17361	----	Note: Text in the original formatted in italic is maked as _italic_. Text in the original formatted in bold is marked as =bold=. THE GERMAN ELEMENT IN BRAZIL Colonies and Dialect by BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SCHAPPELLE, Ph.D. Americana Germanica Number 26 Americana Germanica Press Philadelphia 1917 Copyright[TN1] 1917 by Benjamin Franklin Schappelle. * * * * * Americana Germanica Monographs Devoted to the Comparative Study of the Literary, Linguistic and Other Cultural Relations of Germany and America Editor Marion Dexter Learned University of Pennsylvania XXVI. THE GERMAN ELEMENT IN BRAZIL COLONIES AND DIALECT _(See List at the End of the Book)_ * * * * * RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO JOSEPH G. ROSENGARTEN, LL.D. TABLE OF CONTENTS Lied der Deutschbrasilianer Preface CHAPTER I. THE COLONIES. HISTORY AND LOCATION. The First Settlers COLONIZATION IN INDIVIDUAL STATES. Introductory Remarks Bahia Minas Geraes Espirito Santo Rio de Janeiro São Paulo Paraná Santa Catharina Rio Grande do Sul The Total Number of Germans in Brazil CHAPTER II. THE BRAZILIAN GERMAN DIALECT. Underlying Basis of the Dialect Brazilian German Word Forms Surnames Baptismal Names Terms of Family Relationship in Titles EXAMPLES FROM BRAZILIAN GERMAN DOCUMENTS. The Written Language The Spoken Language Introduction to Glossary Glossary APPENDIX. The Brazilian German Press Almanacs Newspapers Bibliography LIED DER DEUTSCHBRASILIANER. Rein wie hoch am Himmelsbogen Unsrer Heimat Sterne stehn. Mächtig, wie die Meereswogen Gegen unsre Küste gehn, Soll der Heimat Sang uns dringen Aus der treuen Brust hervor, Soll Brasiliens Preis erklingen Aus dem deutschen Männerchor. Fülle liegt auf deinen Fluren, Gottgesegnet Vaterland; Leuchtend zeigst du noch die Spuren Von des Schöpfers Meisterhand: In des Mittags blauen Fernen Wo die goldne Sonnenpracht, Mit des Himmels schönsten Sternen Schmükt sie funkelnd deine Nacht. Deine fruchtgetränkte Erde Gibt uns Mut zu frischem Tun, Gibt uns Müsse, um am Herde Sonder Sorge auszuruhn. Aus des Bodens Scholle ziehen Wir des Lebens bestes Mark, Aus des Bodens Kraft erblühen Die Geschlechter frei und stark. Lasst uns schaffen mit der Stärke Dessen, der die Heimat liebt, Lasst uns beten, dass zum Werke Gott uns das Gedeihen gibt! Ewig heilig, ewig teuer Bleibest du dem deutschen Lied, Heimatland, in dem das Feuer Unsres Herdes gastlich glüht. O. Meyer in _Uhle's Kalender_ for 1916. PREFACE. The primary purpose of this work is to give an idea of the dialect which has been developed by the German-speaking element in Brazil. As comparatively little is known by the English-speaking public concerning the history, location and relative importance of the German element in Brazil (judging from extant English publications referring to the subject), the main part of the work has been preceded by a chapter dealing with these particular phases. This first chapter is also intended to prepare the reader to form a reasonable estimate of the comparative importance and extent of the dialect under discussion in the main part of the work. In connection with this study the author is particularly indebted to the well-known authority on German American cultural relations and conditions, Professor Marion Dexter Learned, of the University of Pennsylvania. It was at his suggestion and under his constant help and advice that the plan was carried out. While on a trip of investigation in Brazil the writer was furnished important information and material by Friedrich Sommer, _Direktor_ of the "Banco Allemão Transatlantico" of São Paulo; Henrique Bamberg of São Paulo; Otto Specht, _Chefe da Secção de Publicidade e Bibliotheca_ of the "Secretaria da Agricultura" of São Paulo; Johann Potucek, Austro-Hungarian Consul in Curityba; J.B. Hafkemeyer, S.J., of the "Collegio Anchieta," Porto Alegre; G.A. Büchler of the "Neue Schule," Blumenau; Cleto Espey, O.F.M., of the "Collegio St. Antonio," Blumenau; E. Bloch, _Engenheiro Chefe da Estrada de Ferro Santa Catharina,_ Itajahy; Nikolaus Dechent, _Direktor_ of the "Deutsche Schule," Joinville; Petrus Sinzig, O.F.M., of the "Convento dos Franciscanos," Petropolis; Edmondo Hees, Editor of the "Nachrichten," Petropolis; Pastor Fr. L. Hoepffner of the "Deutsch-Evangelische Gemeinde," Rio de Janeiro; W. Münzenthaler, _Kaiserlicher General-Konsul,_ Rio de Janeiro; and Heinrich Lotz, _Kgl. Bezirksgeologe a.D._, Berlin. Special thanks are also due to Professor D.B. Shumway, of the University of Pennsylvania, for valuable suggestions and assistance in the final arrangement of the manuscript. The above-mentioned persons are in no wise responsible for any errors which may appear in the text. =CHAPTER I.= THE COLONIES. HISTORY AND LOCATION. THE FIRST SETTLERS. The first reference to German settlers in Brazil we have from the pen of Hans Stade of Homberg in Hessen. Stade made two trips to Brazil; one in 1547 and one in 1549. In the latter instance he was shipwrecked but succeeded in landing safely near the present port of Santos in the state of São Paulo. As he was a skilled artillerist the Portuguese made him commander of the fort Bertioga, the ruins of which are an interesting landmark to this day. Later Stade spent several most trying years as the captive of a cannibalistic tribe. After his return to Germany, Stade published an account of his experiences. The first edition entitled "_Wahrhafftige Historia unnd beschreibung einer landschafft der Wilden, Nacketen, Grimmigen, Menschfresser Leuthen in der Newen Welt America gelegen, ..._" appeared at Marburg in 1557.[1] In this work Stade refers to two of his fellow-countrymen located in Brazil; the one Heliodorus Eoban of Hessen, who had charge of a sugar-refinery on the island of São Vicente (near Santos); the other Peter Rösel, who was located in Rio de Janeiro as the representative for a business firm of Antdorff.[2] Next we come to Manuel Beckmann, the son of a German who had located in Lisbon. He is known in history as Manoel Bequimão and was the leader in the Maranhão revolution of 1684. This uprising, altho it came to grief, may be regarded as the first of a long series of protests against the home government resulting in the declaration of the independence of Brazil on the field at Ypiranga, September 2d, 1822. Beckmann died a martyr's death at Rio on November 2, 1685. His younger brother, Thomas Beckmann, who had also taken part in the revolution, was acquitted.[3] In the 18th-century there was another important German figure in Brazilian history; that of Lieutenant-General Johann Heinrich von Böhm. It was von Böhm who, at the head of Portuguese troops, recaptured the city of Rio Grande in Rio Grande do Sul from the Spaniards in 1777.[4] Von Böhm was assisted by two other German officers, i.e., the Count of Lippe and Marschal Funk. These three characters were in a sense the forerunners of the German battalions brought into Brazil by the First Empire in the early part of the following century. The first colonization of importance by Germans in Brazil did not take place until the early part of the 19th century. Beginning with that century there was a steady stream of non-Portuguese settlers into the country, and of these the Germans formed an important part. COLONIZATION IN INDIVIDUAL STATES. _Introductory Remarks._ The following is a résumé of the German colonies[5] in Brazil and a brief introduction to their history. For the sake of convenience, the colonies have been divided: First; according to the states in which they are located. Second; according to the date of founding. Third; according to the kind of colony administratively at the time of founding. As to this they fall under three categories: a) Private colonies, i.e., founded by a private individual or corporation. b) Provincial colonies, i.e., founded by a particular state or former province. c) State colonies, i.e., founded by the central government, whether during the time of the Empire[6] or since the formation of the Republic. The word _German_ as applied to colonists refers only to natives of Germany who became naturalized citizens of Brazil and to Brazilians of German extraction. Colonies located within the confines of other German colonies (_e.g.,_ Hansa, São Bento _etc._) are not listed. _Direct immigration_ signifies immigration from Europe. _Indirect immigration_ signifies immigration from a South American country bordering on Brazil; immigration from another Brazilian state; or from another colony within the same state. Numerical statistics concerning individual colonies have been avoided except in a few cases where they are of sufficient comparative importance to be noted in a work of this scope. All the colonies coming in consideration (excepting some of those founded since 1890) have been "emancipated," _i.e.,_ they no longer receive special aid from, the government and their special colonial directorates have been abolished. The states of Brazil which are important so far as German colonization is concerned are Bahia, Minas Geraes, Espirito Santo, Rio de Janeiro (Federal District), São Paulo, Paraná, Santa Catharina and Rio Grande do Sul.[7] This is the geographical order from north to south and the one according to which they will be taken up. BAHIA. In this state is located the first German colony founded in Brazil. It is =Leopoldina=, started as a private undertaking by Busch, Reycke and Freireiss in 1818.[8] =Frankenthal=, another private colony, was founded in 1822 by Peter Weyll and Saueracker.[9] Of all the states mentioned, Bahia is the least important so far as German colonization is concerned. This is largely due to the fact that its climate is too tropical to favor such colonization oft an extended scale. MINAS GERAES. The private colony =Theophilo Ottoni=,[10] in the north-eastern part of the state was founded by a German stock-company in 1851. Recent state colonies where Germans form a considerable part of the population are =Nova Baden, Francisco Salles, Itajubá, João Pinheiro, Constança, Vargem Grande,= and =Rodrigo Sylva=.[11] Germans form a considerable part of the population of the capital of the state (Bello Horizonte) and of the important city of Juiz da Fora. ESPIRITO SANTO. The state colony =Santa Izabel= was founded in 1847. The first settlers were composed chiefly of Rhenish Prussians. =Santa Leopoldina=, another state colony, was founded in 1857. A suggestion as to the origin of the first settlers is offered by the names of the different districts into which the colony was first divided; _viz._; Schweiz, Sachsen, Pommern, Rheinland, Tirol and Holland. The two above-mentioned are the most northern of the important German colonies in Brazil to-day. RIO DE JANEIRO (Federal District). =Nova Friburgo=, the oldest state colony in Brazil, was founded in 1819. The first settlers were Swiss, but since Germans immediately followed them and formed the larger part of the subsequent influx, Nova Friburgo is properly classed as a German colony. =Petropolis= was made a state colony in 1845. In reality it had its origin as a German colony in 1838. The first settlers were German emigrants originally bound not for Brazil but for Sydney, Australia. On account of the bad treatment they received on the French sailing vessel "Justine" they revolted and compelled the captain to land them at Rio de Janeiro on December 2d, 1837. Here the Brazilian Imperial Government assisted them and at the suggestion of Major Julius Friedrich Koehler[12] gave them employment on the construction of the Serra road between Estrella, located a short distance above Rio, and Parahyba do Sul, located near the border between the Federal District and Minas Geraes. They formed their settlement at what later became Petropolis. On account of the satisfaction which the government found in these immigrants it turned the settlement into a state colony in 1845, as above mentioned. As in the case of Santa Leopolidina, the origin of individual groups of colonists to Petropolis is indicated by the names of some of the sections into which the colony was divided, _viz.,_ Bingen, Ingelheim, Moselthal, Nassau, Westphalen, Unteres-Rheinthal, Mittleres-Rheinthal, Simmern, Castellaunerthal, Untere Pfalz, Obere Pfalz, Oberes Rheinthal, Wöstädterthal, Schweizerthal, Wormserthal, Darmstädterthal, etc. Since 1850 there has been but little German immigration into the Petropolis colony. On the other hand, this particular colony has been a rich source for indirect German immigration into the more southern states. Among the recent state colonies of Rio de Janeiro that of =Visconde de Mauá= is largely populated by Germans.[13] SÃO PAULO. The oldest German settlements in the state are the provincial colonies founded in 1827. On November 13th of that year the first levy of settlers, all South Germans, landed at Santos. These were apportioned into two colonies; one located at _Santo Amaro_ and the other between Penha and Nossa Senhora dos Garulhos. The provincial colony of =Quilombo=, located between Itapecerica and Contia, was founded in 1828.[14] In 1847 the private colonies of =Ybicaba= and =Angelica= were founded by the Senador Vergueiro. They were put on the basis of _meiação_,[15] the later abuse of which, by others than Vergueiro, paved the way for the famous Heydt rescript[16] of November 3d, 1859. In the following more recently established provincial colonies the population is largely made up of German settlers: =Campos Salles=, founded in 1897; =Jorge Tibiriça=, founded in 1905; =Nova Europa=, founded in 1907; and =Bandeirantes=, founded in 1908. In addition to these, the provincial colonies of =Monção= and =Pariquera Assú= also contain important quotas of Germans. In the state of São Paulo the Germans form to-day an urban rather than a rural population. They are very strongly represented in São Paulo (the capital), Campinas and Santos. The following towns and their vicinities are also important centers of German population: Riberão Pires, São Bernardo, Rocinha, Vallinhos, Helvetia, Nova Friburgo, Salto de Ytú, Sorocaba, Botucatú, Riberão Preto, São João da Bôa Vista, Villa Americana, Pires, Araras, Leme, Rio Claro, São Carlos do Pinhal, Santa Rita do Passo Quatro, Santa Cruz das Palmeiras, Brotas, Dous Corregos, Jahú, Villa Raffard, Piracicaba, and Jacarehy.[17] Excepting the older colonies first mentioned, the German element in São Paulo is largely made up as the result of indirect immigration; in the early years from the Petropolis district, and later from the more southern states and from Argentine. PARANÁ. The state colony of =Rio Negro= was founded in 1829[18] while this section of Brazil was still within the limits of São Paulo.[19] Shortly after its founding the colony was increased by the location of members of the mustered-out German legion of the Imperial army.[20] Subsequently many settlers from the São Bento district in Santa Catharina moved over to this colony. The following provincial colonies are settled largely by Germans or German-speaking Austrians: =Jesuino Marcondes, Ivahy, Iraty,= all founded in 1907; =Itapará= and =Tayó=, both founded in 1908; and =Vera Guarany=, founded in 1909.[21] By far the most important center for Germans in the state is the capital, Curityba. There are some 12,000 German-speaking residents in this city. In addition, a large number are located in the important cities of Lapa, Ponta Grossa, Porto da União and Castro.[22] A large part of the German element in Paraná is due to indirect immigration from Santa Catharina. SANTA CATHARINA. =São Pedro de Alcantara=, a state colony, was founded in 1828.[23] Its first settlers came mainly from the Rhine district. =Itajahy=[24] and =Santa Izabel=, two other state colonies were founded in 1835 and 1846 respectively. =Blumenau=, a private colony (originally), was founded in 1850 by Dr. Hermann Blumenau.[25] The first settlers were mainly natives of Pomerania and Mecklenburg. Blumenau is the most widely known (largely because of its German name) and one of the most important German colonies in Brazil to-day. According to Carvalho "Blumenau constitue dans l'Amérique du Sud le type le plus parfait de la colonisation européenne."[26] The area of the "municipio"[27] covers 10,725 square kilometers and is populated by about 60,000 inhabitants, the great majority of whom are of German descent.[28] The "Stadtplatz"[29] is composed mainly of one street 5-1/2 kilometers in length (including Altona) and is most beautifully situated on the right bank of the river Itajahy-Assú. It contains about 3,000 inhabitants, nearly all of whom are Germans. =Dona Francisca= was founded in 1851 as a private colony by the "Hamburger Kolonisationsverein von 1849." It comprises the territory given as a marriage dot by Dom Pedro II. to his sister, Dona Francisca, at the time of her marriage to the Prince of Joinville of the French House of Orleans. The "Stadtplatz" of the colony was named Joinville in honor of the prince. Dona Francisca was founded under favorable circumstances at a time when many Germans, including members of the "upper classes" were leaving the Fatherland on account of the general political discontent during the latter part of the forties of the past century. This fact is reflected in the German language as spoken in Joinville to-day. It is perhaps more free from dialect than in any other German colony in Brazil. The general cultural status of the inhabitants of Germanic origin is relatively high. The entire colony (municipio) of Dona Francisca contains more than 30,000 inhabitants; the "Stadtplatz" about 6,000. In both, the inhabitants of Germanic origin form the great majority. The colony of =Brusque=[30] was founded in 1860. Its early colonists were composed largely of former inhabitants of the Rheinland, Westphalia, Oldenburg and Baden. Next to Blumenau and Dona Francisca, Brusque is to-day the most important German colony in Santa Catharina. In the territory not included in the "municipios" mentioned above, the larger part of the inhabitants of the following centers are of German descent: Angelina and Santa Thereza, both founded in 1853; Therezopolis, founded in 1860; Palhoça, Braço do Norte and Pedras Grandes. Important numbers of Germans are located along the following rivers of Santa Catharina: Rio Itajahy do Sul; Rio das Tijucas; Rio Braço do Norte; and Rio Capivary.[31] In point of numbers, Santa Catharina is next to the most important state in Brazil so far as German colonization is concerned. RIO GRANDE DO SUL. =São Leopoldo=, a state colony, was founded in 1824. The first settlers came from the Hunsrück section. To-day its population is estimated at more than 50,000, mostly of German descent.[32] We may designate São Leopoldo as the center of the "Deutschbrasilianerthum" of Rio Grande do Sul. The state colonies of =Tres Forquilhas= and =São Pedro de Alcantara das Torres= were founded in 1826. The former was settled by German Protestants, the latter by German Catholics. =Santa Cruz=, a state colony, was founded in 1849. Its first settlers were mainly from Pomerania and the Rheinland. Next in order there followed an important period of private colonization. As a result of this we have =Rincão d'El Rei=, founded in 1850 by Dr. Israel R. Barcellos; =Mundo Novo=, founded in 1850 by Tristão José Monteiro; =Conventos=, founded in 1853 by Baptista F. Pereira e Cie.; =Estrella=, founded in 1856 by Santos Pinto; =Mariante=, founded in 1856; and =Maratá= founded in 1856 by Andreas Kochenborger and Pedro Schreiner. In the year 1857 two provincial colonies were founded, i.e., =Santo Angelo= and =Nova Petropolis=. The year 1858 marked the second period of private colonization. In that year =São Lourenço= was founded by Jakob Rheingantz. The first settlers of this colony were Pomeranians and natives of the Rheinland. In the same year =Teutonia= was founded by a group of capitalists of Porto Alegre.[33] The last period of strictly provincial colonization is marked by the founding of =Monte Alverne= in 1859 and of =São Feliciano= in 1867. In the most recent period a number of colonies supported by both the state and central governments have been founded. Of these the following have been settled largely by Germans; =Guarany=, founded in 1891; =Ijuhy=,[34] founded in 1891; and =Erechim=, founded in 1909.[35] In addition, Dr. Hermann Meyer's private colonies of =Xingú= and =Neu Württemberg= were founded in this period; the former in 1897 and the latter in 1899. The German element is very strongly represented in the important cities of Porto Alegre and Pelotas as well as in the "municipios" of São João de Montenegro, São Sebastião do Cahy (now includes Nova Petropolis), Venancio Ayres, Lageado, Taquara, Cruz Alta and Palmeiro. Rio Grande do Sul has a much larger population of German descent than any other state in Brazil. The main reason why so many Germans settled in this state we may attribute to the climatic conditions which are here more favorable to Germanic peoples than in any other section of the country. AN ESTIMATE AS TO THE TOTAL NUMBER OF GERMANS IN BRAZIL. It is impossible to make an exact statement as to the total number of Germans in the country. The reasons for this are not far to seek. The fact that an accurate census for Brazil does not exist is not surprising when we consider the enormous expanse of territory.[36] The greater part of this is but sparsely settled and largely covered with primeval forests. Official statistics, where they do exist are apt to have been carelessly compiled and often are entirely untrustworthy, "Paciencia," has been the watchword here as well as throughout all other walks of life in Brazil. If we restrict ourselves to estimate, among the total of Brazilian citizens, those of any particular European origin, the difficulty increases. Here the census reports offer practically no help because all persons are listed simply as Brazilians, no reference being made as to their origin. The primary sources in making up the estimates are furnished by the immigration reports as they are found in the "Ministerio da Agricultura" in Rio and the "Secretaria da Agricultura" of several individual states. Even here the statistics are inadequate for our purpose. As a rule only such colonists as came in third class on ships from Europe are listed.[37] In addition, it is impossible to determine how many colonists came by land (indirect immigration) from adjoining South American countries such, as Uruguay, Paraguay or Argentine. The secondary sources, and the ones which in this instance are most valuable, are embodied in the estimates of former colonial directors and other officials, as well as private persons having first hand knowledge concerning the different European elements in Brazil. The official data offered by the Bureau of Statistics of the "Ministerio da Agricultura" in Rio concerning immigration directly from Europe begins with the year 1820. That concerning immigration from Germany in particular begins with 1827. Official figures are available as to the number of immigrants from Germany from that date to the present excepting the years 1830-1836 inclusive, 1838, 1839, 1843, 1844, 1846, 1848 and 1849. The total is 128,233 up to the end of the year 1915.[38] In order to determine the approximate numerical value of the German element in the population of Brazil, many estimates worthy of consideration have been compared. The estimates which in the opinion of the writer have the strongest claim to accuracy, are listed below. As will be seen, those determined upon by Friedrich Sommer, _Direktor_ of the "Banco Allemão Transatlantico" of São Paulo are largely followed. This authority has for years been making a careful study of the subject and consequently his conclusions bear particular weight. Taking up the states in the order as previously, we have: Bahia. No reliable estimates except as contained below in "Northern and Central States." Minas Geraes............... 5,000. Sommer. Espirito Santo............. 25,000. Ludwig[39] Rio (Fed. Dist.)........... 18,000. Sommer. São Paulo.................. 32,000. Ibid. Paraná .................... 35,000. Ibid. Santa Catharina............ 100,000. Müller von Königswinter Rio Grande do Sul.......... 250,000. Ibid. Northern and Central States (including Bahia)........ 10,000. Sommer. ________ Total...................... 475,000. Making a fairly liberal allowance for underestimates, we may regard the number 500,000 as representing the total number of citizens of German descent in Brazil to-day.