfaction—of snobbery which had been gratified, at last, after many disappointments. Her manner had changed utterly. Her tones were honeyed, now; her glance was quite as sweetly motherly as she could make it as she looked from Anna to her questioner and back again.

"What have I to say? My boy, I cannot let you lose your happiness.... And the dear man's confession has made everything so different!" An ecstatic smile spread on her face. "Why, John, he is a friend of the dear Emperor!" She turned, now, again to Kreutzer. Everything considered she made good weather of it on a difficult occasion. "My dear Count," she pleaded, "won't you reconsider, please?"

The old flute-player shook his head. "I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Madame, but it is impossible—impossible."

"Mother," said John Vanderlyn, not viciously, but, still, a little wickedly, "you are up against it. He'll never reconsider."

"But he must! He must!" said Mrs. Vanderlyn, entirely capitulating. "There is nothing I won't do!" She turned, imploringly, to Kreutzer. "Listen. To-night I hold a reception. It shall be in your daughter's honor and I will, while it is going on, announce her engagement to my son." She took the ring which the flute-player had passed over to her, and, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, advanced towards Anna with it. "See, I will, myself, put on the ring."

John protested, though, at this. "No, mother," he said hastily, "I will attend to that."

He took the ring from her reluctant fingers, and, raising Anna's hand, slipped it into place in open token of betrothal. Then, with an air of manly resolution the young man turned to the father. "And I'll do more," he said. "You and Anna shall not be parted. I'll buy the old estate of Lichtenstahl and you shall be its master, as you ought to be, as long as your life lasts. You'll let us be your guests, perhaps, and there we'll all be happy. Eh?"

"I beg you to consider the happiness of our children," Mrs. Vanderlyn said humbly.

Herr Kreutzer smiled. Conditions, now, were different indeed. No longer was he scorned as a poor flute-player, unworthy to become connected with the house of Vanderlyn by marriage.

"Ah," said he, "you beg of me! Well, that is different. Your happiness, my little Anna ... so ... I will see. Only give me just a little time to think of it alone."

"Of course," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, with a deep sigh of relief. "Come, Anna darling, we must get home in time to dress for the reception. My dear Count, I'll send the motor back for you. You'll surely come?"

"Perhaps I come," said he indifferently. "Possibly."

But he turned to Anna with a beaming face on which love shone, triumphant. "At least, my Anna, it is not goodbye—and that is very good. Nichtwahr?"

"No, father; it could never be goodbye with us. Together always, father—always—always—us—together."

She ran to him and hid her head upon his breast.

A moment later and the girl had been borne off by Mrs. Vanderlyn in triumph. John gave his hand to Kreutzer and the aged flute-player pressed it, smiling at him with approval.

As his future son-in-law went out the old man stood and gazed long at the open door. Upon his face there were the lines of happiness, not worry, as there had been for so many years, not bitter grief as there had been that day.

There came a clatter on the stairs which broke the reverie which held him, and he stepped forward to the door, peering out into the hall to see the cause of the unusual noise. An officer approached, and, tightly gripped by her right arm, he held M'riar.

"Say," said he gruffly. "You Mr. Krootzer? Wot? Yes? Well, this kid comes to the station-house and hollers that she's stole a ring and somebody that ain't had anything to do with it is gettin' pinched fer stealin' it. The kid acts plumb bug-house, but Sarge he says fer me to come around and see wot's up. Wot is she, dippy? Did she re'ly steal a di'mond? This don't look like wot you'd call a likely place to find a di'mond."

"No," said Herr Kreutzer, after he had had sufficient time to sense the meaning of the officer's strange statement, "she did not steal a diamond, or anything. It was good of you to bring her home to me. The dear child—she suffers from,—er—what you call emotional insanity, I think. A little too much love for an old man and his daughter, possibly. That is what I think. It is nothing worse than that. Thank you, very much, for bringing her to me. Take this, sir, for your trouble." He handed him, with bland benevolence, his last dollar.

"Say, I'm gettin' it a good deal better than the cop wot come here to this house a while ago. He's bein' stuck together at the hospital in a dozen places, they tell me. He's like a jig-saw puzzle."

"Ah, I wonder what could have occurred to him."

The officer went down the stairs.

"Come in, my child," the flute-player invited M'riar. "Soon you will be better, doubtless. Yes, I feel quite certain that you will be better, soon."

He softly closed the door behind them.

"M'riar," he said slowly, "sit down by me. I think I play you something—just a little something—on my flute."

"My heye!" said M'riar, entranced.

"But no," said Kreutzer. "First come to me. Ah, give me a kiss. Always shall you have a home with me or with my Anna."

Spellbound, after he had kissed her, she sat close by his feet upon the floor until he finished playing and laid down the flute. "I s'y!" she murmured, then.

THE END