[40] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _V._ Tootal, p. XCV.] [Footnote 2: _V._ Klüpfel, pp. 121 and 162.] [Footnote 3: _Cf._ Sommer: "Manoel Beckmann." _German American Annals._ New Series. Vol. 14, Nos. 5 and 6, 1916, pp. 189-196. Also Pereira da Silva: _Quadros_.... p. 111.] [Footnote 4: _V._ Ludwig, p. 27.] [Footnote 5: It is emphasized that only colonies (state, provincial, or private) in which the German element forms an important part of the population are noted.] [Footnote 6: These are commonly designated as "Imperial Colonies."] [Footnote 7: A comparatively very small number of Germans are located in the northern and western states of Brazil. They primarily follow business or professional careers and can hardly be classed as settlers. Consequently they do not come in consideration in this work.] [Footnote 8: _Cf._ Sellin, _Das Kaiserreich Brasilien_, Vol. II, p. 80.] [Footnote 9: Ibid.] [Footnote 10: Formerly called "Philadelphia."] [Footnote 11: _Cf._ Report of Pedro Rache, _Inspector do Serviço de Povoamento_, in _Relatorio._] [Footnote 12: Koehler was born in Mainz in 1810. At the age of 23 he went to Brazil and soon became a naturalized citizen of the country. He entered the government service and was promoted to the rank of major in the engineering corps in 1842. Died in Petropolis in 1847.] [Footnote 13: _Cf._ report of the inspector Antonio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho in _Relatorio._] [Footnote 14: _V._ Marcondes de Souza: _O Estado de São Paulo_, p. 195. _Cf._ statement by Ernst Heinke in _Jahrbuch, Erstes_ ..., p. 250.] [Footnote 15: I.e., lease of a section of land for the return of one-half of the yearly products.] [Footnote 16: A Prussian ministerial decree (also adopted by other German states) forbidding the emigration of German citizens to Brazil. In 1896 it was revoked for the three most southern states of Brazil, i.e., Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catharina and Paraná.] [Footnote 17: _Cf._ statements by C.F. Scheler in _Jahrbuch, Erstes_ ..., p. 175 ff.] [Footnote 18: In 1828 according to Grossi, p. 168.] [Footnote 19: Paraná was separated from São Paulo in 1853.] [Footnote 20: _V._ Sellin, _Das Kaiserreich Brasilien_, Vol. II, p. 111.] [Footnote 21: _Cf._ report of the inspector Manoel F. Ferreira Correia in _Relatorio._] [Footnote 22: Information furnished by Johann Potucek, Austro-Hungarian Consul in Curityba.] [Footnote 23: This is commonly referred to as the first colony in Santa Catharina. However, Grossi (p. 168) refers to a _Colonia Alemão o Conselheiro Pedreira_ (state colony) founded in 1827.] [Footnote 24: Lacmann (p. 8) states that _Gross Itajahy_ was founded in 1829.] [Footnote 25: Born 1819 at Hasselfelde in Braunschweig. Specialized in pharmacy. In 1849 came to Brazil and laid out plans for a colony. From 1850 to 1880 he was primarily occupied in directing the colony which bears his name. This colony was emancipated in 1880, but Dr. Blumenau remained on the scene of his former activities until 1884, when he returned to Germany. Died 1898.] [Footnote 26: _V. Le Brésil Meridional,_ p. 309.] [Footnote 27: The term "municipio" denotes a city or town together with the surrounding districts coming under the same jurisdiction; frequently (as used in this work) an emancipated colony.] [Footnote 28: According to census of 1907 and calculations to date (September, 1916) in the archives at Blumenau.] [Footnote 29: The term "Stadtplatz" as used by the colonists designates the seat or governmental center of a particular colony. Portuguese "sede."] [Footnote 30: So named in honor of the president of the state at the time, Dr. Araujo Brusque.] [Footnote 31: Information furnished by E. Bloch, _Engenheiro Chefe da Estrada de Ferro Santa Catharina._] [Footnote 32: Grossi, p. 162.] [Footnote 33: _Cf._ Ludwig, p. 84.] [Footnote 34: A particularly strong current of German settlers has in recent years been moving into Ijuhy, mostly by indirect immigration.] [Footnote 35: _Cf._ report of the inspector C. Lila da Silveira in _Relatorio_.] [Footnote 36: About equal to that of the United States without the colonies and Alaska, but with the state of Texas doubled.] [Footnote 37: The study of emigration reports in European archives does not help us much because by no means did all persons listed as emigrants for Brazil finally arrive in the latter country.] [Footnote 38: In order to enable the reader to put a correct valuation on the popular bugaboo, the "perigo allemão" (German peril), the following facts are noted by way of comparison: According to the statistics above referred to, the German immigrants occupy fourth place in point of numbers for the period 1820-1915, inclusive. They are superseded by: a) Italians. First mentioned in the records 1836. Total to 1862.................................... 209 Total to and including 1915...................... 1,348,777 b) Portuguese. First noted in 1837. Total to and including 1915...................... 977,524 c) Spaniards. First noted 1841. Total to 1868.................................... 274 Total to and including 1915...................... 470,107] [Footnote 39: Dr. Ernst Wagemann, of the Kolonialinstitut, Hamburg, recently estimated the German population of Espirito Santo at 20,000-30,000, according to statements by W. Münzenthaler, German Consular-General in Rio.] [Footnote 40: The above estimates refer to conditions at the end of 1915. The estimate for the total population of the country for that year was 23,000,000.] =CHAPTER II.= THE BRAZILIAN GERMAN DIALECT. THE UNDERLYING BASIS AND REASONS FOR THE FORMATION OF THE DIALECT. As may be inferred from chapter I, the German immigration into Brazil antedating the nineteenth century was quite insignificant. Beginning with the early years of that century, however, there was a steady current of new settlers from the German-speaking sections of Europe into the southern part of the country. The people who made up this current settled, particularly during the early years, in small, widely separated colonial nuclei where they found themselves more or less thoroughly cut off from the outside world and its influences. It is not surprising, therefore, to find that these people have developed a new dialect which we may call "Brazilian German." The Germanic settlers from Europe who had come to Brazil found themselves located in surroundings radically different from the ones to which they had been accustomed in the land of their nativity. Physically they had to adapt themselves to a new climate. From the moment of their arrival on the parcel of land allotted to them they were in contact with many objects for which their mother tongue offered no designation. The animals, plants, insects and even the agricultural implements in the new home land had, to a large extent, names for which the German language offered no equivalent. As a result, many non-germanic words had to be immediately adopted. In reference to the older colonies, the German-speaking immigrants from any particular section of Germany, Switzerland or Austria would more or less settle in a particular section of Brazil. Thus we have Petropolis in Rio de Janeiro settled by former inhabitants of the Coblenz district and Blumenau in Santa Catharina settled largely by Pomeranians. In a general way it may be stated that the older colonies were in this respect relatively homogenious, while those founded since the middle of the past century drew their settlers to a larger extent from different German-speaking sections of Europe. The settlers, largely drawn from the agricultural class, naturally brought with them from Europe a variety of German dialects. These were more or less preserved depending on the relative isolation of the colonies. In cases where a considerable and constant influx of settlers either by direct or indirect immigration was kept up after the first years of the history of any particular colony the original dialect largely gave way to a modified form of High German, due primarily to the normalizing influence of the German school and church. Such is the case in the "Stadtplätze"[41] of Dona Francisca, Blumenau, Santa Cruz and São Lourenço. The preceding statements are intended to present, as it were, the background or basis on which the new dialect was developed. We now come to the most potent influence in the formation of that dialect. It is the Brazilian Portuguese, a language which has no connection with the Germanic group. In this point, therefore, our case differs radically from that of the student of the German dialects which have been developed in North America. The degree of linguistic influence exerted by the Brazilian Portuguese on the High German or its various dialects as spoken by the immigrants varies again according to the relative isolation of the settlements. We have degrees ranging from that of the old settlements in the Santo Amaro district of São Paulo,[42] where the German language has practically in its entirety given way to the Brazilian Portuguese, to that of some of the sections of the "municipios"[43] of Blumenau in Santa Catharina and São Leopoldo in Rio Grande do Sul where a modified German has not only held its own among the inhabitants of German extraction, but has also become the language of parts of the Luso-Brazilian[44] and negro elements as well.[45] About half way between these two extremes we might range the case of Petropolis in Rio de Janeiro. BRAZILIAN GERMAN WORD FORMS. The following general principles are observed in connection with the dialect which has been developed by the German element in Brazil. Nouns form by far the greatest number of words taken over, followed next in order by verbs, exclamatory words and phrases, adjectives and adverbs. The last two appear relatively rarely. OBSERVATIONS ON WORDS FROM THE BRAZILIAN PORTUGUESE. I. Nouns. A. Masculines. 1) In the case of masculines the vowel ending is as a rule dropped, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ abatimento... abatiment... discount. campo........ camp........ field, plain. facão-....... fac......... hunting-knife. intendente... intendent... administrator. pasto........ past........ pasture. 2) The same holds for words of the following type where there have been further orthographical changes with preserve, however, the same phonetic values. _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ macaco....... makak....... monkey. trapiche..... trapisch.... warehouse (on the wharf). 3) Internal phonetic changes have taken place in such words as: _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ kaschero..... kaschör..... shop-man, clerk (in a store). municipio.... munizip..... district. B. Feminines. In feminines the final vowel '_-a_' is as a rule weakened to _'e'_, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ capoeira..... capoeire.... copse. carreta...... carrete..... cart. garaffa...... garaffe..... bottle. lancha....... lanche...... barge. larancha..... laranche.... orange. mula......... mule........ mule. persianna.... persianne... Venetian-blind. picada....... picade...... lane (through a forest). pimenta...... pimente..... pepper. pipa......... pipe........ barrel, tun. roça......... rosse....... clearing (of a forest). sanga........ sange....... ditch. tolda........ tolde....... cover, hood (of a wagon). traça........ trace....... track, design. venda........ vende....... inn, store. C. Change of gender in nouns. 1) Masculine to feminine, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ barranco _m._ barranke _f._ slope. cabresto _m._ cabreste _f._ halter. cachimbo _m._ kaschimbe _f._ tobacco-pipe. camarote _m._ camarote _f._ box (in a theater). cangalho _m._ cangalhe _f._ packsaddle. charuto _m._. charute _f._. cigar. farelo _m._.. farelle _f._. bran. hiate _m._... jatte _f._... yacht. portreiro _m._ portreere _f._ pasture-ground. rio _m._..... rio _f._..... (rarely _m._) stream, river. 2) Feminine to masculine, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ cachaça _f._. cachass _m._ gin, brandy (of sugar-cane). troca _f._... troc _m._... change (of money). 3) Masculine to neuter, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ doce _m._.... doss _n._... candy, confectionery. fosforo _m._. fosforo _n._ match. tatú _m._.... tatú _n._... armadillo. xarque _m._.. xarque _n._. jerked beef. 4) Feminine to neuter, e.g., _Brazilian_ _Brazilian_ _Portuguese._ _German._ _English._ canoa _f._... kanoe _n._.. monoxylon, dugout. farinha _f._. farin _n._.. flour. From the above examples it will be observed that the gender of the Brazilian German noun is, where there has been a change from that of the original Brazilian Portuguese, as a rule, the same as that of the High German word replaced, e.g., _Brazilian German._ _High German._ barranke _f._........ Böschung_f._ cachass _m._......... Schnaps _m._ camarote _f._........ Theaterloge _f._ charute _f._......... Zigarre _f._ doss _n._............ Konfekt _n._ farelle _f._......... Kleie _f._ farin _n._........... Mehl _n._ fosforon _n._........ Streichholz_n._ kaschimbe _f._....... Tabakspfeife _f._ portreere _f._....... Weide _m._ troc _m._............ Wechsel _m._ D. Nouns of mixed origin are quite frequent, e.g., _Brazilian German._ _English._ aboboramus........... stewed (and mashed) pumpkin. korbgarrafão......... demijohn. miljekolben.......... cob (of corn). mesclahosen.......... trousers (striped). ochsencarrete........ ox-cart palhazigarrette...... cigarette (with cornhusk wrapper). polizeidelegado...... inspector of police. puschochse........... draught-ox. rocewirtschaft....... agriculture, farming. sellofiskal.......... revenue agent. vendaschuld.......... drinking-score, debt for drink. II. Verbs. Brazilian German verbs are commonly formed by adding a weak ending, _'-en'_ or _'-ieren'_ to the Portuguese stem, e.g., _Portuguese._ _Brazilian German._ _English._ amolar......... amolieren.......... to grind, sharpen. capinar........ capinen............ to weed. cobrar......... cobrieren.......... to cash, take in (money), laçar ......... lassen............. to throw the lasso. puxar.......... puschen, pussen.... to pull. repousar....... posen.............. to rest. requerer....... rekerieren......... to request. roçar.......... rossieren.......... to clear of weeds. sellar......... sellieren.......... to stamp. tocar.......... tocken............. to beat, strike. trocar......... trocken............ to change (money etc.). In pronunciation the Brazilian German differs still more from the Portuguese than the printed forms would indicate. The main additional differences in this case are the following: 1) The noun ending '_-ão'_ has the value of _'-ong'_ instead of the Portuguese sound represented by _'-ão.'_ Thus, by phonetic spelling we would have, e.g., _Brazilian German._ _Portuguese._ algodong for algodão. capong " capão, garrafong " garrafão, patakong " patacão. questong " questão, sertong " sertão, violong " violão. 2) The _'j'_ instead of remaining sonant as in Portuguese, becomes surd.[46] Thus _Brazilian German._ _Portuguese._ feschong for feijão, schakaré " jacaré. Schwong " João. 3) In the case of infinitives the final _'-n'_ is not sounded, particularly in sections influenced by the Hunsrück dialect. These forms are therefore pronounced, e.g., _Brazilian German._ _Portuguese._ amoliere for amolieren. kapine " kapinen. pusche " puschen. tocke " tocken. SURNAMES. As a general rule German family names are retained in their original form in all sections where the German language held its own among the colonists. This is especially true where such names offer no difficulty in their pronunciation to people having Portuguese as their mother tongue. On the other hand, where such names could not be readily pronounced by Luso-Brazilians,[47] they underwent changes to greater or less extent even in communities where the German element is most strongly represented. Where the German language disappeared the German family name as a rule disappeared with it, or was retained in such a form as to be hardly recognizable. By way of example a number of modifications in surnames are noted below; first, from a section where the German language has almost entirely given way to Portuguese[48], and second, from one of the strongest German-speaking sections of Brazil.[49] 1) Emmich became _M'_. The Portuguese could not pronounce the "-ich" and consequently it dropped off, resulting in the formation of what is probably one of the shortest family names in existence.[50] Felippoffsky became _Felippe, Franz,_ or _Franço_. In this instance one branch of the family adopted the first part of the original family name and other branches made surnames out of the Christian name of the first immigrant, i.e., Franz Felippoffsky. Glaser became _Frittenmaku_. The first immigrant was Fritz Glaser. One of his characteristics was lameness. The new family name is equivalent in meaning to "der lahme Fritz." Gottfried became _Gottesfried, Gottesfrid_ or _Gottesfritz_. Helfenstein became _Helfestein_. Hessel became _Essel_. Klein became _Cleene_. In this instance a German dialect variant of the original became the new family name. Reinberg became _Remberg_. Rochenbach became _Rocumbak_ or _Rocumbaque_. Roschel became _Rocha_. Toll became _Doll_ or _Doro_. Weisshaupt became _Sapateiro_. In this instance the first Weisshaupt was a shoemaker. The trade name translated into Portuguese became the family name. Züllich became _Sills_. 2) Wächter became _Walter_. Werner became _Vierne_. From the above examples it will be noticed that the new family names show, as a general rule, an adaptation of the original to Portuguese pronunciation. BAPTISMAL NAMES. So far as baptismal names are concerned, the case is quite different from that applying to surnames. While the latter have been modified to a great extent only where the German language gave way to the Portuguese almost entirely, as stated, the former have been replaced by their Portuguese counterparts, as a rule, in all parts of Brazil.[51] Probably the chief reason for this is sentiment, or, to use what is in this case perhaps a more accurate term, patriotism. The Portuguese Christian name in the country in question distinguishes the individual as a Brazilian, not as a German. The people under discussion regard themselves first of all as Brazilians.[52] While, according to their idea the retention and cultivation of their "Deutschthum" makes them better and more valuable Brazilian citizens, they carefully differentiate between "Deutschthum" and (to use their own expression) "Deutschländerthum." The following are examples of Portuguese baptismal names which are commonly substituted for their German counterparts by Brazilian Germans. _Portuguese form._ _German form._ Adolfo for Adolf. Alberto " Albert. Augusto " August. Bernardo " Bernard. Carlos " Karl. Edmundo " Edmund. Eduardo " Eduard. Emilio " Emil. Ernesto " Ernst. Estevão " Stephan. Ewaldo " Ewald. Francisco " Franz. Frederico " Friedrich. Germano " Hermann. Guilhermo " Wilhelm. Gustavo " Gustav. Henrique " Heinrich. Ignacio " Ignaz. João " Johann. Jorge " Georg. José " Joseph. Julio " Julius. Leopoldo " Leopold. Luiz " Ludwig. Maximiliano " Maximilian Paulo " Paul. Pedro " Peter. Ricardo " Richard. Roberto " Robert. Rodolfo (Rudolfo) " Rudolf. Theodoro " Theodor. TERMS OF FAMILY RELATIONSHIP IN TITLES. For the terms of family relationship in titles (business, etc.) the Portuguese forms are commonly used where the German forms would naturally be expected (i.e., in exclusively Brazilian German publications, etc.). Among the forms most frequently used in this manner (in full or abbreviated form, singular or plural) are the following:[53] _Portuguese form._ _German form._ Filho for Sohn. Irmão " Bruder. Sobrinho " Neffe. Viuva " Witwe. EXAMPLES OF BRAZILIAN GERMAN FROM DOCUMENTS. The Written Language. The following is an excerpt made from a short story entitled "Unrecht schlägt seinen eigenen Herrn."[54] Der reiche Estancieiro[55] João Rodrigues sass eines Tages unter der grossen schattigen Figueira,[56] welche das Wahrzeichen der Estancia[57] São Manoel bildete. Er berechnete eben, wie viel Schlachtvieh er dieses Jahr verkaufen könnte, und fand, dass es mindestens 700 Stück seien. Das gab ein schönes Häufchen Geld; denn die Viehpreise waren dieses Jahr hoch. Unter 60$000[58] sollte ihm kein Stück aus der Invernada[59] fort; das machte rund 42 Contos[60] aus. ... "Compadre,[61] ich habe einen Auftrag, für eine benachbarte Charqueada[62] rund 1000 Stück Schlachtvieh aufzukaufen...." ... Damit war der Handel abgeschlossen, und die beiden Compadres verabschiedeten sich, jeder zufrieden: Der Estancieiro, weil er ein gutes Geschäft gemacht hatte, und der Tropeiro,[63] weil er morgen ein noch besseres zu machen hoffte! Des anderen Tages stellte sich unser Estancieiro bei guter Zeit im Geschäftshause ein und fand daselbst seinen Compadre Bento schon in angeheiteter Stimmung in der Venda[64] sitzen. ... "Noch für einen Augenblick," stotterte da wieder der betrunkene Tropeiro. "Unter uns beiden braucht's zwar keine Quittung, ich habe dein Vieh und du hast mein Geld; damit ist unsere Sache erledigt. Aber bei den Herren von der Charqueada muss ich etwas Schwarz auf Weiss vorweisen; ..." ... So wollte er gleich heute die ein paar hundert Milréis betragene Vendaschuld begleichen. ... "Einen Moment Gedult, Compadre João, gleich ists prompt."[65] Und wirklich, es dauerte nur einige Minuten, so hatte der Estancieiro seine Rechnung zu Händen, sie betrug 765$000. Er zug 4 von den funkelnagelneuen Zweihunderten heraus und reichte dieselben dem Geschäftsmanne hin. Der beschaute sich die Dinger genau, holte aus seinem Geldschrank einen Schein derselben Estampa[66] heraus, befühlte das Papier, schüttelte nachdenklich den Kopf und sagte nur das eine Wörtchen "falsch"! EXAMPLES FROM ADVERTISEMENTS. Advertisements in almanacs, newspapers, etc., appearing in German and intended only for the German reading-public offer a rich source to the student of Brazilian German words and phrases. The following examples are by no means unusual. They set forth the principle which obtains in practically all German publications in Brazil. 1.) FROM ALMANACS. (For meanings of terms _V._ Glossary.) Luchsinger E. Co.... Import von Fazendas und Molhados....[67] Selbach e Cia.... Internationale Verlags- u. Sortiments-Buchhandlung, Buchdruckerei, Buchbinderei und Kartonnagen-Fabrik....[68] Fraeb e Co.... Export von ... Haar, Wolle, Xarque, Gorduras, etc., etc.[69] Otto Niemeyer. Seccos e Molhados.... Eigenes Armazem und Trapiche....[70] ... José A. Picoral ... Papier-und Palhazigaretten. ... Leichte und starke Charuten....[71] Fraeb e Co.... Import: Fazendas, Miudezas, Molhados, Ferragens, Salz u.s.w....[72] Vva. José Müller e Cia. Geschäftshaus in Fazendas, Louça, Miudezas, Seccos und Molhados, Kolonie-Produkten.[73] ... Sattlerei von Jorge Pedro Grub ... Zuggeschirre für Aranhas, Zäume, Caronas, Peitschen u.s.w. ...[74] Paulo Grötzner, Biscoutosfabrik "Lucinda." ... Leistungsfähigste Fabrik in Biscontos, Bolachas, Bonbons, Konfitüren und allen besseren Backwaaren. Escriptorio und Verkauf en gros: Alto Cabral.[75] 2.) FROM NEWSPAPERS. (For meanings of terms _V._ Glossary.) Comp. Nac. de Navegação Costeira. Der neue Doppelschraubendampfer _Itajuba_ am Trapiche der Costeira ... Befördert Passageire, Frachten, Encommendas, etc.[76] Antigo Hotel Koch.... Bevorzugtes Haus der Musterreiter. Eigenes Portreiro. Sorgsame Verpflegung der Reittiere. João Spitteler, Eigentümer.[77] Hotel do Sul von Felippe Werb Filho. Wird dem reisenden Publikum ... empfohlen.... Gute Stallungen.[78] Kolonisten pflanzt Aipim, Mandioca, Araruta!...[79] Aranha in bestem Zustande mit vorzüglichem Pferd zu verkaufen.[80] Lageado. Carlos Genehr, Zahnarzt, empfiehlt sich den Bewohnern dieser Villa und der umliegenden Pikaden....[81] ... zwischen der Eisenbahnstation und der Villa gelegen, für Kolonisation vermessen und in Lotes von 4 bis 25 Alqueires einteilen lassen ... der darauf befindliche Matebestand ein ganz hervorragender.... Der Eigentümer Bernardo Olsen....[82] 2 Pferde zugelaufen (1 Baio und 1 Zaino) Gegen erstattung der Unkosten abzuholen bein Inspektor Jakob Neuhaus, ...[83] POETRY. A great deal of excellent poetry has been written by representatives of the German element in Brazil. These writers have, however, primarily used High German as their medium of expression and consequently their works do not come in consideration in this study of a dialect. On the other hand, we frequently come across poems where Brazilian German forms are more or less in evidence. The following, in which the Hunsrück dialect forms the Germanic basis is presented by way of example.[84] (Apologies to Goethe!) _Gutes Geschäft oder eine Pechincha._[85] Wer reit' lo dorch Storm un Wettergeriesel? Das is der Schrauber auf seime Isel. Der Hut is gebunne fest unner dem Kinne, Der Musterranze bammelt ihm hinne. "Freund Michel, was machst für ein banges Gesicht?" "'Sein Sie's wahrhaftig? Ich glaabten es nich! "'Der Schrauber wirklich mit Mala[86] un Ranze? "'Das is lo die reine Pikadewanze!'"[87] "Mein lieber Freund mach' Platz mal hier! "Die schönsten Muster zeige ich dir: "Algodão,[88] Riscado[89] und Druckkattun--" "'Laassen Se zu! Was soll 'ch mit dem Krempel lo tun?'" Dau, Vadder! raunt Mutter, loss 's Hannele sein! Der Schrauber seift dich e sunst jämmerlich ein. "'Halt dei Mund un scher' dich rein in dei Kich,' "'De Schrauber kenn' un seine Schlich!'" "Willst, lieber Freund, du das Neueste sehn? "Hier hochfeine Ponchos[90] und Kasemir schön, "Korsetts und bunte Strümpf zum Präsent-- "Bei Bahrzahlung zehn Prozent Abatiment"[91] Dau, Vadder! raunt Mutter, loss ja dich nit schnappe, Du hast noch genug an de Meier ze berappe! "Still!" murmelte Herr Michel, "un schwätze mer nit! "So'n Mann als wie eich, der hat je Kredit." Der Michel kauft und Herr Schrauber notiert, Drei Monate drauf hat der Michel falliert. Der Schrauber hört es: "Sie fassen ihn an! Sie gehen ihm an seine Venda[92] heran!" Herrn Schrauber grausset's, er steigt auf die Mule,[93] Ihm ist's um zehn Contos[94] am Herzen so schwule, Er tät im Galoppe "zer Venda reite," Er kam, sagt _bom dia!_[95]--Der Michel war pleite!" THE SPOKEN LANGUAGE. The dialect under discussion, as spoken in the "pikaden" is practically incomprehensible to the German-speaking person traveling in Brazil for the first time. To the uninitiated it is even harder to understand than the German dialects of North America. The latter developed under the influence of a related language, as has been stated, while the former came into being because of linguistic influences entirely foreign. In order to give an idea of the spoken Brazilian German the following "Sprachprobe" by Breitenbach[96] is reproduced. While of somewhat peculiar composition, the example below quoted is a good representation of spoken Brazilian German. Ein Kolonist fährt in seinem mit einer Tolde[97] versehenen Wagen aus, der mit einem Tupiano[98] und einem Zebruno[99] bespannt ist, welche er von einem Tropeiro[100] von der Serra[101] gekauft hat. Er will seinen Compadre[102] besuchen, findet die Porteira[103] zur Pikade[104] verschlossen, öffnet sie und erfährt von der ihm entgegenkommenden Frau seines Compadre, der Mann sei in die Rosse[105] gegangen, um einige Miljekolben[106] für die Mule[107] und einige Bobres[108] für die Schweine zu holen, welche im Poteiro[109] seien. Wenn er den Compadre aufsuchen wolle, so würde er ihn leicht finden, jenseits der Sange,[110] die aber steile Barankas[111] habe, so dass man beim Ueberschreiten derselben vorsichtig sein müsse. Da unser Freund seinen Compadre in der Rosse nicht findet, so geht er in den nahen Wald, aus dem Hundgebell ihm entgegen schallt. Mit seinem Fakong[112] schlägt er einige Taquaras[113] und Zipos[114] nieder, um sich den Weg zu bahnen. Bald trifft er denn auch seinen Compadre, der soeben ein Tatu[115] ausgegraben und mit seinem Fuchs[116] erschlagen hat. Nach den üblichen Begrüssungen begeben sich beide ins Haus und beschliessen, sich am Nachmittag die Carreira[117] anzusehen. Gleichzeitig will der Compadre einige Säcke Farin[118] mitnehmen, um sie dem Vendisten[119] zu verkaufen. Zu diesem Behuf muss eine Mule eingefangen werden was aber nicht ganz leicht ist. Die Mule ist nämlich sehr störrisch und muss gepusst[120] und getockt[121] wereden. Beim Hause angelangt, wird dem Tiere die Cangalje[122] aufgelegt und die Ladung befestigt. Dann geht's fort. INTRODUCTION TO THE GLOSSARY OF BRAZILIAN GERMAN TERMS. For reasons previously stated, the language or dialect of the German settlers in Brazil underwent an almost immediate change, not in its syntax, but in its vocabulary. Had the immigrants and their descendants only adopted such words as had no equivalent in their mother-tongue, our case would be much simpler. They went, however, much further, and, as a result even many of the commonest words dealing with the household or farm were replaced at an early date by Brazilian Portuguese terms, or by new formations based on them. In the following representation of Brazilian German words and phrases an attempt has been made to select only such as have been adopted by German-speaking citizens in all parts of the country in question. In the few cases where words or phrases noted seem characteristic of any particular section of Brazil that fact is indicated. The glossary, moreover, makes no claim to completeness. The sources[123] of the expressions listed are Brazilian German newspapers, books, almanacs, pamphlets, advertisements, "Festschriften," etc.,[124] as well as conversation with colonists. In the latter instance only such terms as were repeatedly used to the exclusion of the corresponding German terms were noted.[125] In the glossary is given first the Brazilian German term (in certain cases with variations), followed, by way of comparison as well as definition, by the corresponding High German form. If the Brazilian Portuguese[126] equivalent differs in form or gender it is given in parentheses. If no such parenthetical form appears it signifies that both languages are in the particular instance identical.[127] The German element in mixed compounds being self-evident, such words are treated as the simple Brazilian German forms. Gender is indicated except in the case of masculine nouns ending in _'-o'_ and feminines ending in _'-a.'_ Terms dealing with weights, measures and coinage have not been noted except in cases where the Brazilian German form shows a modification of the original and in instances where the terms refer to units no longer current.[128] Special abbreviations: R. = Rio de Janeiro. R.G. = Rio Grande do Sul. GLOSSARY. =A.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ abacaxi _m._ ................. Ananas. abatiment _m._ (abatimento) .. Preisermässigung, abobora _or_ abobra .......... Kürbis. abobora-mus _n._ ............. Kürbis-mus. agrião ....................... Brunnenkresse. R. aipim _m._ (aipim, aipii _m._) ...................... Maniok (süsser). aldeamento _m._ .............. Indianersiedlung. R.G. aldeia (aldeia _or_ aldea) ... Dorf, Weiler. alfandega .................... Zollamt, Steueramt. algodão ...................... Baumwolle. amolieren (amolar) ........... schleifen, schärfen. aranha ....................... Gig (_vehicle_). araruta ...................... Pfeilwurz. armazem _m._ ................. Kaufladen. arroba, arrobe _f._(arroba) .. 14.689 Kg. (_Weight._) arroio ....................... Bach. até a volta .................. bis zur Rückkehr! ateloge _n._ ................. Aufwiedersehen. (_From_ até logo. _Not used as noun in Portuguese._) até logo ..................... auf Wiedersehen! =B.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ baio ......................... Pferd (castanienbraunes). bakeljau _m._ (bacalhão) ..... Stockfisch, Kabeljau. balse _f._ ................... Fäbre, Floss. banhado ...................... Sumpf. baradi _m.V._ cachaça ........ baranca ...................... Böschung, Uferböschung. baranke _f.V._ baranca ....... barracão ..................... Baracke, Einwandererhaus. barranke _f.V._ baranca ...... barre _f._ (barra) ........... Hafeneinfahrt. barricaria ................... Böttcherei. batata, batate, _f._ (batata) Kartoffel (brasilianische). _(The term "batate" is at times applied to the "Irish" potato, altho the latter is generally called "Kartoffel" or "europäische Kartoffel.")_ batate doce _f._ (batata doce) Süsskartoffel. becco ........................ Gässchen, kleine Gasse. benzedor _m._ ................ Wunderdoktor. benzedura .................... Besprechung der Krankheiten, Beschwörung. bicho ........................ Insekt, Tier. biscouto ..................... Zwieback. boa noite .................... gute Nacht! guten Abend! boas tardes .................. guten Tag! guten Abend! bohre _f. V._ abobora ........ bolacha ...................... Schiffszwieback. bom .......................... gut! bombilha ..................... Materörchen (i.e., Rörchen zum Mate- trinken). bombacha (bombachas _f.plu._) Pluderhose. R.G. bom dia ...................... guten Tag! bond _m._ (bonde _m._) ....... Tram, Strassenbahnwagen. botina ....................... Halbstiefel. brasse _f._ (braça) .......... 2.20 M. _(Measure of length.)_ buger _m._ (bugre _m._) ...... Indianer (Botokude). C. _Brazilian German._ _High German._ cabo ......................... Unteroffizier. caboclo ...................... Indianermischling. _(Portuguese and Indian.)_ cabreste _f.V._ kabreste ..... cachaça _m._, cachass _m._ (cachaça) .................. Zuckerrohrschnapps. cacique _m._ ................. Indianerhäuptling. cadea, cade _f._ (cadea, cadeia) .................... Gefängniss. camarão, camarong _m._ (camarão) .................... Krabbe. camarote _f._ (camarote _m._) Theaterloge. campamento (acampamento) ..... Feldlager. campanha ..................... Ebne. campo, camp _m._ (campo) ..... Grassland, Flur. caneca ....................... Wasserbecher. cangalje _f._ (cangalho) ..... Kreuzbocksattel, Packsattel. canna _m.V._ cachaça ......... canne _f._ (canna, cana) ..... Zuckerrohr. canoa, _n._, canu _n._ (canoa _f._) ............... Einbaum. capa ......................... Mantel. capão, capões _m.plu._ ....... Wald (kleiner, ausgerotteter) capataz _m._ ................. Vorarbeiter.[TN2] capinen _V._. kapinen ........ capitão ...................... Hauptmann. capivara ..................... Wasserschein. capoeire _f._ (capoeira) ..... Gebüsch. _(Land which had been cleared, but which is again covered with underbrush.)_ caramba ...................... potztausend! Donnerwetter! carapato (carrapato) ......... Zecke, Holzbock. carcereiro ................... Kerkermeister. careje _f._ .................. Materösterei. cargueiro .................... Lastträger, Lasttier, Lasttierführer. carona ....................... Sattelkissen. carreira ..................... Pferderennen, Wettrennen. carrete _f._ (carreta) ....... Karren. carreteiro ................... Fuhrmann, Kärrner. carroça ...................... Karosse, Kutsche. carroceiro ................... Fuhrmann. carteira ..................... Brieftasche. catuno ....................... Dieb. caspite ...................... potztausend! Donnerwetter! cautela (cautela, cautella) .. Einschreibezettel. cavalheiro ................... Herr, Edelmann. (_Gentleman._) caxeiro ...................... Ladendiener. caxoeira (cachoeira) ......... Wasserfall, Stromschnelle. chacara (chacara, chacra) .... Grundstück, Landhaus. chapeo republicano ........... Hut (der Gauchos). R.G. charque _n.V._ xarque ........ charqueada _f.V._ xarqueada .. charute _f._, cherrute _f._ (charuto, cherruto) ...... Zigarre. chilena ...................... Spore. (_As worn by gauchos._) R.G. chimarrão (chimarra) ......... Ervatee. (_Without sugar._) R.G. churasco (churrasco) ......... Spiessbraten. R.G. cigarro ...................... Zigarette. (_Usually wrapped in palha._") cinema _m._ .................. Lichtbilderhalle. cipó _m._ .................... Liane, Schlingpflanze. cobrança ..................... Einkassierung. cobrieren _V._ kobrieren ..... cochilha ..................... Hügelkette, Hügelland. cochinilhos _m. plu._ ........ Kochenillewaren. compadre _m._ ................ Gevatter, Freund. companheiro .................. Gefährte, Kamerad. coronel ...................... Oberst. corral _m._ .................. Viehhof. couveflor _n._ (couveflor _f._) Blumenkohl. (R.) coxemalade _f._ (coxo = lame _and_ melado = _sap of sugar cane_) ..................... Lecksyrup. coxinilhos _V._ cochinilhos .. cuia, cuja, cuya (cuia, cuya) Matebecher. (_Made of a hollowed gourd._) =D.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ delegado ..................... Inspektor, Abgeordneter. despaschieren (despachar) .... abfertigen[TN3], aus dem Zollamt holen. devolut (devoluto) ........... vakant, brachliegend. (Devolutes Land == Regierungsland.) diligencia ................... Postwagen, Diligence. dispaschieren _V._ despachieren. .............. doca (doca) .................. Hafendamm, Landeplatz. doce _n._, doss n. (doce _m._) Süssigkeit, Konfekt. dona ......................... Frau, Fräulein. =E.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ egua (egua, egoa) ............ Stute. encommenda, ericommende _f._ (encommenda) ............. Sendung (per Post, Bahn oder Schiff). enfin (enfin, emfim) ......... mit einem Worte, endlich. engenho _m._ ................. Zuckermühle. erva ......................... Paraguaythee (ilex paraguayensis). erva mate _m._ ............... _Ibid._ escriptorio .................. Büreau. eskadron _m._ (esquadão) ..... Schwadron. está bom ..................... es ist gut! estampa ...................... Gepräge, Abdruck. estancia ..................... Landgut, Viehzüchterei. estancieiro .................. Viehzüchter. e tanto ...................... und so und so viel. =F.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ fac _m._ (facão) ............. Waldmesser. fakong _m. V._ fac ........... farello, farelle _f._ (farelo) Kleie. farinha, farin _n._ (farinha) Mehl, Mandiocamehl. farrapo, farrape _m._ (farrapo) Revolutionär. (_Of 1835._) R.G. fazenda ...................... Landgut fazendas ..................... Schnittwaren, Stoffe, Waren. Landgüter. fazendenloge _f._ (fazendas _and_ loja) ................ Warenladen. feijão ....................... Schminkbohne, schwarze Bohne. feitor _m._ .................. Verwalter, Aufseher. ferragens _f. plu._ .......... Eisenwaren. figueira ..................... Feigenbaum. foice _f._ (foiça, foice, fouce, fouxe) .............. Buschsichel. força ........................ Streitkraft, Revolutionärbande. fosforo _n._ (fosforo) ....... Streichholz. freguéz _m._ ................. Kunde. freguezia .................... Kirchspiel. fuchs _m.V._ foice ........... fumo, fum _m._ (fumo) ........ Tabac. =G.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ gaita ........................ Dudelsack, Zieharmonica. gallinha ..................... Huhn. galpão ....................... Schuppen, Hütte. garaffe _f._ (garaffa) ....... Flasche. garça ........................ Reiher. garonne _f._ (garonna) ....... Reitdecke, Satteldecke (aus Leder). garrafão, garafão (garrafão) . grosse Flasche. garupa ....................... Kruppe. gateado ...................... schwarzgefleckt (von Tieren). gazose _f._ (gazosa) ......... Brauselimonade. gordura ...................... Fettware (i.e., Schmalz, etc.). governador _m._ .............. Statthalter. gramme _f._ (grama) .......... Weidegras, Hundgras, Quecken. guisada (guisado) ............ Ragout, Würzspeise. =I.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ intendent _m._ (intendente _m._) .......... Verwalter, Landrat, Intendant. invernada .................... Winterquartier. (_For cattle._) =J.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ jacaré _m._ .................. Krokodil, Kaiman. jaguatirica .................. Tigerkatze. jatte _f._ (hiate _m._) ...... Segelschiff, Jacht, Zweimaster. =K=. _Brazilian German._ _High German._ kabokler _V._ caboclo ........ kabreste f. (cabresto) ....... Halfter. kadee _f.V._ cadea ........... kamp _V._ campo .............. kangalje _f.V._ cangalje ..... kanoe _n._, kanoh _n.V._ canoa kapinen (capinar) ............ gäten, jäten. karrete _V._ carrete ......... kartonnage _f._ (cartonnagens _f. plu._) ................. Pappware, Pappschachtel. kaschass _m.V._ cachaça ...... kaschero, kaschör _m.V._ caxeiro .................... kaschimbe, _f._ (cachimbo) ... Tabakspfeife. kobrieren (cobrar) ........... einkassieren, einnehmen. korbgarrafão (garaffão) ...... Korbflasche. =L=. _Brazilian German._ _High German._ laço ......................... Schlinge. ladeira ...................... Abhang (eines Berges), steiler Weg. lagarto ...................... Eidechse (grosse). lancha, lanche _f._ (lancha) . Lastkahn, Boot. larancha, laranche _f._ laranje _f._ (laranja) ..... Orange. lassen (laçar) ............... Schlinge werfen, mit der Schlinge fangen. late _f._, latte _f._ (lata) . Blechbüchse, Dose, Kasten. lelong _f._ (leilão) ......... Versteigerung, Auktion. löge _f._ (loja) ............. Kaufmannsladen. lote _f._ .................... Grundstück, Landparzelle, Lose. louça ........................ Tafelgeschirr. =M=. _Brazilian German._ _High German._ macaco ....................... Affe. macho ........................ Maulesel. mais ou menos ................ mehr oder weniger, ungefär. makak _m.V._ macaco .......... mala ......................... Reisetasche, Mantelsack. mamong _m._ (mamão) .......... Rizinus, Wunderbaumfrucht. mandioca ..................... Maniok. mandubi _f., m._ (mandubi _m._, amendoim _m._) ............. Erdnuss. manga ........................ Hofplatz (für Tiere). mangeira (manjeira) .......... Futterstätte, Viehhof. marchador .................... in langsamem Trapp. mascato (mascate _m._) ....... Hausierer, Trödler. mata-bicho _(Slang)_ ......... Schnapps. matungo ...................... Klepper. mellado ...................... Syrup. mercado ...................... Markt. mesclahosen _f. plu._ (mescla = Mischung) ................ gestreifte Hosen. mestizo (mestiço) ............ Mestize, Mischling. mico ......................... Pfeifaffe. milho ........................ Mais. miljekolben _m._ (miljo) ..... Maiskolben. miudezas _f. plu._ ........... Kleinigkeiten, kleine Gegenstände. mula, mule _f._ (mula) ....... Maulesel, Maultier. multe _f._ (multa) ........... Geldstrafe. multieren (multar) ........... zu einer Geldstrafe verurteilen. munizip _n._ (município) ..... Kreis, Teil eines Staates. =N.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ no é? (não é?) ............... nicht wahr? no senhor! (não senhor!) ..... nein, mein Herr! =O.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ o de fora .................... heida, du draussen! orsament _m._ (orçamento) .... Anschlag, Bauanschlag, Kostenanschlag. =P.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ paciencia .................... Geduld! paiol _m._ ................... Proviantkammer, Vorratskammer. palha, palje _f._ (palha) .... Maisstroh. palhazigarrette _f._ ......... Zigarette (mit Maisstroh gewickelt). palla ........................ leichter Reitermantel. palpite _m._ ................. Ahnung, Herzklopfen. pancaré _m._ ................. hellbraunes Pferd. past _m._ (pasto) ............ Weide. pataca, patak _f._, patake _f._ (pataca) .............. 320 Reis. (_Old coin._) patacão ...................... Zweimilreistück. (_Old Spanish silver dollar._) patrão ....................... Prinzipal, Vorgesetzter. patte _f._ (pata) ............ Ente. peão ......................... Fussgänger, Reitknecht. pechincha .................... gutes Geschäft, unverhoffter Gewinn. periquito .................... Sittig, kleiner Papagei. persienne _f._ (persianna) ... Sommerladen, Jalousie. perú _m._ .................... Truthahn. picaço ....................... dunkelgefarbtes aber weissfüssiges Pferd. picada, picade _f._, pikade _f._(picada) ............... Waldpfad, Urwaldweg, Koloniestrasse. picapau _m._ ................. Vorderlader, mit Vorderlader bewaffneter Soldat. pikarette _f._ (picareta) .... Picke, Spitzhacke. pimente _f._ (pimenta) ....... Pfeffer, Nelkenpfeffer. pinga ........................ Tropfen (Schnapps). pipa, pipe _f._ (pipa) ....... Tonne, Fass. polizeidelegado .............. Polizei-inspektor. poncho ....................... Reitermantel. portão, portong _m._ (portão) Hauseingang, Torweg. porteira ..................... Eingangator (zur "Pikade"). portreere _f._ (portreiro) ... Koppel, Weideplatz, Viehraum (eingefriedigter). posen (repousar) ............. rasten, ruhen lassen. potro ........................ Füllen, junges Pferd. praça ........................ Platz, Marktplatz. prima ........................ Base, Kousine. primo ........................ Vetter. prompt (prompto, pronto) ..... fertig, bereit puschen (puxar) .............. ziehen. puschochse _m._ .............. Zugochse. pussen _V._ puschen .......... =Q.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ quero-quero .................. Kiebitz. questão _f._ (questão) ....... Frage. =R.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ rancho ....................... Kolonistenhaus, Lehmhütte, Hütte. rapadura ..................... Zuckerkuchen, brauner Zucker. rebankieren (arrebanhar) ..... in Herden versammeln, zusammenscharen. rekerieren (requerer) ........ auffordern, bitten, ersuchen. riberong _m._ (riberão) ...... Bach. rio _f. (sometimes m.),_ (rio) Fluss. riscado ...................... Gingan, gestreiftes Baumwollenzeug. roça, roce _f._ (roça) ....... Pflanzung, Lichtung. rocemachen ................... Land urbarmachen. rocewirtschaft _f._ .......... Landwirtschaft. rodeiro ...................... Umweg, Ausflucht. rosse _f.V._ roça ............ rossieren (roçar) ............ ausjäten, urbarmachen. =S.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ sabiá _m._ ................... Amsel (brasilianische). salto _m._ ................... Wasserfall. sange _f._ (sanga) ........... Graben (wasserhaltiger). scharute _f.V._ charute....... scheegen (chegar) ............ genügen. schikott _m._ (chicote _m._) . Peitsche. seccos und molhados .......... Kolonialwaren (i.e. trockene und nasse Waren). sellieren (sellar) ........... stempeln, besiegeln. sello ........................ Freimarke. serra ........................ Gebirge, Hochland. sertanejo .................... Einwohner der Wildnis. sertão ....................... Wildnis, Einöde, Küstenwälder. si, senhor! (sim, senhor) .... ja, mein Herr! sitio ........................ Grundstück, kleines Landgut, sobrado ...................... Stockwerk, Geschoss. stanz _f.V._ estancia ........ strupiat (estropiado) ........ lahm, verkrüppelt. suspensorios _m. plu._ ....... Hosenträger. =T.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ tamanduá _m._ ................ Ameisenbär, Ameisenfresser. taquara ...................... Bambus. tarraffe _f._ (tarrafa) ...... Wurfnetz. tatú _n._ (tatú _m._) ........ Gürteltier. 'te logo! _V._ até logo ...... tenente _m._ ................. Leutnant. terral _m._ .................. Landwind. thesouraria .................. Schatzkammer, Zahlamt. tocken (tocar) ............... schlagen, antreiben. tokaio (tocaio) .............. Namensvetter. tolde _f._ (tolda) ........... Verdeck (auf einem Wagen). tostão ....................... 100 Reis. trace _f._ (traça) ........... Spur, Entwurf. trapiche _m._, trapisch _m._ (trapiche _m._) ............ Lagerhaus (am Hafen), Kai. troc _m._ (troca) ............ Wechsel, Tausch, Kleingeld. trocken (trocar) ............. wechseln, tauschen. tropa ........................ Trupp, Maultiertrupp. tropeiro ..................... Viehhändler. tupiano ...................... Scheck. (_Dappled horse._) =U.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ urubú _m._ ................... Geier. =V.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ vamos ........................ vorwärts! vaqueano ..................... Führer. vendaschuld _f._ (venda) ..... Zechschuld. venda, vende _f._ (venda) .... Kaufladen, Kram und Schankladen, Schenke. vendeiro, vedist _m._ (vendeiro) ................. Gastwirt, Kleinhändler. ventin _m._ (vintem _m._) .... 20 Reis. (_Coin._) villa ........................ Städtchen. vintem _m._, vinten _m. V._ ventin ..................... violáo ....................... Bratache, Bassgeige. viva ......................... Vivat, Lebehoch. =W.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ wentin _m. V._ ventin ........ wolte _f._ (volta)............ Spaziergang, Windung (eines Weges oder Flusses). =X.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ xarque _n._ (xarque _m._) .... Dörrfleisch. xarqueada .................... Schlächterei. =Z.= _Brazilian German._ _High German._ zaino ........................ ungeflecktes Pferd (e.g. ganz schwarz). zebruno ...................... Falbe. zigarro _V._ cigarro ......... zipo _V._ cipó ............... zise _f._ (sisa, siza) ....... Accise, Verbrauchssteuer. APPENDIX. THE BRAZILIAN GERMAN PRESS. Among the many things the German agricultural colonist in Brazil had to dispense with so far as a supply from abroad was concerned, was reading matter. Even to this day books are a relative rarity in the home along the "picada." Only in the more important centers is there a general access to publications of this type. ALMANACS. As has been the case for centuries in German-speaking communities both in Europe and North America, where there has been a general lack of books, the want of reading-matter has largely been filled by that most important medium, the almanac. The same condition applies to Brazil. We might call the almanac the colonist's encyclopedia. It is his agricultural guide, medical adviser, compendium of short stories and poetry, moral guide, diary, and a thousand and one other things in addition to being the source of the information which an almanac is ordinarily supposed to furnish, i.e., list the change of seasons, days and months of the year, feast-days, eclipses, etc. To persons acquainted only with the folk-almanacs in Europe and North America, the entire lack of weather-forecasts in the Brazilian German editions is striking. Among the best known and most important German folk-almanacs in Brazil are: _Rothermund's Kalender für die Deutschen in Brasilien_, published in São Leopoldo and Cruz Alta, R.G. do Sul; _Uhle's illustrierter deutsch-brasilianischer Familien-Kalender_, published in Rio and Curityba; _Der Familienfreund_, published in Porte Alegre; _Riograndenser Marienkalender_, published in Porto Alegre; and _Musterreiters Neu-Historischer Kalender_, published in Porto Alegre. Rothermund's and Uhle's almanacs are perhaps the most important as well as the most voluminous. To them one might well apply the statement found in the preface to one of the well-known reading-texts published for use in the "Pikadenschulen": "Darin ist alles enthalten, was für gebildeten Kolonisten zu wissen interessant und lehrreich ist."[129] The almanacs mentioned above have for years been appearing regularly. In addition there have been many others, appearing, as a rule, only for a year or sporadically. Their influence has been of minor importance. In addition to being an indispensible source of information to the colonists, the Brazilian German almanacs are also most valuable to persons living outside of Brazil who want to form an idea of the life of those colonists. NEWSPAPERS. The history of the German newspapers in Brazil has its beginning in the early fifties of the past century. In October, 1852, _Der Kolonist_ appeared for the first time in Porto Alegre. This journalistic effort was short-lived. From December, 1853, to July 10th, 1861, _Der Deutsche Einwanderer_, appeared in the same city. Beginning with April 16th, 1853, _Der Deutsche Beobachter_, edited by B. Goldschmidt and G.F. Busch appeared in Rio de Janeiro. This, like the preceding, soon turned from an ordinary newspaper into a propaganda-sheet for the solicitation of colonists and accordingly went out of existence. In 1858 the _Brasilia_, a weekly, appeared in Petropolis. It lasted about one year. Beginning with January 17th, 1864, the _Germania_, a weekly edited by Peter Müller, appeared in the same city. This was a most important paper in its time and enjoyed a wide circulation. It lasted, however, only a few years. From 1860 to date the number of German newspapers with an ephemeral existence published in Brazil is legion. Excepting those above mentioned, we shall only concern ourselves with the ones which had a continual existence from the time of their founding and appearing to this day. They are included in the following list. In this list is indicated in each case the title of the paper, the place of publication, the number of times it appears weekly and the year in which it was founded. _Deutsche Zeitung_, Porto Alegre. Daily. 1861. _Kolonie Zeitung_, Joinville. Semi-weekly. 1862. _Deutsches Volksblatt_, Porto Alegre. Daily and weekly, 1870. _Germania_, São Paulo. Daily. 1877. _Deutsche Post_, São Leopoldo. Daily. 1880. _Blumenauer Zeitung_, Blumenau. Semi-weekly. 1881. _Neue Deutsche Zeitung_, Porto Alegre. Daily and weekly. 1881. _Der Beobachter_, Curityba. Thrice weekly. 1889. _Kolonie_, Santa Cruz. Thrice weekly. 1890. _Der Urwaldsbote_, Blumenau. Semi-weekly. 1892. _Nachrichten_, Petropolis. Semi-weekly. 1892. _Deutsche Zeitung für São Paulo._ Daily. 1897. _Vaterland_, Porto Alegre. Daily. 1901. _Der Kompass_, Curityba. Thrice weekly. 1901. _Volks-Zeitung_, São Bento. Weekly. 1908. _Die Serra Post_, Ijuhy. Semi-weekly. 1910. _Brusquer Zeitung_, Brusque. Weekly. 1911. _Deutsche Wacht_, Pelotas. Semi-weekly. 1914. _Deutsches Tageblatt_, Rio de Janeiro. Daily. 1914. From what has been said above, in reference both to almanacs and newspapers, it will be noted that Porto Alegre in Rio Grande do Sul has from the beginning been the most important center for Brazilian German journalistic efforts. BIBLIOGRAPHY. The works listed below are important sources for the study of the history and cultural status of the German element in Brazil. Books, important pamphlets and several manuscripts are noted. A great many articles dealing with the general subject of the German element in Brazil have in the past appeared in newspapers and periodicals such as the _Alldeutsche Blätter, Ausland, Der Deutsche Ansiedeler, Deutsche Erde, Deutsche Koloniezeitung, Echo, Globus, Petermann's Mitteilungen, etc._, and particularly in the Brazilian German almanacs and newspapers listed in the appendix. Due to the fact that a complete list of these articles would require a volume in itself, they are not further indicated. Ackerbaukolonien. _Dr. Hermann Meyer's Ackerbaukolonien Neu-Würtemberg und Xingu in Rio Grande do Sul._ Leipzig, 1904. (_Pamphlet._) Agassiz, Prof. Louis and Mrs.: _A Journey to Brazil._ Boston, 1868. Angerami, Domingos. _V._ Fonseca, Antonio. Auswanderer. _Central Auskunftstelle für Auswanderer. Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft. Rio Grande do Sul._ Berlin, 1904. (_Pamphlet._) Avé-Lallement, Dr. Robert: _Reise durch Südbrasilien im Jahre 1858._ Leipzig, 1859. (_2 vols._) Bastos, Travares: _Questões de Immïgração. (Manuscript in National Library. Rio.)_ Blumenau, Dr. Hermann: _Südbrasilien in seinen Beziehungen zu deutscher Auswanderung und Kolonisation._ Rudolstadt, 1850. Breitenbach, Dr. W.: _Aus Süd-Brasilien. Erinnerungen und Aufzeichnungen_, Brackwede i/W., 1913. Breitenbach, Dr. W.: _Die Provinz Rio Grande do Sul Brasiliens und die deutsche Auswanderung._ Heidelberg, 1885. Burton, Richard F., _V._ Tootal, Albert. Canstatt, Oscar: _Kritisches Repertorium der Deutsch-Brasilianischen Literatur._ Berlin, 1902. Carvalho, C.M. Delgado de: _Le Brésil Méridional._ Paris, 1910. Cunha, Dr. José Bonifacio da: _Commemoração do 50° Anniversario da Fundação de Blumenau._ Blumenau, 1900. Dechent, N.: _Festschrift zur Jubelfeier des Schulvereins zu Joinville am 14. August 1916._ Joinville, 1916. Dettmann, Eduard: _Brasiliens Aufschwung in deutscher Beleuchtung._ Berlin, 1908. Dilthey, R.: _Die deutschen Ansiedelungen in Südbrasilien, Uruguay und Argentinien._ Berlin, 1882. Dörffel, Dr. O.: _Die Colonie Dona Francisca in der Südbrasilianischen Provinz Santa Catharina._ Joinville, 1882. Elliott, L.E.: _Brazil Today and Tomorrow._ New York, 1917. _L'État de São Paulo. Renseignements utiles._ Antwerp, 1914. (_São Paulo State publication. 3d ed._) _Festschrift zur Erinnerung an den Ostmarkenabend._ São Paulo, 1916. (Apr. 13th.) _Festschrift zum 50 jährigem Jubiläum der Pfarrei São José do Hortencio._ Porto Alegre, 1899. Fonseca, Antonio,--et Angerami, Domingos: _Guide de l'Etat de St. Paul._ São Paulo, 1912. Funke, Alfred: _Aus Deutsch-Brasilien. Bilder aus dem Leben der Deutschen im Staate Rio Grande do Sul._ Leipzig, 1902. Funke, Alfred: _Deutsche Siedelung über See. Ein Abriss ihrer Geschichte und ihr Gedeihen in Rio Grande do Sul._ Halle a/Saale, 1902. Gernhard, Robert: _Dona Francisca, Hansa und Blumenau._ Breslau, 1901. Gerstäcker, Friedrich: _Achtzehn Monate in Südamerika._ Jena, 1862, and Leipzig, 1863. Giesebrecht, Franz: _Die deutsche Kolonie Hansa in Südbrasilien._ Berlin, 1899. Grimm, M., und Rücker, A.A.: _Heimatkunde von Brasilien._ Porto Alegre, 1914. Grimm, M., und Rücker, A.: _Lehr- und Lesebuch für Schule und Haus._ Porto Alegre, 1914. Grossi, Prof. Dott. Vincenzo: _Storia detta Colonizzazione al Brasil e della Emigrazione Italiana nello Stato di S. Paulo._ Milano-Roma-Napoli, 1914. _Handbuch des Deutschthums im Auslande._ Herausgegeben vom Allgemeinen Deutschen Schulverein zur Erhaltung des Deutschthums im Auslande. Berlin. (Dietrich Reimer.) Historia da Immigração. _Dados para a Historia da Immigração e da Colonização em São Paulo enviados pela Seccão de Informações do Departamento Estadual do Trabalho á Directoria do Serviço de Povoamento._ São Paulo, 1916. (_Govt. publication._) Imperio do Brazil. _O Imperio do Brazil na Exposição Universal de 1876 em Philadelphia._ Rio de Janeiro, 1875. (_State publication._) _Impressões do Brazil no Secolo Vinte._ London, 1913. (Lloyds Greater Britain Publishing Company.) Jahn, Adalbert: _Die Kolonien von São Leopoldo in der kaiserlich brasilianischen Provinz Rio Grande do Sul sowie allgemeine Betrachtungen über freie Einwanderung in Brasilien._ Leipzig, 1871. Jahrbuch. _Erstes Jahrbuch für die deutschsprechende Kolonie im Staate São Paulo._ São Paulo, 1905. Jannasch, R.: _Land und Leute von Rio Grande do Sul._ Berlin, 1905. Klüpfel, Dr. Karl: _N. Federmanns und H. Stades Reisen in Südamerica 1529 bis 1555._ Stuttgart, 1859. (Bibl. des litt. Vereins in Stuttgart. No. 47.) Koseritz, Carl von: _Bilder aus Brasilien._ Leipzig and Berlin, 1885. Krauel, Dr. R.: _Deutsche Interessen in Brasilien._ Hamburg, 1900. Kultur-Pionier. _Der Kultur-Pionier im Staate São Paulo._ (Sonder-Ausgabe der Deutschen Zeitung.) São Paulo, 1913. Lacmann, Dr. Wilhelm: _Ritte und Rasttage in Süd-Brasilien. Reisebilder und Studien aus dem Leben der deutschen Siedelungen._ Berlin, 1906. Lange, Henry: _Südbrasilien, mit Rücksicht auf die deutsche Kolonisation._ Leipzig, 1885. (_2d ed._) Langendonck, Madame van: _Une Colonie au Brésil. Récits Historiques._ Antwerp, 1862. Learned, M.D.: _Guide to the Manuscript Materials Relating to American History in the German State Archives._ Washington, 1912. Lehmann, Emil: _Die deutsche Auswanderung._ Berlin, 1861. Leyfer, H.: _Deutsches Kolonistenleben im Staate Santa Catharina in Südbrasilien._ Leipzig, 1900. Lima, Oliveira: _Dom João VI no Brasil, 1808-1821._ Rio de Janeiro, 1908. Ludwig, A.: _A colonização nos paizes da America do Sul._ Porto Alegre, 1916. Lufft, Dr. Hermann: _Das portugiesische Südamerika._ Berlin and Leipzig, 1913. (Sammlung Göschen. No. 672.) Marcondes de Souza, T. Oscar: _O Estado de São Paulo._ São Paulo, 1915. d'Oliveira, Luiz Rodriguez: _Algumas Ideias sobre a Colonisação do Brazil._ Paris, 1871. (_Pamphlet._) Orlando, Arthur: _Brazil. A Terra e o Homem._ Recife, 1913. Pereira da Silva, J.M.: _Quadros da Historia Colonial do Brazil._ Rio de Janeiro, 1895. Perrin, Paul: _Les Colonies Agricoles au Brésil d'après les documents officiels les plus récents._ Paris, 1912. Piccarolo, Dott. Antonio: _L'Emigrazione Italiana nello Stato de S. Paulo._ São Paulo, 1911. Pompeu, Julio: _Vier Staaten Brasiliens. Four Brazilian States._ Rio de Janeiro, 1910. _Prospekt der Hanseatischen Kolonisation-Gesellschaft. Ansiedelungen im Staate Santa Catharina, Südbrasilien, Kolonie "Hansa." (Pamphlet.)_ Hamburg, 1898. _Ratschläge für Auswanderer nach Südbrasilien._ (Jannasch, Koseritz, Dörffel, Sellin.) Berlin, 1897, (_3d ed._) _Relatorio. Ministerio da Agricultura. Serviço de Povamento em 1910._ Rio de Janeiro, 1911. Rücker, A.A. _V._ Grimm, M. Schanz, Moritz: _Das Heutige Brasilien. Land, Leute und wirtschaftliche Verhältnisse._ Hamburg, 1893. Schüler, Heinrich: _Brasilien. Ein Land der Zukunft._ Stuttgart and Leipzig, 1912. Sellin, A.W.: _Brasilien und die La Plata-Staaten._ Munich. (J.F. Lehmann's Verlag.) Sellin, A.W.: _Das Kaiserreich Brasilien._ Leipzig, 1885. (_2 vols._) Sellin, A.W.: _Landeskunde der Vereinigten Staaten von Brasilien._ Hamburg, 1909. Sieves Wilhelm: _Südamerika und die deutschen Interessen._ Stuttgart, 1903. Simon, Alex.: _Auswanderung und deutsch-nationale Kolonisation v. Südamerika._ Bayreuth, 1850. Sommer, Friedrich: _Das Deutschthum in São Paulo unter besonderer Berücksichtigung seiner Entwickdung und seiner heutigen wirthschaftlichen und kulturellen Bedeutung._ São Paulo. (_Still in manuscript at the time the present work went to press._) Stade, Hans: _Wahrhafftig Historia und Beschreibung einer Landschafft der wilden, nacketen, grimmigen Menschfresser Leuthen, in der newen Welt America gelegen._ Franckfurt am Main, 1556. (_V._ Klüpfel, Dr. Karl.) Telles, Moreira: _O Brazil e a Emigração._ Lisbon, 1913. Tootal, Albert, and Burton, Richard F.: _The Captivity of Hans Stade of Hesse, in A.D. 1547-1555, among the Wild Tribes of Eastern Brazil._ London, 1874. Tschudi, Johann Jakob von: _Reisen durch Südamerika._ Leipzig, 1866-1869. (_5 vols._) Urwaldsbote. _Der Urwaldsbote. Kalender für die Deutschen in Südbrasilien. Herausgegeben zum 50 jährigen Bestehen der Kolonie Blumenau._ Blumenau, 1900. Vallentin, Dr. W.: _Das Deutschthum in Südamerika._ Berlin, 1908. Wagemann, E.: _Die deutschen Kolonisten im brasilianischen Staate Espirito Santo._ Schriften des Vereins für Sozialpolitik (Beitrag zur Enquête üher die Ansiedelung von Europäern in den Tropen). 1916 [?].[130] Wappäus, Dr. J.E.: _Deutsche Auswanderung und Kolonisation._ Leipzig, 1846 and 1848. (_2 parts._) Wernicke, Hugo: _Deutsch-evangelisches Volkstum in Espirito Santo. Eine Reise zu deutschen Kaffeebauern in einem tropischen Staate Brasiliens._ Potsdam, 1910. (_2d ed._) Wright, Marie Robinson: _The New Brazil._ Philadelphia, 1907. Zöller, Hugo: _Die Deutschen im Brasilischen Urwald._ Berlin and Stuttgart, 1883. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 41: _V._ note 29, p. 18.] [Footnote 42: I.e., Pedreiras, Parelheiros, M'Boy, Colonia Velha and Itapecerica.] [Footnote 43: _V._ note 27, p. 18.] [Footnote 44: I.e., Brazilian of Portuguese extraction.] [Footnote 45: In den Schneizen [of Santa Cruz and São Lourenço] sprechen sogar die dort aufgewachsenen Neger Hunsrücker Dialekt.... Ein Musterreiter bereiste einst ... die Rio Grandenser Kolonieen. Als er an einen Kreuzweg kam, sah er zwei Schwarze am Wege im Felde hocken. Er fragte sie auf Portugiesisch um den richtigen Weg. "Wat seggt de Kirl?" fragt ein Schwarzer den andern. "Ah, ihr sprecht deutsch?" ... "Ja," war die Antwort, "mir sein deitsche Neger." E. Niemeyer in "Deutsche Siedler und Siedlungen im Urwald." _Uhle's Kalender_ for 1912, p. 76.] [Footnote 46: This rule holds for the Portuguese, but not for the German _'j'_ as e.g., where the latter replaces the _'h'_ in _jatte_ (from _hiate_), the _'i'_ or _'y'_ in _cuja_ (from _cuia, cuya_) or the _'lh'_ in _cangalje_ (from _cangalho_). In such cases the _'j'_ has the phonetic value of the English _'y'_.] [Footnote 47: See note 4, p. 19.] [Footnote 48: The outlying districts of Santo Amaro in São Paulo. _V._ note 2, p. 19.] [Footnote 49: Joinville in Dona Francisca, state of Santa Catharina.] [Footnote 50: For a further example of a short proper name compare the one commonly applied to the small town "O'" (contraction of "Nossa Senhora do O'"), located a short distance to the northwest of São Paulo.] [Footnote 51: This commonly applies to naturalized as well as to native-born German Brazilians.] [Footnote 52: Political propaganda literature intended to lead the unwary to draw different conclusions has been copiously spread before the public during the last decade. Whatever the ideas on the subject may be in foreign countries, the German Brazilians themselves are the only ones who can speak on it with authority. Strange to say, they never seem to be consulted or studied at first hand by those who speak most loudly about the "German peril" in Brazil. Porto Alegre, Blumenau, Joinville and Curityba can furnish more accurate information on this particular subject than Berlin, Paris, London and New York.] [Footnote 53: Several specific examples will be noted in the specimens from advertisements in almanacs and newspapers, pp. 36-39.] [Footnote 54: By P. Th. Amstadt, S.J. The story appears in the _Familienfreund_ for 1917, P. 39 ff.] [Footnote 55: _Viezüchter._] [Footnote 56: _Feigenbaum._] [Footnote 57: _Landgut._] [Footnote 58: Read _60 Milreis_.] [Footnote 59: _Winterquatier._] [Footnote 60: _Conto_= 1000 Milreis.] [Footnote 61: _Freund._] [Footnote 62: _Schlächterei._] [Footnote 63: _Viehhändler._] [Footnote 64: _Schenke._] [Footnote 65: _Fertig._] [Footnote 66: _Gepräge._] [Footnote 67: _Uhles Familienkalender_, 1916, p. 318.] [Footnote 68: Ibid., p. 300.] [Footnote 69: Ibid., p. 315.] [Footnote 70: Ibid., p~ 297.] [Footnote 71: _Familienfreund_, 1917, p. xxv.] [Footnote 72: Ibid., p. xxvii.] [Footnote 73: _Riograndenser Marienkalender_, 1917, p. 128.] [Footnote 74: _Rotermund's Kalender für die Deutschen in Brasilien_, 1915, p. 410.] [Footnote 75: _Uhle's Familienkalender_, 1917, p. 170.] [Footnote 76: _Deutsche Zeitung_, Porto Alegre, July 20, 1916.] [Footnote 77: _Vaterland_, Porto Alegre, September 18, 1916.] [Footnote 78: Ibid.] [Footnote 79: _Blumenauer Zeitung_, August 22, 1916.] [Footnote 80: _Brusker Zeitung_, August 12, 1916.] [Footnote 81: _Deutsches Volksblatt_, Porto Alegre, July 5, 1916.] [Footnote 82: _Kolonie-Zeitung_, Joinville, August 17, 1916.] [Footnote 83: _Die Serra-Post_, Ijuhy, Rio Grande do Sul, September 15, 1916.] [Footnote 84: From Funke's _Aus Deutsch-Brasilien,_ p. 167.] [Footnote 85: _Unverhofftes Gewinn._] [Footnote 86: _Reisetasche._] [Footnote 87: _Waldpfadswanze._] [Footnote 88: _Baumwolle._] [Footnote 89: _Gingan._] [Footnote 90: _Reitermäntel._] [Footnote 91: _Preisermässigung._] [Footnote 92: _Kaufladen._] [Footnote 93: _Maulesel._] [Footnote 94: _10,000 milreis._] [Footnote 95: _Guten Tag!_] [Footnote 96: _V._ Breitenbach: _Aus Süd-Brasilien_, p. 247.] [Footnote 97: _Verdeck._] [Footnote 98: _Scheck._] [Footnote 99: _Falbe._] [Footnote 100: _Tierhändler._] [Footnote 101: _Hochland._] [Footnote 102: _Gevatter._] [Footnote 103: _Tor._] [Footnote 104: _Waldstrasse._] [Footnote 105: _Lichtung._] [Footnote 106: _Maiskolben._] [Footnote 107: _Maultier._] [Footnote 108: _Kürbisse._] [Footnote 109: ="portreiro" (_Weideplats, Koppel_).] [Footnote 110: _Graben._] [Footnote 111: _Böschungen._] [Footnote 112: _Waldmesser._] [Footnote 113: _Bambus._] [Footnote 114: _Lianen._] [Footnote 115: _Gürteltier._] [Footnote 116: _Buschsichel._] [Footnote 117: _Wettrennen._] [Footnote 118: _Mehl._] [Footnote 119: _Kleinhändler._] [Footnote 120: _Gezogen._] [Footnote 121: _Geschlagen._] [Footnote 122: _Packsattel._] [Footnote 123: Of the words appearing in the GLOSSARY the writer acknowledges as his source for the following the _Verdeutschungsheft_ by G.A. Büchler, Blumenau, 1915: _Backeljau, balse, kaschimbo, lelong, multe, multieren, orsament, pikarette, rekerieren, rossieren, sellieren, strupiat, wolte, zise._] [Footnote 124: It is to be remembered, however, that High German is the norm in ordinary news articles in almanacs, newspapers, etc., as well as for literary purposes in general. In such instances Brazilian German forms appear relatively rarely.] [Footnote 125: All words or phrases thus noted have since been observed in print in Brazilian German publications, with the exception of _agrião_ and _bond_.] [Footnote 126: The simple word "Portuguese" is particularly avoided here (as well as throughout this work generally) because the language as spoken by the general public in Brazil frequently differs from the language of Portugal. While the same in form, the words often have a different meaning. Also many Indian words, especially from the Guarany and Tupi languages, are embodied in the Brazilian national idiom.] [Footnote 127: This applies to the written, but not always to the spoken language.] [Footnote 128: I.e., like the use of the word "sou" in France, "Groschen" in Germany, or "penny" in the United States.] [Footnote 129: _V._ Grimm-Rücker: _Lehr-und Lesebuch_, p. iii.] [Footnote 130: Because of existing conditions it has been impossible to determine whether this work has as yet appeared in print.] AMERICANA GERMANICA MONOGRAPH SERIES. 1. _Translations of German Poetry in American Magazines 1741-1810._ By Edward Ziegler Davis, Ph.D. 234 pp. Price $1.65 2. _The Harmony Society._ A Chapter in German American Culture History. By John Archibald Bole, Ph.D. 179 pp. 30 Illustrations. Price $1.50 3. _Friedrich Schiller in America._ A Contribution to the Literature of the Poet's Centenary, 1905. 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Colonies and Dialect._ By Benjamin Franklin Schappelle, Ph.D. 68 pp. Price $1.50 AMERICANA GERMANICA MONOGRAPHS DEVOTED TO THE COMPARATIVE STUDY OF THE Literary, Linguistic and Other Cultural Relations of Germany and America EDITOR MARION DEXTER LEARNED _University of Pennsylvania_ CONTRIBUTING EDITORS H.C.G. BRANDT W.H. CARRUTH HERMANN COLLITZ STARR W. CUTTING DANIEL K. DODGE A.B. FAUST KUNO FRANCKE ADOLPH GERBER JULIUS GOEBEL J.T. HATFIELD W.T. HEWETT A.R. HOHLFELD HUGO K. SCHILLING H. SCHMIDT-WARTENBERG HERMANN SCHOENFELD CALVIN THOMAS H.S. WHITE HENRY WOOD PUBLICATIONS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA NEW YORK D. APPLETON & COMPANY PUBLISHING AGENTS * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The following corrections regarding the original were made: [Footnote TN1: The original has here a wrong spelling: COPYWRIGHT instead of COPYRIGHT] [Footnote TN2: The original has here a wrong spelling: Vorabeiter instead of Vorarbeiter] [Footnote TN3: The original has here a wrong spelling: abfertitgen instead of abfertigen] 
13141	----	Editorial note: We now know that "Elizabeth and Her German Garden" was written by Elizabeth von Arnim (1866-1941). Born Mary Annette Beauchamp in Australia, she grew up in England and married a German, Count Henning August von Arnim-Schlagenthin. After the couple moved to his country estate she began writing children's books. Many of her early books were published "By the Author of 'Elizabeth and Her German Garden'," and later she published as simply "Elizabeth." THE PRINCESS PRISCILLA'S FORTNIGHT BY THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN" 1905 "Oft habe ich die Welt durchwandert, und habe immer gesehen, wie das Grosse am Kleinlichen scheitert, und das Edle von dem ätzenden Gift des Alltäglichen zerfressen wird." FRITZING, "Erlebtes und Erlittenes." I Her Grand Ducal Highness the Princess Priscilla of Lothen-Kunitz was up to the age of twenty-one a most promising young lady. She was not only poetic in appearance beyond the habit of princesses but she was also of graceful and appropriate behaviour. She did what she was told; or, more valuable, she did what was expected of her without being told. Her father, in his youth and middle age a fiery man, now an irritable old gentleman who liked good food and insisted on strictest etiquette, was proud of her on those occasions when she happened to cross his mind. Her mother, by birth an English princess of an originality uncomfortable and unexpected in a royal lady that continued to the end of her life to crop up at disconcerting moments, died when Priscilla was sixteen. Her sisters, one older and one younger than herself, were both far less pleasing to look upon than she was, and much more difficult to manage; yet each married a suitable prince and each became a credit to her House, while as for Priscilla,--well, as for Priscilla, I propose to describe her dreadful conduct. But first her appearance. She was well above the average height of woman; a desirable thing in a princess, who, before everything, must impress the public with her dignity. She had a long pointed chin, and a sweet mouth with full lips that looked most kind. Her nose was not quite straight, one side of it being the least bit different from the other,--a slight crookedness that gave her face a charm absolutely beyond the reach of those whose features are what is known as chiselled. Her skin was of that fairness that freckles readily in hot summers or on winter days when the sun shines brightly on the snow, a delicate soft skin that is seen sometimes with golden eyelashes and eyebrows, and hair that is more red than gold. Priscilla had these eyelashes and eyebrows and this hair, and she had besides beautiful grey-blue eyes--calm pools of thought, the court poet called them, when her having a birthday compelled him to official raptures; and because everybody felt sure they were not really anything of the kind the poet's utterance was received with acclamations. Indeed, a princess who should possess such pools would be most undesirable--in Lothen-Kunitz nothing short of a calamity; for had they not had one already? It was what had been the matter with the deceased Grand Duchess; she would think, and no one could stop her, and her life in consequence was a burden to herself and to everybody else at her court. Priscilla, however, was very silent. She had never expressed an opinion, and the inference was that she had no opinion to express. She had not criticized, she had not argued, she had been tractable, obedient, meek. Yet her sisters, who had often criticized and argued, and who had rarely been obedient and never meek, became as I have said the wives of appropriate princes, while Priscilla,--well, he who runs may read what it was that Priscilla became. But first as to where she lived. The Grand Duchy of Lothen-Kunitz lies in the south of Europe; that smiling region of fruitful plains, forest-clothed hills, and broad rivers. It is one of the first places Spring stops at on her way up from Italy; and Autumn, coming down from the north sunburnt, fruit-laden, and blest, goes slowly when she reaches it, lingering there with her serenity and ripeness, her calm skies and her windless days long after the Saxons and Prussians have lit their stoves and got out their furs. There figs can be eaten off the trees in one's garden, and vineyards glow on the hillsides. There the people are Catholics, and the Protestant pastor casts no shadow of a black gown across life. There as you walk along the white roads, you pass the image of the dead Christ by the wayside; mute reminder to those who would otherwise forget of the beauty of pitifulness and love. And there, so near is Kunitz to the soul of things, you may any morning get into the train after breakfast and in the afternoon find yourself drinking coffee in the cool colonnades of the Piazza San Marco at Venice. Kunitz is the capital of the duchy, and the palace is built on a hill. It is one of those piled-up buildings of many windows and turrets and battlements on which the tourist gazes from below as at the realization of a childhood's dream. A branch of the river Loth winds round the base of the hill, separating the ducal family from the red-roofed town along its other bank. Kunitz stretches right round the hill, lying clasped about its castle like a necklet of ancient stones. At the foot of the castle walls the ducal orchards and kitchen gardens begin, continuing down to the water's edge and clothing the base of the hill in a garment of blossom and fruit. No fairer sight is to be seen than the glimpse of these grey walls and turrets rising out of a cloud of blossom to be had by him who shall stand in the market place of Kunitz and look eastward up the narrow street on a May morning; and if he who gazes is a dreamer he could easily imagine that where the setting of life is so lovely its days must of necessity be each like a jewel, of perfect brightness and beauty. The Princess Priscilla, however, knew better. To her unfortunately the life within the walls seemed of a quite blatant vulgarity; pervaded by lacqueys, by officials of every kind and degree, by too much food, too many clothes, by waste, by a feverish frittering away of time, by a hideous want of privacy, by a dreariness unutterable. To her it was a perpetual behaving according to the ideas officials had formed as to the conduct to be expected of princesses, a perpetual pretending not to see that the service offered was sheerest lip-service, a perpetual shutting of the eyes to hypocrisy and grasping selfishness. Conceive, you tourist full of illusions standing free down there in the market place, the frightfulness of never being alone a moment from the time you get out of bed to the time you get into it again. Conceive the deadly patience needed to stand passive and be talked to, amused, taken care of, all day long for years. Conceive the intolerableness, if you are at all sensitive, of being watched by eyes so sharp and prying, so eager to note the least change of expression and to use the conclusions drawn for personal ends that nothing, absolutely nothing, escapes them. Priscilla's sisters took all these things as a matter of course, did not care in the least how keenly they were watched and talked over, never wanted to be alone, liked being fussed over by their ladies-in-waiting. They, happy girls, had thick skins. But Priscilla was a dreamer of dreams, a poet who never wrote poems, but whose soul though inarticulate was none the less saturated with the desires and loves from which poems are born. She, like her sisters, had actually known no other states; but then she dreamed of them continuously, she desired them continuously, she read of them continuously; and though there was only one person who knew she did these things I suppose one person is enough in the way of encouragement if your mind is bent on rebellion. This old person, cause of all the mischief that followed, for without his help I do not see what Priscilla could have done, was the ducal librarian--_Hofbibliothekar_, head, and practically master of the wonderful collection of books and manuscripts whose mere catalogue made learned mouths in distant parts of Europe water and learned lungs sigh in hopeless envy. He too had officials under him, but they were unlike the others: meek youths, studious and short-sighted, whose business as far as Priscilla could see was to bow themselves out silently whenever she and her lady-in-waiting came in. The librarian's name was Fritzing; plain Herr Fritzing originally, but gradually by various stages at last arrived at the dignity and sonorousness of Herr Geheimarchivrath Fritzing. The Grand Duke indeed had proposed to ennoble him after he had successfully taught Priscilla English grammar, but Fritzing, whose spirit dwelt among the Greeks, could not be brought to see any desirability in such a step. Priscilla called him Fritzi when her lady-in-waiting dozed; dearest Fritzi sometimes even, in the heat of protest or persuasion. But afterwards, leaving the room as solemnly as she had come in, followed by her wide-awake attendant, she would nod a formally gracious "Good afternoon, Herr Geheimrath," for all the world as though she had been talking that way the whole time. The Countess (her lady-in-waiting was the Countess Irmgard von Disthal, an ample slow lady, the unmarried daughter of a noble house, about fifty at this time, and luckily--or unluckily--for Priscilla, a great lover of much food and its resultant deep slumbers) would bow in her turn in as stately a manner as her bulk permitted, and with a frigidity so pronounced that in any one less skilled in shades of deportment it would have resembled with a singular completeness a sniff of scorn. Her frigidity was perfectly justified. Was she not a _hochgeboren_, a member of an ancient house, of luminous pedigree as far back as one could possibly see? And was he not the son of an obscure Westphalian farmer, a person who in his youth had sat barefoot watching pigs? It is true he had learning, and culture, and a big head with plenty of brains in it, and the Countess Disthal had a small head, hardly any brains, no soul to speak of, and no education. This, I say, is true; but it is also neither here nor there. The Countess was the Countess, and Fritzing was a nobody, and the condescension she showed him was far more grand ducal than anything in that way that Priscilla could or ever did produce. Fritzing, unusually gifted, and enterprising from the first--which explains the gulf between pig-watching and _Hofbibliothekar_--had spent ten years in Paris and twenty in England in various capacities, but always climbing higher in the world of intellect, and had come during this climbing to speak English quite as well as most Englishmen, if in a statelier, Johnsonian manner. At fifty he began his career in Kunitz, and being a lover of children took over the English education of the three princesses; and now that they had long since learned all they cared to know, and in Priscilla's case all of grammar at least that he had to teach, he invented a talent for drawing in Priscilla, who could not draw a straight line, much less a curved one, so that she should still be able to come to the library as often as she chose on the pretext of taking a drawing-lesson. The Grand Duke's idea about his daughters was that they should know a little of everything and nothing too well; and if Priscilla had said she wanted to study Shakespeare with the librarian he would have angrily forbidden it. Had she not had ten years for studying Shakespeare? To go on longer than that would mean that she was eager, and the Grand Duke loathed an eager woman. But he had nothing to say against a little drawing; and it was during the drawing-lessons of the summer Priscilla was twenty-one that the Countess Disthal slept so peacefully. The summer was hot, and the vast room cool and quiet. The time was three o'clock--immediately, that is, after luncheon. Through the narrow open windows sweet airs and scents came in from the bright world outside. Sometimes a bee would wander up from the fruit-gardens below, and lazily drone round shady corners. Sometimes a flock of pigeons rose swiftly in front of the windows, with a flash of shining wings. Every quarter of an hour the cathedral clock down in the town sent up its slow chime. Voices of people boating on the river floated up too, softened to melodiousness. Down at the foot of the hill the red roofs of the town glistened in the sun. Beyond them lay the sweltering cornfields. Beyond them forests and villages. Beyond them a blue line of hills. Beyond them, said Priscilla to herself, freedom. She sat in her white dress at a table in one of the deep windows, her head on its long slender neck, where the little rings of red-gold hair curled so prettily, bent over the drawing-board, her voice murmuring ceaselessly, for time was short and she had a great many things to say. At her side sat Fritzing, listening and answering. Far away in the coolest, shadiest corner of the room slumbered the Countess. She was lulled by the murmured talk as sweetly as by the drone of the bee. "Your Grand Ducal Highness receives many criticisms and much advice on the subject of drawing from the Herr Geheimrath?" she said one day, after a lesson during which she had been drowsily aware of much talk. "The Herr Geheimrath is most conscientious," said Priscilla in the stately, it-has-nothing-to-do-with-you sort of tone she found most effectual with the Countess; but she added a request under her breath that the _lieber Gott_ might forgive her, for she knew she had told a fib. Indeed, the last thing that Fritzing was at this convulsed period of his life was what his master would have called conscientious. Was he not encouraging the strangest, wickedest, wildest ideas in the Princess? Strange and wicked and wild that is from the grand ducal point of view, for to Priscilla they seemed all sweetness and light. Fritzing had a perfect horror of the Grand Duke. He was everything that Fritzing, lean man of learning, most detested. The pleasantest fashion of describing the Grand Duke will be simply to say that he was in all things, both of mind and body, the exact opposite of Fritzing. Fritzing was a man who spent his time ignoring his body and digging away at his mind. You know the bony aspect of such men. Hardly ever is there much flesh on them; and though they are often ugly enough, their spirit blazes at you out of wonderful eyes. I call him old Fritzing, for he was sixty. To me he seemed old; to Priscilla at twenty he seemed coeval with pyramids and kindred hoarinesses; while to all those persons who were sixty-one he did not seem old at all. Only two things could have kept this restless soul chained to the service of the Grand Duke, and those two things were the unique library and Priscilla. For the rest, his life at Kunitz revolted him. He loathed the etiquette and the fuss and the intrigues of the castle. He loathed each separate lady-in-waiting, and every one of the male officials. He loathed the vulgar abundance and inordinate length and frequency of the meals, when down in the town he knew there were people a-hungered. He loathed the lacqueys with a quite peculiar loathing, scowling at them from under angry eyebrows as he passed from his apartment to the library; yet such is the power of an independent and scornful spirit that though they had heard all about Westphalia and the pig-days never once had they, who made insolence their study, dared be rude to him. Priscilla wanted to run away. This, I believe, is considered an awful thing to do even if you are only a housemaid or somebody's wife. If it were not considered awful, placed by the world high up on its list of Utter Unforgivablenesses, there is, I suppose, not a woman who would not at some time or other have run. She might come back, but she would surely have gone. So bad is it held to be that even a housemaid who runs is unfailingly pursued by maledictions more or less definite according to the education of those she has run from; and a wife who runs is pursued by social ruin, it being taken for granted that she did not run alone. I know at least two wives who did run alone. Far from wanting yet another burden added to them by adding to their lives yet another man, they were anxiously endeavouring to get as far as might be from the man they had got already. The world, foul hag with the downcast eyes and lascivious lips, could not believe it possible, and was quick to draw its dark mantle of disgrace over their shrinking heads. One of them, unable to bear this, asked her husband's pardon. She was a weak spirit, and now lives prostrate days, crushed beneath the unchanging horror of a husband's free forgiveness. The other took a cottage and laughed at the world. Was she not happy at last, and happy in the right way? I go to see her sometimes, and we eat the cabbages she has grown herself. Strange how the disillusioned find their peace in cabbages. Priscilla, then, wanted to run away. What is awful in a housemaid and in anybody's wife became in her case stupendous. The spirit that could resolve it, decide to do it without being dragged to it by such things as love or passion, calmly looking the risks and losses in the face, and daring everything to free itself, was, it must be conceded, at least worthy of respect. Fritzing thought it worthy of adoration; the divinest spirit that had ever burned within a woman. He did not say so. On the contrary, he was frightened, and tried angrily, passionately, to dissuade. Yet he knew that if she wavered he would never forgive her; she would drop at once from her high estate into those depths in his opinion where the dull average of both sexes sprawled for ever in indiscriminate heaps. Priscilla never dreamed of wavering. She, most poetic of princesses, made apparently of ivory and amber, outwardly so cool and serene and gentle, was inwardly on fire. The fire, I should add, burnt with a very white flame. Nothing in the shape of a young man had ever had the stoking of it. It was that whitest of flames that leaps highest at the thought of abstractions--freedom, beauty of life, simplicity, and the rest. This, I would remark, is a most rare light to find burning in a woman's breast. What she was, however, Fritzing had made her. True the material had been extraordinarily good, and for ten years he had done as he liked with it. Beginning with the simpler poems of Wordsworth--he detested them, but they were better than soiling her soul with Longfellow and Mrs. Hemans--those lessons in English literature, meant by the authorities to be as innocuous to her as to her sisters, had opened her eyes in a way nothing else could have done to the width of the world and the littleness of Kunitz. With that good teacher, as eager to lead as she to follow, she wandered down the splendid walks of culture, met there the best people of all ages, communed with mighty souls, heard how they talked, saw how they lived, and none, not one, lived and talked as they lived and talked at Kunitz. Imagine a girl influenced for ten years, ten of her softest most wax-like years, by a Fritzing, taught to love freedom, to see the beauty of plain things, of quietness, of the things appertaining to the spirit, taught to see how ignoble it is, how intensely, hopelessly vulgar to spend on one's own bodily comforts more than is exactly necessary, taught to see a vision of happiness possible only to those who look to their minds for their joys and not to their bodies, imagine how such a girl, hearing these things every afternoon almost of her life, would be likely to regard the palace mornings and evenings, the ceremonies and publicity, all those hours spent as though she were a celebrated picture, forced everlastingly to stand in an attitude considered appropriate and smile while she was being looked at. "No one," she said one day to Fritzing, "who hasn't himself been a princess can have the least idea of what it is like." "Ma'am, it would be more correct to say herself in place of himself." "Well, they can't," said Priscilla. "Ma'am, to begin a sentence with the singular and continue it with the plural is an infraction of all known rules." "But the sentiments, Fritzi--what do you think of the sentiments?" "Alas, ma'am, they too are an infraction of rules." "What is not in this place, I should like to know?" sighed Priscilla, her chin on her hand, her eyes on that distant line of hills beyond which, she told herself, lay freedom. She had long ago left off saying it only to herself. I think she must have been about eighteen when she took to saying it aloud to Fritzing. At first, before he realized to what extent she was sick for freedom, he had painted in glowing colours the delights that lay on the other side of the hills, or for that matter on this side of them if you were alone and not a princess. Especially had he dwelt on the glories of life in England, glories attainable indeed only by the obscure such as he himself had been, and for ever impossible to those whom Fate obliges to travel in state carriages and special trains. Then he had come to scent danger and had grown wary; trying to put her off with generalities, such as the inability of human beings to fly from their own selves, and irrelevancies such as the amount of poverty and wretchedness to be observed in the east of London; refusing to discuss France, which she was always getting to as the first step towards England, except in as far as it was a rebellious country that didn't like kings; pointing out with no little temper that she had already seen England; and finishing by inquiring very snappily when her Grand Ducal Highness intended to go on with her drawing. Now what Priscilla had seen of England had been the insides of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle; of all insides surely the most august. To and from these she had been conveyed in closed carriages and royal trains, and there was so close a family likeness between them and Kunitz that to her extreme discomfort she had felt herself completely at home. Even the presence of the Countess Disthal had not been wanting. She therefore regarded this as not seeing England at all, and said so. Fritzing remarked tartly that it was a way of seeing it most English people would envy her; and she was so unable to believe him that she said Nonsense. But lately her desires had taken definite shape so rapidly that he had come to dread the very word hill and turn cold at the name of England. He was being torn in different directions; for he was, you see, still trying to do what other people had decided was his duty, and till a man gives up doing that he will certainly be torn. How great would be the temptation to pause here and consider the mangled state of such a man, the wounds and weakness he will suffer from, and how his soul will have to limp through life, if it were not that I must get on with Priscilla. One day, after many weeks of edging nearer to it, of going all round it yet never quite touching it, she took a deep breath and told him she had determined to run away. She added an order that he was to help her. With her most grand ducal air she merely informed, ordered, and forbade. What she forbade, of course, was the betrayal of her plans. "You may choose," she said, "between the Grand Duke and myself. If you tell him, I have done with you for ever." Of course he chose Priscilla. His agonies now were very great. Those last lacerations of conscience were terrific. Then, after nights spent striding, a sudden calm fell upon him. At length he could feel what he had always seen, that there could not be two duties for a man, that no man can serve two masters, that a man's one clear duty is to be in the possession of his soul and live the life it approves: in other and shorter words, instead of leading Priscilla, Priscilla was now leading him. She did more than lead him; she drove him. The soul he had so carefully tended and helped to grow was now grown stronger than his own; for there was added to its natural strength the tremendous daring of absolute inexperience. What can be more inexperienced than a carefully guarded young princess? Priscilla's ignorance of the outside world was pathetic. He groaned over her plans--for it was she who planned and he who listened--and yet he loved them. She was a divine woman, he said to himself; the sweetest and noblest, he was certain, that the world would ever see. Her plans were these: First, that having had twenty-one years of life at the top of the social ladder she was now going to get down and spend the next twenty-one at the bottom of it. (Here she gave her reasons, and I will not stop to describe Fritzing's writhings as his own past teachings grinned at him through every word she said.) Secondly, that the only way to get to the bottom being to run away from Kunitz, she was going to run. Thirdly, that the best and nicest place for living at the bottom would be England. (Here she explained her conviction that beautiful things grow quite naturally round the bottom of ladders that cannot easily reach the top; flowers of self-sacrifice and love, of temperance, charity, godliness--delicate things, with roots that find their nourishment in common soil. You could not, said Priscilla, expect soil at the top of ladders, could you? And as she felt that she too had roots full of potentialities, she must take them down to where their natural sustenance lay waiting.) Fourthly, they were to live somewhere in the country in England, in the humblest way. Fifthly, she was to be his daughter. "Daughter?" cried Fritzing, bounding in his chair. "Your Grand Ducal Highness forgets I have friends in England, every one of whom is aware that I never had a wife." "Niece, then," said Priscilla. He gazed at her in silence, trying to imagine her his niece. He had two sisters, and they had stopped exactly at the point they were at when they helped him, barefoot, to watch Westphalian pigs. I do not mean that they had not ultimately left the little farm, gone into stockings, and married. It is their minds I am thinking of, and these had never budged. They were like their father, a doomed dullard; while Fritzing's mother, whom he resembled, had been a rather extraordinary woman in a rough and barbarous way. He found himself wholly unable to imagine either of his sisters the mother of this exquisite young lady. These, then, baldly, were Priscilla's plans. The carrying of them out was left, she informed him, altogether to Fritzing. After having spent several anxious days, she told him, considering whether she ought to dye her hair black in order to escape recognition, or stay her own colour but disguise herself as a man and buy a golden beard, she had decided that these were questions Fritzing would settle better than she could. "I'd dye my hair at once," she said, "but what about my wretched eyelashes? Can one dye eyelashes?" Fritzing thought not, and anyhow was decidedly of opinion that her eyelashes should not be tampered with; I think I have said that they were very lovely. He also entirely discouraged the idea of dressing as a man. "Your Grand Ducal Highness would only look like an extremely conspicuous boy," he assured her. "I could wear a beard," said Priscilla. But Fritzing was absolutely opposed to the beard. As for the money part, she never thought of it. Money was a thing she never did think about. It also, then, was to be Fritzing's business. Possibly things might have gone on much longer as they were, with a great deal of planning and talking, and no doing, if an exceedingly desirable prince had not signified his intention of marrying Priscilla. This had been done before by quite a number of princes. They had, that is, not signified, but implored. On their knees would they have implored if their knees could have helped them. They were however all poor, and Priscilla and her sisters were rich; and how foolish, said the Grand Duke, to marry poor men unless you are poor yourself. The Grand Duke, therefore, took these young men aside and crushed them, while Priscilla, indifferent, went on with her drawing. But now came this one who was so eminently desirable that he had no need to do more than merely signify. There had been much trouble and a great deal of delay in finding him a wife, for he had insisted on having a princess who should be both pretty and not his cousin. Europe did not seem to contain such a thing. Everybody was his cousin, except two or three young women whom he was rude enough to call ugly. The Kunitz princesses had been considered in their turn and set aside, for they too were cousins; and it seemed as if one of the most splendid thrones in Europe would either have to go queen-less or be sat upon by somebody plain, when fate brought the Prince to a great public ceremony in Kunitz, and he saw Priscilla and fell so violently in love with her that if she had been fifty times his cousin he would still have married her. That same evening he signified his intention to the delighted Grand Duke, who immediately fell to an irrelevant praising of God. "Bosh," said the Prince, in the nearest equivalent his mother-tongue provided. This was very bad. Not, I mean, that the Prince should have said Bosh, for he was so great that there was not a Grand Duke in Europe to whom he might not have said it if he wanted to; but that Priscilla should have been in imminent danger of marriage. Among Fritzing's many preachings there had been one, often repeated in the strongest possible language, that of all existing contemptibilities the very most contemptible was for a woman to marry any one she did not love; and the peroration, also extremely forcible, had been an announcement that the prince did not exist who was fit to tie her shoestrings. This Priscilla took to be an exaggeration, for she had no very great notion of her shoestrings; but she did agree with the rest. The subject however was an indifferent one, her father never yet having asked her to marry anybody; and so long as he did not do so she need not, she thought, waste time thinking about it. Now the peril was upon her, suddenly, most unexpectedly, very menacingly. She knew there was no hope from the moment she saw her father's face quite distorted by delight. He took her hand and kissed it. To him she was already a queen. As usual she gave him the impression of behaving exactly as he could have wished. She certainly said very little, for she had long ago learned the art of being silent; but her very silences were somehow exquisite, and the Grand Duke thought her perfect. She gave him to understand almost without words that it was a great surprise, an immense honour, a huge compliment, but so sudden that she would be grateful to both himself and the Prince if nothing more need be said about it for a week or two--nothing, at least, till formal negotiations had been opened. "I saw him yesterday for the first time," she pleaded, "so naturally I am rather overwhelmed." Privately she had thought, his eyes, which he had never taken off her, kind and pleasant; and if she had known of his having said Bosh who knows but that he might have had a chance? As it was, the moment she was alone she sent flying for Fritzing. "What," she said, "do you say to my marrying this man?" "If you do, ma'am," said Fritzing, and his face seemed one blaze of white conviction, "you will undoubtedly be eternally lost." II They fled on bicycles in the dusk. The goddess Good Luck, who seems to have a predilection for sinners, helped them in a hundred ways. Without her they would certainly not have got far, for both were very ignorant of the art of running away. Once flight was decided on Fritzing planned elaborately and feverishly, got things thought out and arranged as well as he, poor harassed man, possibly could. But what in this law-bound world can sinners do without the help of Luck? She, amused and smiling dame, walked into the castle and smote the Countess Disthal with influenza, crushing her down helpless into her bed, and holding her there for days by the throat. While one hand was doing this, with the other she gaily swept the Grand Duke into East Prussia, a terrific distance, whither, all unaware of how he was being trifled with, he thought he was being swept by an irresistible desire to go, before the business of Priscilla's public betrothal should begin, and shoot the roebucks of a friend. The Countess was thrust into her bed at noon of a Monday in October. At three the Grand Duke started for East Prussia, incognito in a motor--you know the difficulty news has in reaching persons in motors. At four one of Priscilla's maids, an obscure damsel who had been at the mercy of the others and was chosen because she hated them, tripped out of the castle with shining eyes and pockets heavy with bribes, and caused herself to be whisked away by the afternoon express to Cologne. At six, just as the castle guard was being relieved, two persons led their bicycles through the archway and down across the bridge. It was dark, and nobody recognized them. Fritzing was got up sportingly, almost waggishly--heaven knows his soul was not feeling waggish--as differently as possible from his usual sober clothes. Somehow he reminded Priscilla of a circus, and she found it extremely hard not to laugh. On his head he had a cap with ear-pieces that hid his grey hair; round his neck a gaudy handkerchief muffled well about his face; immense goggles cloaked the familiar overhanging eyebrows and deep-set eyes, goggles curiously at variance with the dapper briskness of his gaitered legs. The Princess was in ordinary blue serge, short and rather shabby, it having been subjected for hours daily during the past week to rough treatment by the maid now travelling to Cologne. As for her face and hair, they were completely hidden in the swathings of a motor-veil. The sentinels stared rather as these two figures pushed their bicycles through the gates, and undoubtedly did for some time afterwards wonder who they could have been. The same thing happened down below on the bridge; but once over that and in the town all they had to do was to ride straight ahead. They were going to bicycle fifteen miles to Rühl, a small town with a railway station on the main line between Kunitz and Cologne. Express trains do not stop at Rühl, but there was a slow train at eight which would get them to Gerstein, the capital of the next duchy, by midnight. Here they would change into the Cologne express; here they would join the bribed maid; here luggage had been sent by Fritzing,--a neat bag for himself, and a neat box for his niece. The neat box was filled with neat garments suggested to him by the young lady in the shop in Gerstein where he had been two days before to buy them. She told him of many other articles which, she said, no lady's wardrobe could be considered complete without; and the distracted man, fearing the whole shop would presently be put into trunks and sent to the station to meet them, had ended by flinging down two notes for a hundred marks each and bidding her keep strictly within that limit. The young lady became very scornful. She told him that she had never heard of any one being clothed from head to foot inside and out, even to brushes, soap, and an umbrella, for two hundred marks. Fritzing, in dread of conspicuous masses of luggage, yet staggered by the girl's conviction, pulled out a third hundred mark note, but added words in his extremity of so strong and final a nature, that she, quailing, did keep within this limit, and the box was packed. Thus Priscilla's outfit cost almost exactly fifteen pounds. It will readily be imagined that it was neat. Painfully the two fugitives rode through the cobbled streets of Kunitz. Priscilla was very shaky on a bicycle, and so was Fritzing. Some years before this, when it had been the fashion, she had bicycled every day in the grand ducal park on the other side of the town. Then, tired of it, she had given it up; and now for the last week or two, ever since Fritzing had told her that if they fled it would have to be on bicycles, she had pretended a renewed passion for it, riding every day round and round a circle of which the chilled and astonished Countess Disthal, whose duty it was to stand and watch, had been the disgusted central point. But the cobbles of Kunitz are very different from those smooth places in the park. All who bicycle round Kunitz know them as trying to the most skilful. Naturally, then, the fugitives advanced very slowly, Fritzing's heart in his mouth each time they passed a brightly-lit shop or a person who looked at them. Conceive how nearly this poor heart must have jumped right out of his mouth, leaving him dead, when a policeman who had been watching them strode suddenly into the middle of the street, put up his hand, and said, "Halt." Fritzing, unstrung man, received a shock so awful that he obeyed by falling off. Priscilla, wholly unused to being told to halt and absorbed by the difficulties of the way, did not grasp that the order was meant for her and rode painfully on. Seeing this, the policeman very gallantly removed her from her bicycle by putting his arms round her and lifting her off. He set her quite gently on her feet, and was altogether a charming policeman, as unlike those grim and ghastly eyes of the law that glare up and down the streets of, say, Berlin, as it is possible to imagine. But Priscilla was perfectly molten with rage, insulted as she had never been in her life. "How dare you--how dare you," she stammered, suffocating; and forgetting everything but an overwhelming desire to box the giant's ears she had actually raised her hand to do it, which would of course have been the ruin of her plan and the end of my tale, when Fritzing, recovering his presence of mind, cried out in tones of unmistakable agony, "Niece, be calm." She calmed at once to a calm of frozen horror. "Now, sir," said Fritzing, assuming an air of brisk bravery and guiltlessness, "what can we do for you?" "Light your lamps," said the policeman, laconically. They did; or rather Fritzing did, while Priscilla stood passive. "I too have a niece," said the policeman, watching Fritzing at work; "but I light no lamps for her. One should not wait on one's niece. One's niece should wait on one." Fritzing did not answer. He finished lighting the lamps, and then held Priscilla's bicycle and started her. "I never did that for my niece," said the policeman. "Confound your niece, sir," was on the tip of Fritzing's tongue; but he gulped it down, and remarking instead as pleasantly as he could that being an uncle did not necessarily prevent your being a gentleman, picked up his bicycle and followed Priscilla. The policeman shook his head as they disappeared round the corner. "One does not light lamps for one's niece," he repeated to himself. "It's against nature. Consequently, though the peppery Fräulein may well be somebody's niece she is not his." "Oh," murmured Priscilla, after they had ridden some way without speaking, "I'm deteriorating already. For the first time in my life I've wanted to box people's ears." "The provocation was great, ma'am," said Fritzing, himself shattered by the spectacle of his Princess being lifted about by a policeman. "Do you think--" Priscilla hesitated, and looked at him. Her bicycle immediately hesitated too, and swerving across the road taught her it would have nothing looked at except its handles. "Do you think," she went on, after she had got herself straight again, "that the way I'm going to live now will make me want to do it often?" "Heaven forbid, ma'am. You are now going to live a most noble life--the only fitting life for the thoughtful and the earnest. It will be, once you are settled, far more sheltered from contact with that which stirs ignoble impulses than anything your Grand Ducal Highness has hitherto known." "If you mean policemen by things that stir ignoble impulses," said Priscilla, "I was sheltered enough from them before. Why, I never spoke to one. Much less"--she shuddered--"much less ever touched one." "Ma'am, you do not repent?" "Heavens, no," said Priscilla, pressing onward. Outside Rühl, about a hundred yards before its houses begin, there is a pond by the wayside. Into this, after waiting a moment peering up and down the dark road to see whether anybody was looking, Fritzing hurled the bicycles. He knew the pond was deep, for he had studied it the day he bought Priscilla's outfit; and the two bicycles one after the other were hurled remorsely into the middle of it, disappearing each in its turn with a tremendous splash and gurgle. Then they walked on quickly towards the railway station, infinitely relieved to be on their own feet again, and between them, all unsuspected, walked the radiant One with the smiling eyes, she who was half-minded to see this game through, giving the players just so many frights as would keep her amused, the fickle, laughing goddess Good Luck. They caught the train neatly at Rühl. They only had to wait about the station for ten minutes before it came in. Hardly any one was there, and nobody took the least notice of them. Fritzing, after a careful look round to see if it contained people he knew, put the Princess into a second-class carriage labelled _Frauen_, and then respectfully withdrew to another part of the train. He had decided that second-class was safest. People in that country nearly always travel second-class, especially women,--at all times in such matters more economical than men; and a woman by herself in a first-class carriage would have been an object of surmise and curiosity at every station. Therefore Priscilla was put into the carriage labelled _Frauen_, and found herself for the first time in her life alone with what she had hitherto only heard alluded to vaguely as the public. She sat down in a corner with an odd feeling of surprise at being included in the category _Frauen_, and giving a swift timid glance through her veil at the public confronting her was relieved to find it consisted only of a comfortable mother and her child. I know not why the adjective comfortable should so invariably be descriptive of mothers in Germany. In England and France though you may be a mother, you yet, I believe, may be so without being comfortable. In Germany, somehow, you can't. Perhaps it is the climate; perhaps it is the food; perhaps it is simply want of soul, or that your soul does not burn with a fire sufficiently consuming. Anyhow it is so. This mother had all the good-nature that goes with amplitude. Being engaged in feeding her child with _belegte Brödchen_--that immensely satisfying form of sandwich--she at once offered Priscilla one. "No thank you," said Priscilla, shrinking into her corner. "Do take one, Fräulein," said the mother, persuasively. "No thank you," said Priscilla, shrinking. "On a journey it passes the time. Even if one is not hungry, thank God one can always eat. Do take one." "No thank you," said Priscilla. "Why does she wear that black thing over her face?" inquired the child. "Is she a witch?" "Silence, silence, little worthless one," cried the mother, delightedly stroking his face with half a _Brödchen_. "You see he is clever, Fräulein. He resembles his dear father as one egg does another." "Does he?" said Priscilla, immediately conceiving a prejudice against the father. "Why don't she take that black thing off?" said the child. "Hush, hush, small impudence. The Fräulein will take it off in a minute. The Fräulein has only just got in." "Mutti, is she a witch? Mutti, Mutti, is she a witch, Mutti?" The child, his eyes fixed anxiously on Priscilla's swathed head, began to whimper. "That child should be in bed," said Priscilla, with a severity born of her anxiety lest, to calm him, humanity should force her to put up her veil. "Persons who are as intelligent as that should never be in trains at night. Their brains cannot bear it. Would he not be happier if he lay down and went to sleep?" "Yes, yes; that is what I have been telling him ever since we left Kunitz"--Priscilla shivered--"but he will not go. Dost thou hear what the Fräulein says, Hans-Joachim?" "Why don't she take that black thing off?" whimpered the child. But how could the poor Princess, however anxious to be kind, take off her veil and show her well-known face to this probable inhabitant of Kunitz? "Do take it off, Fräulein," begged the mother, seeing she made no preparations to do so. "When he gets ideas into his head there is never peace till he has what he wants. He does remind me so much of his father." "Did you ever," said Priscilla, temporizing, "try him with a little--just a little slap? Only a little one," she added hastily, for the mother looked at her oddly, "only as a sort of counter-irritant. And it needn't be really hard, you know--" "_Ach_, she's a witch--Mutti, she's a witch!" shrieked the child, flinging his face, butter and all, at these portentous words, into his mother's lap. "There, there, poor tiny one," soothed the mother, with an indignant side-glance at Priscilla. "Poor tiny man, no one shall slap thee. The Fräulein does not allude to thee, little son. The Fräulein is thinking of bad children such as the sons of Schultz and thy cousin Meyer. Fräulein, if you do not remove your veil I fear he will have convulsions." "Oh," said the unhappy Priscilla, getting as far into her corner as she could, "I'm so sorry--but I--but I really can't." "She's a witch, Mutti!" roared the child, "I tell it to thee again--therefore is she so black, and must not show her face!" "Hush, hush, shut thy little eyes," soothed the mother, putting her hand over them. To Priscilla she said, with an obvious dawning of distrust, "But Fräulein, what reason can you have for hiding yourself?" "Hiding myself?" echoed Priscilla, now very unhappy indeed, "I'm not hiding myself. I've got--I've got--I'm afraid I've got a--an affection of the skin. That's why I wear a veil." "_Ach_, poor Fräulein," said the mother, brightening at once into lively interest. "Hans-Joachim, sleep," she added sharply to her son, who tried to raise his head to interrupt with fresh doubts a conversation grown thrilling. "That is indeed a misfortune. It is a rash?" "Oh, it's dreadful," said Priscilla, faintly. "_Ach_, poor Fräulein. When one is married, rashes no longer matter. One's husband has to love one in spite of rashes. But for a Fräulein every spot is of importance. There is a young lady of my acquaintance whose life-happiness was shipwrecked only by spots. She came out in them at the wrong moment." "Did she?" murmured Priscilla. "You are going to a doctor?" "Yes--that is, no--I've been." "Ah, you have been to Kunitz to Dr. Kraus?" "Y--es. I've been there." "What does he say?" "That I must always wear a veil." "Because it looks so bad?" "I suppose so." There was a silence. Priscilla lay back in her corner exhausted, and shut her eyes. The mother stared fixedly at her, one hand mechanically stroking Hans-Joachim, the other holding him down. "When I was a girl," said the mother, so suddenly that Priscilla started, "I had a good deal of trouble with my skin. Therefore my experience on the subject is great. Show me your face, Fräulein--I might be able to tell you what to do to cure it." "Oh, on no account--on no account whatever," cried Priscilla, sitting up very straight and speaking with extraordinary emphasis. "I couldn't think of it--I really positively couldn't." "But my dear Fräulein, why mind a woman seeing it?" "But what do you want to see it for?" "I wish to help you." "I don't want to be helped. I'll show it to nobody--to nobody at all. It's much too--too dreadful." "Well, well, do not be agitated. Girls, I know, are vain. If any one can help you it will be Dr. Kraus. He is an excellent physician, is he not?" "Yes," said Priscilla, dropping back into her corner. "The Grand Duke is a great admirer of his. He is going to ennoble him." "Really?" "They say--no doubt it is gossip, but still, you know, he is a very handsome man--that the Countess von Disthal will marry him." "Gracious!" cried Priscilla, startled, "what, whether he wants to or not?" "No doubt he will want to. It would be a brilliant match for him." "But she's at least a hundred. Why, she looks like his mother. And he is a person of no birth at all." "Birth? He is of course not noble yet, but his family is excellent. And since it is not possible to have as many ailments as she has and still be alive, some at least must be feigned. Why, then, should she feign if it is not in order to see the doctor? They were saying in Kunitz that she sent for him this very day." "Yes, she did. But she's really ill this time. I'm afraid the poor thing caught cold watching--dear me, only see how sweetly your little boy sleeps. You should make Levallier paint him in that position." "Ah, he looks truly lovely, does he not. Exactly thus does his dear father look when asleep. Sometimes I cannot sleep myself for joy over the splendid picture. What is the matter with the Countess Disthal? Did Dr. Kraus tell you?" "No, no. I--I heard something--a rumour." "Ah, something feigned again, no doubt. Well, it will be a great match for him. You know she is lady-in-waiting to the Princess Priscilla, the one who is so popular and has such red hair? The Countess has an easy life. The other two Princesses have given their ladies a world of trouble, but Priscilla--oh, she is a model. Kunitz is indeed proud of her. They say in all things she is exactly what a Princess should be, and may be trusted never to say or do anything not entirely fitting her station. You have seen her? She often drives through the town, and then the people all run and look as pleased as if it were a holiday. We in Gerstein are quite jealous. Our duchy has no such princess to show. Do you think she is so beautiful? I have often seen her, and I do not think she is. People exaggerate everything so about a princess. My husband does not admire her at all. He says it is not what he calls classic. Her hair, for instance--but that one might get over. And people who are really beautiful always have dark eyelashes. Then her nose--my husband often laughs, and says her nose--" "Oh," said Priscilla, faintly, "I've got a dreadful headache. I think I'll try to sleep a little if you would not mind not talking." "Yes, that hot thing round your face must be very trying. Now if you were not so vain--what does a rash matter when only women are present? Well, well, I will not tease you. Do you know many of the Kunitzers? Do you know the Levisohns well?" "Oh," sighed Priscilla, laying her distracted head against the cushions and shutting her eyes, "who are they?" "Who are they? Who are the Levisohns? But dearest Fräulein if you know Kunitz you must know the Levisohns. Why, the Levisohns _are_ Kunitz. They are more important far than the Grand Duke. They lend to it, and they lead it. You must know their magnificent shop at the corner of the Heiligengeiststrasse? Perhaps," she added, with a glance at the Princess's shabby serge gown, "you have not met them socially, but you must know the magnificent shop. We visit." "Do you?" said Priscilla wearily, as the mother paused. "And you know her story, of course?" "Oh, oh," sighed Priscilla, turning her head from side to side on the cushions, vainly seeking peace. "It is hardly a story for the ears of Fräuleins." "Please don't tell it, then." "No, I will not. It is not for Fräuleins. But one still sees she must have been a handsome woman. And he, Levisohn, was clever enough to see his way to Court favour. The Grand Duke--" "I don't think I care to hear about the Levisohns," said Priscilla, sitting up suddenly and speaking with great distinctness. "Gossip is a thing I detest. None shall be talked in my presence." "Hoity-toity," said the astonished mother; and it will easily be believed that no one had ever said hoity-toity to Priscilla before. She turned scarlet under her veil. For a moment she sat with flashing eyes, and the hand lying in her lap twitched convulsively. Is it possible she was thinking of giving the comfortable mother that admonition which the policeman had so narrowly escaped? I know not what would have happened if the merry goddess, seeing things rushing to this dreadful climax, had not stopped the train in the nick of time at a wayside station and caused a breathless lady, pushing parcels before her, to clamber in. The mother's surprised stare was of necessity diverted to the new-comer. A parcel thrust into Priscilla's hands brought her back of necessity to her senses. "_Danke, Danke_," cried the breathless lady, though no help had been offered; and hoisting herself in she wished both her fellow-passengers a boisterous good evening. The lady, evidently an able person, arranged her parcels swiftly and neatly in the racks, pulled up the windows, slammed the ventilators, stripped off her cloak, flung back her veil, and sitting down with a sigh of vast depth and length stared steadily for five minutes without wavering at the other two. At the end of that time she and the mother began, as with a common impulse, to talk. And at the end of five minutes more they had told each other where they were going, where they had been, what their husbands were, the number, age, and girth of their children, and all the adjectives that might most conveniently be used to describe their servants. The adjectives, very lurid ones, took some time. Priscilla shut her eyes while they were going on, thankful to be left quiet, feeling unstrung to the last degree; and she gradually dropped into an uneasy doze whose chief feature was the distressful repetition, like hammer-strokes on her brain, of the words, "You're deteriorating--deteriorating--deteriorating." "_Lieber Gott_," she whispered at last, folding her hands in her lap, "don't let me deteriorate too much. Please keep me from wanting to box people's ears. _Lieber Gott_, it's so barbarous of me. I never used to want to. Please stop me wanting to now." And after that she dropped off quite, into a placid little slumber. III They crossed from Calais in the turbine. Their quickest route would have been Cologne-Ostend-Dover, and every moment being infinitely valuable Fritzing wanted to go that way, but Priscilla was determined to try whether turbines are really as steady as she had heard they were. The turbine was so steady that no one could have told it was doing anything but being quiescent on solid earth; but that was because, as Fritzing explained, there was a dead calm, and in dead calms--briefly, he explained the conduct of boats in dead calms with much patience, and Priscilla remarked when he had done that they might then, after all, have crossed by Ostend. "We might, ma'am, and we would be in London now if we had," said Fritzing. They had, indeed, lost several hours and some money coming by Calais, and Fritzing had lost his temper as well. Fritzing, you remember, was sixty, and had not closed his eyes all night. He had not, so far as that goes, closed his eyes for nights without number; and what his soul had gone through during those nights was more than any soul no longer in its first youth should be called upon to bear. In the train between Cologne and Calais he had even, writhing in his seat, cursed every single one of his long-cherished ideals, called them fools, shaken his fist at them; a dreadful state of mind to get to. He did not reveal anything of this to his dear Princess, and talking to her on the turbine wore the clear brow of the philosopher; but he did feel that he was a much-tried man, and he behaved to the maid Annalise exactly in the way much-tried men do behave when they have found some one they think defenceless. Unfortunately Annalise was only apparently defenceless. Fritzing would have known it if he had been more used to running away. He did, in his calmer moments, dimly opine it. The plain fact was that Annalise held both him and Priscilla in the hollow of her hand. At this point she had not realized it. She still was awestruck by her promotion, and looked so small and black and uncertain among her new surroundings on the turbine that if not clever of him it was at least natural that he should address her in a manner familiar to those who have had to do with men when they are being tried. He behaved, that is, to Annalise, as he had behaved to his ideals in the night; he shook his fist at her, and called her fool. It was because she had broken the Princess's umbrella. This was the new umbrella bought by him with so much trouble in Gerstein two days before, and therefore presumably of a sufficient toughness to stand any reasonable treatment for a time. There was a mist and a drizzle at Calais, and Priscilla, refusing to go under shelter, had sent Fritzing to fetch her umbrella, and when he demanded it of Annalise, she offered it him in two pieces. This alone was enough to upset a wise man, because wise men are easily upset; but Annalise declared besides that the umbrella had broken itself. It probably had. What may not one expect of anything so cheap? Fritzing, however, was maddened by this explanation, and wasted quite a long time pointing out to her in passionate language that it was an inanimate object, and that inanimate objects have no initiative and never therefore break themselves. To which Annalise, with a stoutness ominous as a revelation of character, replied by repeating her declaration that the umbrella had certainly broken itself. Then it was that he shook his fist at her and called her fool. So greatly was he moved that, after walking away and thinking it over, he went to her a second time and shook his fist at her and called her knave. I will not linger over this of the umbrella; it teems with lessons. While it was going on the Princess was being very happy. She was sitting unnoticed in a deck-chair and feeling she was really off at last into the Ideal. Some of us know the fascination of that feeling, and all of us know the fascination of new things; and to be unnoticed was for her of a most thrilling newness. Nobody looked at her. People walked up and down the deck in front of her as though she were not there. One hurried passenger actually tripped over her feet, and passed on with the briefest apology. Everywhere she saw indifferent faces, indifferent, oblivious faces. It was simply glorious. And she had had no trials since leaving Gerstein. There Fritzing had removed her beyond the range of the mother's eyes, grown at last extremely cold and piercing; Annalise, all meek anxiety to please, had put her to bed in the sleeping-car of the Brussels express; and in the morning her joy had been childish at having a little tray with bad coffee on it thrust in by a busy attendant, who slammed it down on the table and hurried out without so much as glancing at her. How delicious that was. The Princess laughed with delight and drank the coffee, grits and all. Oh, the blessed freedom of being insignificant. It was as good, she thought, as getting rid of your body altogether and going about an invisible spirit. She sat on the deck of the apparently motionless turbine and thought gleefully of past journeys, now for ever done with; of the grand ducal train, of herself drooping inside it as wearily as the inevitable bouquets drooping on the tables, of the crowds of starers on every platform, of the bowing officials wherever your eye chanced to turn. The Countess Disthal, of course, had been always at her elbow, and when she had to go to the window and do the gracious her anxiety lest she should bestow one smile too few had only been surpassed by the Countess's anxiety lest she should bestow one smile too many. Well, that was done with now; as much done with as a nightmare, grisly staleness, is done with when you wake to a fair spring morning and the smell of dew. And she had no fears. She was sure, knowing him as she did, that when the Grand Duke found out she had run away he would make no attempt to fetch her back, but would simply draw a line through his remembrance of her, rub her out of his mind, (his heart, she knew, would need no rubbing, because she had never been in it,) and after the first fury was over, fury solely on account of the scandal, he would be as he had been before, while she--oh wonderful new life!--she would be born again to all the charities. Now how can I, weak vessel whose only ballast is a cargo of interrogations past which life swirls with a thunder of derisively contradictory replies, pretend to say whether Priscilla ought to have had conscience-qualms or not? Am I not deafened by the roar of answers, all seemingly so right yet all so different, that the simplest question brings? And would not the answering roar to anything so complicated as a question about conscience-qualms deafen me for ever? I shall leave the Princess, then, to run away from her home and her parent if she chooses, and make no effort to whitewash any part of her conduct that may seem black. I shall chronicle, and not comment. I shall try to, that is, for comments are very dear to me. Indeed I see I cannot move on even now till I have pointed out that though Priscilla was getting as far as she could from the Grand Duke she was also getting as near as she could to the possession of her soul; and there are many persons who believe this to be a thing so precious that it is absolutely the one thing worth living for. The crossing to Dover, then, was accomplished quite peacefully by Priscilla. Not so, however, by Fritzing. He, tormented man, chief target for the goddess's darts, spent his time holding on to the rail along the turbine's side in order to steady himself; and as there was a dead calm that day the reader will at once perceive that the tempest must have been inside Fritzing himself. It was; and it had been raised to hurricane pitch by some snatches of the talk of two Englishmen he had heard as they paced up and down past where he was standing. The first time they passed, one was saying to the other, "I never heard of anything so infamous." This ought not to have made Fritzing, a person of stainless life and noble principles, start, but it did. He started; and he listened anxiously for more. "Yes," said the other, who had a newspaper under his arm, "they deserve about as bad as they'll--" He was out of ear-shot; but Fritzing mechanically finished the sentence himself. Who had been infamous? And what were they going to get? It was at this point that he laid hold of the handrail to steady himself till the two men should pass again. "You can tell, of course, what steps our Government will take," was the next snatch. "I shall be curious to see the attitude of the foreign papers," was the next. "Anything more wanton I never heard of," was the next. "Of all the harmless, innocent creatures--" was the next. And the last snatch of all--for though they went on walking Fritzing heard no more after it--was the brief and singular expression "Devils." Devils? _What_ were they talking about? Devils? Was that, then, how the public stigmatized blameless persons in search of peace? Devils? What, himself and--no, never Priscilla. She was clearly the harmless innocent creature, and he must be the other thing. But why plural? He could only suppose that he and Annalise together formed a sulphurous plural. He clung very hard to the rail. Who could have dreamed it would get so quickly into the papers? Who could have dreamed the news of it would call forth such blazing words? They would be confronted at Dover by horrified authorities. His Princess was going to be put in a most impossible position. What had he done? Heavens and earth, what had he done? He clung to the rail, staring miserably over the side into the oily water. Some of the passengers lingered to watch him, at first because they thought he was going to be seasick with so little provocation that it amounted to genius, and afterwards because they were sure he must want to commit suicide. When they found that time passed and he did neither, he became unpopular, and they went away and left him altogether and contemptuously alone. "Fritzi, are you worried about anything?" asked Priscilla, coming to where he still stood staring, although they had got to Dover. Worried! When all Europe was going to be about their ears? When he was in the eyes of the world a criminal--an aider, abettor, lurer-away of youth and impulsiveness? He loved the Princess so much that he cared nothing for his own risks, but what about hers? In an agony of haste he rushed to his ideals and principles for justification and comfort, tumbling them over, searching feverishly among them. They had forsaken him. They were so much lifeless rubbish. Nowhere in his mind could he find a rag of either comfort or justification with which to stop up his ears against the words of the two Englishmen and his eyes against the dreadful sight he felt sure awaited them on the quay at Dover--the sight of incensed authorities ready to pounce on him and drag him away for ever from his Princess. Priscilla gazed at him in astonishment. He was taking no notice of her, and was looking fearfully up and down the row of faces that were watching the turbine's arrival. "Fritzi, if you are worried it must be because you've not slept," said Priscilla, laying her hand with a stroking little movement on his sleeve; for what but overwrought nerves could make him look so odd? It was after all Fritzing who had behaved with the braveness of a lion the night before in that matter of the policeman; and it was he who had asked in stern tones of rebuke, when her courage seemed aflicker, whether she repented. "You do not repent?" she asked, imitating that sternness. "Ma'am--" he began in a low and dreadful voice, his eyes ceaselessly ranging up and down the figures on the quay. "Sh--sh--Niece," interrupted Priscilla, smiling. He turned and looked at her as a man may look for the last time at the thing in life that has been most dear to him, and said nothing. IV But nobody was waiting for them at Dover. Fritzing's agonies might all have been spared. They passed quite unnoticed through the crowd of idlers to the train, and putting Priscilla and her maid into it he rushed at the nearest newspaper-boy, pouncing on him, tearing a handful of his papers from him, and was devouring their contents before the astonished boy had well finished his request that he should hold hard. The boy, who had been brought up in the simple faith that one should pay one's pennies first and read next, said a few things under his breath about Germans--crude short things not worth repeating--and jerking his thumb towards the intent Fritzing, winked at a detective who was standing near. The detective did not need the wink. His bland, abstracted eyes were already on Fritzing, and he was making rapid mental notes of the goggles, the muffler, the cap pulled down over the ears. Truly it is a great art, that of running away, and needs incessant practice. And after all there was not a word about the Princess in the papers. They were full, as the Englishmen on the turbine had been full, of something the Russians, who at that time were always doing something, had just done--something that had struck England from end to end into a blaze of indignation and that has nothing to do with my story. Fritzing dropped the papers on the platform, and had so little public spirit that he groaned aloud with relief. "Shilling and a penny 'alfpenny, please, sir," said the newspaper-boy glibly. "_Westminster Gazette_, sir, _Daily Mail_, _Sporting and Dramatic_, one _Lady_, and two _Standards_." From which it will be seen that Fritzing had seized his handful very much at random. He paid the boy without heeding his earnest suggestions that he should try _Tit-Bits_, the _Saturday Review_, and _Mother_, to complete, said the boy, in substance if not in words, his bird's-eye view over the field of representative English journalism, and went back to the Princess with a lighter heart than he had had for months. The detective, apparently one of Nature's gentlemen, picked up the scattered papers, and following Fritzing offered them him in the politest way imaginable just as Priscilla was saying she wanted to see what tea-baskets were like. "Sir," said the detective, taking off his hat, "I believe these are yours." "Sir," said Fritzing, taking off his cap in his turn and bowing with all the ceremony of foreigners, "I am much obliged to you." "Pray don't mention it, sir," said the detective, on whose brain the three were in that instant photographed--the veiled Priscilla, the maid sitting on the edge of the seat as though hardly daring to sit at all, and Fritzing's fine head and mop of grey hair. Priscilla, as she caught his departing eye, bowed and smiled graciously. He withdrew to a little distance, and fell into a reverie: where had he seen just that mechanically gracious bow and smile? They were very familiar to him. As the train slowly left the station he saw the lady in the veil once more. She was alone with her maid, and was looking out of the window at nothing in particular, and the station-master, who was watching the train go, chanced to meet her glance. Again there was the same smile and bow, quite mechanical, quite absent-minded, distinctly gracious. The station-master stared in astonishment after the receding carriage. The detective roused himself from his reverie sufficiently to step forward and neatly swing himself into the guard's van: there being nothing to do in Dover he thought he would go to London. I believe I have forgotten, in the heat of narration, to say that the fugitives were bound for Somersetshire. Fritzing had been a great walker in the days when he lived in England, and among other places had walked about Somersetshire. It is a pleasant county; fruitful, leafy, and mild. Down in the valleys myrtles and rhododendrons have been known to flower all through the winter. Devonshire junkets and Devonshire cider are made there with the same skill precisely as in Devonshire; and the parts of it that lie round Exmoor are esteemed by those who hunt. Fritzing quite well remembered certain villages buried among the hills, miles from the nearest railway, and he also remembered the farmhouses round about these villages where he had lodged. To one of these he had caused a friend in London to write engaging rooms for himself and his niece, and there he proposed to stay till they should have found the cottage the Princess had set her heart on. This cottage, as far as he could gather from the descriptions she gave him from time to time, was going to be rather difficult to find. He feared also that it would be a very insect-ridden place, and that their calm pursuits would often be interrupted by things like earwigs. It was to be ancient, and much thatched and latticed and rose-overgrown. It was, too, to be very small; the smallest of labourers' cottages. Yet though so small and so ancient it was to have several bathrooms--one for each of them, so he understood; "For," said the Princess, "if Annalise hasn't a bathroom how can she have a bath? And if she hasn't had a bath how can I let her touch me?" "Perhaps," said Fritzing, bold in his ignorance of Annalise's real nature, "she could wash at the pump. People do, I believe, in the country. I remember there were always pumps." "But do pumps make you clean enough?" inquired the Princess, doubtfully. "We can try her with one. I fancy, ma'am, it will be less difficult to find a cottage that has only two bathrooms than one that has three. And I know there are invariably pumps." Searching his memory he could recollect no bathrooms at all, but he did not say so, and silently hoped the best. To the Somerset village of Symford and to the farm about a mile outside it known as Baker's, no longer, however, belonging to Baker, but rented by a Mr. Pearce, they journeyed down from Dover without a break. Nothing alarming happened on the way. They were at Victoria by five, and the Princess sat joyfully making the acquaintance of a four-wheeler's inside for twenty minutes during which Fritzing and Annalise got the luggage through the customs. Fritzing's goggles and other accessories of flight inspired so much interest in the customs that they could hardly bear to let him go and it seemed as if they would never tire of feeling about in the harmless depths of Priscilla's neat box. They had however ultimately to part from him, for never was luggage more innocent; and rattling past Buckingham Palace on the way to Paddington Priscilla blew it a cheerful kiss, symbolic of a happiness too great to bear ill-will. Later on Windsor Castle would have got one too, if it had not been so dark that she could not see it. The detective, who felt himself oddly drawn towards the trio, went down into Somersetshire by the same train as they did, but parted from them at Ullerton, the station you get out at when you go to Symford. He did not consider it necessary to go further; and taking a bedroom at Ullerton in the same little hotel from which Fritzing had ordered the conveyance that was to drive them their last seven miles he went to bed, it being close on midnight, with Mr. Pearce's address neatly written in his notebook. This, at present, is the last of the detective. I will leave him sleeping with a smile on his face, and follow the dog-cart as it drove along that beautiful road between wooded hills that joins Ullerton to Symford, on its way to Baker's Farm. At the risk of exhausting Priscilla Fritzing had urged pushing on without a stop, and Priscilla made no objection. This is how it came about that the ostler attached to the Ullerton Arms found himself driving to Symford in the middle of the night. He could not recollect ever having done such a thing before, and the memory of it would be quite unlikely to do anything but remain fixed in his mind till his dying day. Fritzing was a curiously conspicuous fugitive. It was a clear and beautiful night, and the stars twinkled brightly over the black tree-tops. Down in the narrow gorge through which the road runs they could not feel the keen wind that was blowing up on Exmoor. The waters of the Sym, whose windings they followed, gurgled over their stones almost as quietly as in summer. There was a fresh wet smell, consoling and delicious after the train, the smell of country puddles and country mud and dank dead leaves that had been rained upon all day. Fritzing sat with the Princess on the back seat of the dog-cart, and busied himself keeping the rug well round her, the while his soul was full of thankfulness that their journey should after all have been so easy. He was weary in body, but very jubilant in mind. The Princess was so weary in body that she had no mind at all, and dozed and nodded and threatened to fall out, and would have fallen out a dozen times but for Fritzing's watchfulness. As for Annalise, who can guess what thoughts were hers while she was being jogged along to Baker's? That they were dark I have not a doubt. No one had told her this was to be a journey into the Ideal; no one had told her anything but that she was promoted to travelling with the Princess and that she would be well paid so long as she held her tongue. She had never travelled before, yet there were some circumstances of the journey that could not fail to strike the most inexperienced. This midnight jogging in the dog-cart, for instance. It was the second night spent out of bed, and all day long she had expected every moment would end the journey, and the end, she had naturally supposed, would be a palace. There would be a palace, and warmth, and light, and food, and welcome, and honour, and appreciative lacqueys with beautiful white silk calves--alas, Annalise's ideal, her one ideal, was to be for ever where there were beautiful white silk calves. The road between Ullerton and Symford conveyed to her mind no assurance whatever of the near neighbourhood of such things; and as for the dog-cart--"_Himmel_," said Annalise to herself, whenever she thought of the dog-cart. Their journey ended at two in the morning. Almost exactly at that hour they stopped at the garden gate of Baker's Farm, and a woman came out with a lantern and helped them down and lighted them up the path to the porch. The Princess, who could hardly make her eyes open themselves, leaned on Fritzing's arm in a sort of confused dream, got somehow up a little staircase that seemed extraordinarily steep and curly, and was sound asleep in a knobbly bed before Annalise realized she had done with her. Priscilla had forgotten all about the Ideal, all about her eager aspirations. Sleep, dear Mother with the cool hand, had smoothed them all away, the whole rubbish of those daylight toys, and for the next twelve hours sat tenderly by her pillow, her finger on her lips. V No better place than Symford can be imagined for those in search of a spot, picturesque and with creepers, where they may spend quiet years guiding their feet along the way of peace. It is one of the prettiest of English villages. It does and has and is everything the ideal village ought to. It nestles, for instance, in the folds of hills; it is very small, and far away from other places; its cottages are old and thatched; its little inn is the inn of a story-book, with a quaint signboard and an apparently genial landlord; its church stands beautifully on rising ground among ancient trees, besides being hoary; its vicarage is so charming that to see it makes you long to marry a vicar; its vicar is venerable, with an eye so mild that to catch it is to receive a blessing; pleasant little children with happy morning faces pick butter-cups and go a-nutting at the proper seasons and curtsey to you as you pass; old women with clean caps and suitable faces read their Bibles behind latticed windows; hearths are scrubbed and snowy; appropriate kettles simmer on hobs; climbing roses and trim gardens are abundant; and it has a lady bountiful of so untiring a kindness that each of its female inhabitants gets a new flannel petticoat every Christmas and nothing is asked of her in return but that she shall, during the ensuing year, be warm and happy and good. The same thing was asked, I believe, of the male inhabitants, who get comforters, and also that they should drink seltzer-water whenever their lower natures urged them to drink rum; but comforters are so much smaller than petticoats that the men of Symford's sense of justice rebelled, and since the only time they ever felt really warm and happy and good was when they were drinking rum they decided that on the whole it would be more in accordance with their benefactress's wishes to go on doing it. Lady Shuttleworth, the lady from whom these comforters and petticoats proceeded, was a just woman who required no more of others than she required of herself, and who was busy and kind, and, I am sure happy and good, on cold water. But then she did not like rum; and I suppose there are few things quite so easy as not to drink rum if you don't like it. She lived at Symford Hall, two miles away in another fold of the hills, and managed the estate of her son who was a minor--at this time on the very verge of ceasing to be one--with great precision and skill. All the old cottages in Symford were his, and so were the farms dotted about the hills. Any one, therefore, seeking a cottage would have to address himself to the Shuttleworth agent, Mr. Dawson, who too lived in a house so picturesque that merely to see it made you long either to poison or to marry Mr. Dawson--preferably, I think, to poison him. These facts, stripped of the redundances with which I have garnished them, were told Fritzing on the day after his arrival at Baker's Farm by Mrs. Pearce the younger, old Mr. Pearce's daughter-in-law, a dreary woman with a rent in her apron, who brought in the bacon for Fritzing's solitary breakfast and the chop for his solitary luncheon. She also brought in a junket so liquid that the innocent Fritzing told her politely that he always drank his milk out of a glass when he did drink milk, but that, as he never did drink milk, she need not trouble to bring him any. "Sir," said Mrs. Pearce in her slow sad voice, after a glance at his face in search of sarcasm, "'tisn't milk. 'Tis a junket that hasn't junked." "Indeed?" said Fritzing, bland because ignorant. Mrs. Pearce fidgeted a little, wrestling perhaps with her conscience, before she added defiantly, "It wouldn't." "Indeed?" said Fritzing once more; and he looked at the junket through his spectacles with that air of extreme and intelligent interest with which persons who wish to please look at other people's babies. He was desirous of being on good terms with Symford, and had been very pleasant all the morning to Mrs. Pearce. That mood in which, shaken himself to his foundations by anxiety, he had shaken his fist to Annalise, was gone as completely as yesterday's wet mist. The golden sunshine of October lay beautifully among the gentle hills and seemed to lie as well in Fritzing's heart. He had gone through so much for so many weeks that merely to be free from worries for the moment filled him with thankfulness. So may he feel who has lived through days of bodily torture in that first hour when his pain has gone: beaten, crushed, and cowed by suffering, he melts with gratitude because he is being left alone, he gasps with a relief so utter that it is almost abject praise of the Cruelty that has for a little loosened its hold. In this abjectly thankful mood was Fritzing when he found his worst agonies were done. What was to come after he really for the moment did not care. It was sufficient to exist untormented and to let his soul stretch itself in the privacy and peace of Baker's. He and his Princess had made a great and noble effort towards the realization of dreams that he felt were lofty, and the gods so far had been with them. All that first morning in Symford he had an oddly restful, unburdened feeling, as of having been born again and born aged twenty-five; and those persons who used to be twenty-five themselves will perhaps agree that this must have been rather nice. He did not stir from the parlour lest the Princess should come down and want him, and he spent the waiting hours getting information from Mrs. Pearce and informing her mind in his turn with just that amount of knowledge about himself and his niece that he wished Symford to possess. With impressive earnestness he told her his name was Neumann, repeating it three times, almost as if in defiance of contradiction; that his niece was his deceased brother's child; that her Christian name--here he was swept away by inspiration--was Maria-Theresa; that he had saved enough as a teacher of German in London to retire into the country; and that he was looking for a cottage in which to spend his few remaining years. It all sounded very innocent. Mrs. Pearce listened with her head on one side and with something of the air of a sparrow who doesn't feel well. She complimented him sadly on the fluency of his English, and told him with a sigh that in no cottage would he ever again find the comforts with which Baker's was now surrounding him. Fritzing was surprised to hear her say so, for his impressions had all been the other way. As far as he, inexperienced man, could tell, Baker's was a singularly draughty and unscrubbed place. He smelt that its fires smoked, he heard that its windows rattled, he knew that its mattresses had lumps in them, and he saw that its food was inextricably mixed up with objects of a black and gritty nature. But her calm face and sorrowful assurance shook the evidence of his senses, and gazing at her in silence over his spectacles a feeling crept dimly across his brain that if the future held many dealings with women like Mrs. Pearce he was going to be very helpless. Priscilla appeared while he was gazing. She was dressed for going out and came in buttoning her gloves, and I suppose it was a long time since Baker's had seen anything quite so radiant in the way of nieces within its dusty walls. She had on the clothes she had travelled in, for a search among the garments bought by Fritzing had resulted in nothing but a sitting on the side of the bed and laughing tears, so it was clearly not the clothes that made her seem all of a sparkle with lovely youth and blitheness. Kunitz would not have recognized its ivory Princess in this bright being. She was the statue come to life, the cool perfection kissed by expectation into a bewitching living woman. I doubt whether Fritzing had ever noticed her beauty while at Kunitz. He had seen her every day from childhood on, and it is probable that his attention being always riveted on her soul he had never really known when her body left off being lanky and freckled. He saw it now, however; he would have been blind if he had not; and it set him vibrating with the throb of a new responsibility. Mrs. Pearce saw it too, and stared astonished at this oddly inappropriate niece. She stared still more when Fritzing, jumping up from his chair, bent over the hand Priscilla held out and kissed it with a devotion and respect wholly absent from the manner of Mrs. Pearce's own uncles. She, therefore, withdrew into her kitchen, and being a person of little culture crudely expressed her wonder by thinking "Lor." To which, after an interval of vague meanderings among saucepans, she added the elucidation, "Foreigners." Half an hour later Lady Shuttleworth's agent, Mr. Dawson, was disturbed at his tea by the announcement that a gentleman wished to speak to him. Mr. Dawson was a bluff person, and something of a tyrant, for he reigned supreme in Symford after Lady Shuttleworth, and to reign supreme over anybody, even over a handful of cottagers, does bring out what a man may have in him of tyrant. Another circumstance that brings this out is the possession of a meek wife; and Mr. Dawson's wife was really so very meek that I fear when the Day of Reckoning comes much of this tyranny will be forgiven him and laid to her account. Mr. Dawson, in fact, represented an unending series of pitfalls set along his wife's path by Fate, into every one of which she fell; and since we are not supposed, on pain of punishment, to do anything but keep very upright on our feet as we trudge along the dusty road of life, no doubt all those amiable stumblings will be imputed to her in the end for sin. "This man was handed over to you quite nice and kind," one can imagine Justice saying in an awful voice; "his intentions to start with were beyond reproach. Do you not remember, on the eve of your wedding, how he swore with tears he would be good to you? Look, now, what you have made of him. You have prevented his being good to you by your own excessive goodness to him. You have spent your time nourishing his bad qualities. Though he still swears, he never does it with tears. Do you not know the enormous, the almost insurmountable difficulty there is in not bullying meekness, in not responding to the cringer with a kick? Weak and unteachable woman, away with you." Certainly it is a great responsibility taking a man into one's life. It is also an astonishment to me that I write thus in detail of Mrs. Dawson, for she has nothing whatever to do with the story. "Who is it?" asked Mr. Dawson; immediately adding, "Say I'm engaged." "He gave no name, sir. He says he wishes to see you on business." "Business! I don't do business at tea time. Send him away." But Fritzing, for he it was, would not be sent away. Priscilla had seen the cottage of her dreams, seen it almost at once on entering the village, fallen instantly and very violently in love with it regardless of what its inside might be, and had sent him to buy it. She was waiting while he bought it in the adjoining churchyard sitting on a tombstone, and he could neither let her sit there indefinitely nor dare, so great was her eagerness to have the thing, go back without at least a hope of it. Therefore he would not be sent away. "Your master's in," he retorted, when the maid suggested he should depart, "and I must see him. Tell him my business is pressing." "Will you give me your card, sir?" said the maid, wavering before this determination. Fritzing, of course, had no card, so he wrote his new name in pencil on a leaf of his notebook, adding his temporary address. "Tell Mr. Dawson," he said, tearing it out and giving it to her, "that if he is so much engaged as to be unable to see me I shall go direct to Lady Shuttleworth. My business will not wait." "Show him in, then," growled Mr. Dawson on receiving this message; for he feared Lady Shuttleworth every bit as much as Mrs. Dawson feared him. Fritzing was accordingly shown into the room used as an office, and was allowed to cool himself there while Mr. Dawson finished his tea. The thought of his Princess waiting on a tombstone that must be growing colder every moment, for the sun was setting, made him at last so impatient that he rang the bell. "Tell your master," he said when the maid appeared, "that I am now going to Lady Shuttleworth." And he seized his hat and was making indignantly for the door when Mr. Dawson appeared. Mr. Dawson was wiping his mouth. "You seem to be in a great hurry," he said; and glancing at the slip of paper in his hand added, "Mr. Newman." "Sir," said Fritzing, bowing with a freezing dignity, "I am." "Well, so am I. Sit down. What can I do for you? Time's money, you know, and I'm a busy man. You're German, ain't you?" "I am, sir. My name is Neumann. I am here--" "Oh, Noyman, is it? I thought it was Newman." And he glanced again at the paper. "Sir," said Fritzing, with a wave of his hand, "I am here to buy a cottage, and the sooner we come to terms the better. I will not waste valuable moments considering niceties of pronunciation." Mr. Dawson stared. Then he said, "Buy a cottage?" "Buy a cottage, sir. I understand that practically the whole of Symford is the property of the Shuttleworth family, and that you are that family's accredited agent. I therefore address myself in the first instance to you. Now, sir, if you are unable, either through disinclination or disability, to do business with me, kindly state the fact at once, and I will straightway proceed to Lady Shuttleworth herself. I have no time to lose." "I'm blessed if I have either, Mr."--he glanced again at the paper--"Newman." "Neumann, sir," corrected Fritzing irritably. "All right--Noyman. But why don't you write it then? You've written Newman as plain as a doorpost." "Sir, I am not here to exercise you in the proper pronunciation of foreign tongues. These matters, of an immense elementariness I must add, should be and generally are acquired by all persons of any education in their childhood at school." Mr. Dawson stared. "You're a long-winded chap," he said, "but I'm blessed if I know what you're driving at. Suppose you tell me what you've come for, Mr."--he referred as if from habit to the paper--"Newman." "_Neu_mann, sir," said Fritzing very loud, for he was greatly irritated by Mr. Dawson's manner and appearance. "_Noy_mann, then," said Mr. Dawson, equally loudly; indeed it was almost a shout. And he became possessed at the same instant of what was known to Fritzing as a red head, which is the graphic German way of describing the glow that accompanies wrath. "Look here," he said, "if you don't say what you've got to say and have done with it you'd better go. I'm not the chap for the fine-worded game, and I'm hanged if I'll be preached to in my own house. I'll be hanged if I will, do you hear?" And he brought his fist down on the table in a fashion very familiar to Mrs. Dawson and the Symford cottagers. "Sir, your manners--" said Fritzing, rising and taking up his hat. "Never mind my manners, Mr. Newman." "_Neu_mann, sir!" roared Fritzing. "Confound you, sir," was Mr. Dawson's irrelevant reply. "Sir, confound _you_," said Fritzing, clapping on his hat. "And let me tell you that I am going at once to Lady Shuttleworth and shall recommend to her most serious consideration the extreme desirability of removing you, sir." "Removing me! Where the deuce to?" "Sir, I care not whither so long as it is hence," cried Fritzing, passionately striding to the door. Mr. Dawson lay back in his chair and gasped. The man was plainly mad; but still Lady Shuttleworth might--you never know with women--"Look here--hie, you! Mr. Newman!" he called, for Fritzing had torn open the door and was through it. "_Neu_mann, sir," Fritzing hurled back at him over his shoulder. "Lady Shuttleworth won't see you, Mr. Noyman. She won't on principle." Fritzing wavered. "Everything goes through my hands. You'll only have your walk for nothing. Come back and tell me what it is you want." "Sir, I will only negotiate with you," said Fritzing down the passage--and Mrs. Dawson hearing him from the drawing-room folded her hands in fear and wonder--"if you will undertake at least to imitate the manners of a gentleman." "Come, come, you musn't misunderstand me," said Mr. Dawson getting up and going to the door. "I'm a plain man, you know--" "Then, sir, all I can say is that I object to plain men." "I say, who are you? One would think you were a duke or somebody, you're so peppery. Dressed up"--Mr. Dawson glanced at the suit of pedagogic black into which Fritzing had once more relapsed--"dressed up as a street preacher." "I am not dressed up as anything, sir," said Fritzing coming in rather hurriedly. "I am a retired teacher of the German tongue, and have come down from London in search of a cottage in which to spend my remaining years. That cottage I have now found here in your village, and I have come to inquire its price. I wish to buy it as quickly as possible." "That's all very well, Mr.--oh all right, all right, I won't say it. But why on earth don't you write it properly, then? It's this paper's set me wrong. I was going to say we've got no cottages here for sale. And look here, if that's all you are, a retired teacher, I'll trouble you not to get schoolmastering me again." "I really think, sir," said Fritzing stretching his hand towards his hat, "that it is better I should try to obtain an interview with Lady Shuttleworth, for I fear you are constitutionally incapable of carrying on a business conversation with the requisite decent self-command." "Pooh--you'll get nothing out of her. She'll send you back to me. Why, you'd drive her mad in five minutes with that tongue of yours. If you want anything I'm your man. Only let's get at what you do want, without all these confounded dictionary words. Which cottage is it?" "It is the small cottage," said Fritzing mastering his anger, "adjoining the churchyard. It stands by itself, and is separated from the road by an extremely miniature garden. It is entirely covered by creeping plants which I believe to be roses." "That's a couple." "So much the better." "And they're let. One to the shoemaker, and the other to old mother Shaw." "Accommodation could no doubt be found for the present tenants in some other house, and I am prepared to indemnify them handsomely. Might I inquire the number of rooms the cottages contain?" "Two apiece, and a kitchen and attic. Coal-hole and pig-stye in the back yard. Also a pump. But they're not for sale, so what's the use--" "Sir, do they also contain bathrooms?" "Bathrooms?" Mr. Dawson stared with so excessively stupid a stare that Fritzing, who heaver could stand stupidity, got angry again. "I said bathrooms, sir," he said, raising his voice, "and I believe with perfect distinctness." "Oh, I heard you right enough. I was only wondering if you were trying to be funny." "Is this a business conversation or is it not?" cried Fritzing, in his turn bringing his fist down on the table. "Look here, what do you suppose people who live in such places want?" "I imagine cleanliness and decency as much as anybody else." "Well, I've never been asked for one with a bathroom in my life." "You are being asked now," said Fritzing, glaring at him, "but you wilfully refuse to reply. From your manner, however, I conclude that they contain none. If so, no doubt I could quickly have some built." "Some? Why, how many do you want?" "I have a niece, sir, and she must have her own." Mr. Dawson again stared with what seemed to Fritzing so deplorably foolish a stare. "I never heard of such a thing," he said. "What did you never hear of, sir?" "I never heard of one niece and one uncle in a labourer's cottage wanting a bathroom apiece." "Apparently you have never heard of very many things," retorted Fritzing angrily. "My niece desires to have her own bathroom, and it is no one's business but hers." "She must be a queer sort of girl." "Sir," cried Fritzing, "leave my niece out of the conversation." "Oh all right--all right. I'm sure I don't want to talk about your niece. But as for the cottages, it's no good wanting those or any others, for you won't get 'em." "And pray why not, if I offer a good price?" "Lady Shuttleworth won't sell. Why should she? She'd only have to build more to replace them. Her people must live somewhere. And she'll never turn out old Shaw and the shoemaker to make room for a couple of strangers." Fritzing was silent, for his heart was sinking. "Suppose, sir," he said after a pause, during which his eyes had been fixed thoughtfully on the carpet and Mr. Dawson had been staring at him and whistling softly but very offensively, "suppose I informed Lady Shuttleworth of my willingness to build two new cottages--excellent new cottages--for the tenants of these old ones, and pay her a good price as well for these, do you think she would listen to me?" "I say, the schoolmastering business must be a rattling good one. I'm blessed if I know what you want to live in 'em for if money's so little object with you. They're shabby and uncomfortable, and an old chap like you--I mean, a man of your age, who's made his little pile, and wants luxuries like plenty of bathrooms--ought to buy something tight and snug. Good roof and electric light. Place for horse and trap. And settle down and be a gentleman." "My niece," said Fritzing, brushing aside these suggestions with an angrily contemptuous wave of his hand, "has taken a fancy--I may say an exceedingly violent fancy--to these two cottages. What is all this talk of traps and horses? My niece wishes for these cottages. I shall do my utmost to secure them for her." "Well, all I can say is she must be a--" "Silence, sir!" cried Fritzing. Mr. Dawson got up and opened the door very wide. "Look here," he said, "there's no use going on talking. I've stood more from you than I've stood from any one for years. Take my advice and get back home and keep quiet for a bit. I've got no cottages, and Lady Shuttleworth would shut the door in your face when you got to the bathroom part. Where are you staying? At the Cock and Hens? Oh--ah--yes--at Baker's. Well, ask Mrs. Pearce to take great care of you. Tell her I said so. And good afternoon to you, Mr. Noyman. You see I've got the name right now--just as we're going to part." "Before I go," said Fritzing, glaring down at Mr. Dawson, "let me tell you that I have seldom met an individual who unites in his manner so singularly offensive a combination of facetiousness and hectoring as yourself. I shall certainly describe your conduct to Lady Shuttleworth, and not, I hope, in unconvincing language. Sir, good afternoon." "By-bye," said Mr. Dawson, grinning and waving a pleasant hand. Several bathrooms indeed! He need have no fears of Lady Shuttleworth. "Good luck to you with Lady S.!" he called after him cheerily. Then he went to his wife and bade her see to it that the servant never let Fritzing in again, explaining that he was not only a foreigner but a lunatic, and that the mixture was so bad that it hardly bore thinking of. VI While Fritzing was losing his temper in this manner at the agent's, Priscilla sat up in the churchyard in the sun. The Symford churchyard, its church, and the pair of coveted cottages, are on a little eminence rising like an island out of the valley. Sitting under the trees of this island Priscilla amused herself taking in the quiet scene at her feet and letting her thoughts wander down happy paths. The valley was already in shadow, but the tops of the hills on the west side of it were golden in the late afternoon sunshine. From the cottage chimneys smoke went up straight and blue into the soft sky, rooks came and settled over her head in the branches of the elms, and every now and then a yellow leaf would fall slowly at her feet. Priscilla's heart was filled with peace. She was going to be so good, she was going to lead such a clean and beautiful life, so quiet, so helpful to the poor, so hidden, so cleared of all confusions. Never again would she need to pose; never again be forced into conflict with her soul. She had chosen the better part; she had given up everything and followed after wisdom; and her life would be her justification. Who but knows the inward peace that descends upon him who makes good resolutions and abides with him till he suddenly discovers they have all been broken? And what does the breaking of them matter, since it is their making that is so wholesome, so bracing to the soul, bringing with it moments of such extreme blessedness that he misses much who gives it up for fear he will not keep them? Such blessed moments of lifting up of the heart were Priscilla's as she sat in the churchyard waiting, invisibly surrounded by the most beautiful resolutions it is possible to imagine. The Rev. Edward Morrison, the vicar of whom I have spoken as venerable, coming slowly up the path leaning on his son's arm with the intention of going into the church in search of a mislaid sermon-book, saw Priscilla's thoughtful back under the elm-tree and perceived at once that it was a back unknown to him. He knew all the Symford backs, and tourists hardly ever coming there, and never at that time of the year, it could not, he thought, be the back of a tourist. Nor could it belong to any one staying with the Shuttleworths, for he had been there that very afternoon and had found Lady Shuttleworth rejoicing over the brief period of solitude she and her son were enjoying before the stream of guests for the coming of age festivities began. "Robin, what girl is that?" asked the vicar of his son. "I'm sure I don't know," said Robin. "She'll catch cold," said the vicar. "I dare say," said Robin. When they came out of the church ten minutes later Priscilla had not moved. "She'll certainly catch cold," said the vicar, concerned. "I should think it very likely," said Robin, locking the door. "She's sitting on a stone." "Yes, on old Dawson's slab." "Unwise," said the vicar. "Profane," said Robin. The vicar took his boy's arm again--the boy, head and shoulders taller than his father, was down from Cambridge for the vacation then drawing to its close--and moved, I fear, by the same impulse of pure curiosity they walked together down the path that would take them right in front of the young woman on the slab. Priscilla was lost in the bright dreams she was weaving, and looked up with the radiance of them still in her eyes at the two figures between her and the sunset. "My dear young lady," said the vicar kindly, "are you not afraid of catching cold? The evenings are so damp now, and you have chosen a very cold seat." "I don't feel cold," said Priscilla, smiling at this vision of benevolence. "But I do think you ought not to linger here," said the vicar. "I am waiting for my uncle. He's gone to buy a cottage, and ought to be back, really, by now." "Buy a cottage?" repeated the vicar. "My dear young lady, you say that in the same voice you might use to tell me your uncle had gone to buy a bun." "What is a bun?" asked Priscilla. "A bun?" repeated the vicar bewildered, for nobody had ever asked him that before. "Oh I know--" said Priscilla quickly, faintly flushing, "it's a thing you eat. Is there a special voice for buns?" "There is for a thing so--well, so momentous as the buying of a cottage." "Is it momentous? It seems to me so nice and natural." She looked up at the vicar and his son, calmly scrutinizing first one and then the other, and they stood looking down at her; and each time her eyes rested on Robin they found his staring at her with the frankest expression of surprise and admiration. "Pardon me," said the vicar, "if I seem inquisitive, but is it one of the Symford cottages your uncle wishes to buy? I did not know any were for sale." "It's that one by the gate," said Priscilla, slightly turning her head in its direction. "Is it for sale? Dear me, I never knew Lady Shuttleworth sell a cottage yet." "I don't know yet if she wants to," said Priscilla; "but Fr--, my uncle, will give any price. And I must have it. I shall--I shall be ill if I don't." The vicar gazed at her upturned face in perplexity. "Dear me," he said, after a slight pause. "We must live somewhere," remarked Priscilla. "Of course you must," said Robin, suddenly and so heartily that she examined his eager face in more detail. "Quite so, quite so," said the vicar. "Are you staying here at present?" "Never at the Cock and Hens?" broke in Robin. "We're at Baker's Farm." "Ah yes--poor Mrs. Pearce will be glad of lodgers. Poor soul, poor soul." "She's a very dirty soul," said Robin; and Priscilla's eyes flashed over him with a sudden sparkle. "Is she the soul with the holes in its apron?" she asked. "I expect there are some there. There generally are," said Robin. They both laughed; but the vicar gently shook his head. "Ah well, poor thing," he said, "she has an uphill life of it. They don't seem able--they don't seem to understand the art of making both ends meet." "It's a great art," said Robin. "Perhaps they could be helped," said Priscilla, already arranging in her mind to go and do it. "They do not belong to the class one can help. And Lady Shuttleworth, I am afraid, disapproves of shiftless people too much to do anything in the way of reducing the rent." "Lady Shuttleworth can't stand people who don't look happy and don't mend their apron," said Robin. "But it's her own apron," objected Priscilla. "Exactly," said Robin. "Well, well, I hope they'll make you comfortable," said the vicar; and having nothing more that he could well say without having to confess to himself that he was inquisitive, he began to draw Robin away. "We shall see you and your uncle on Sunday in church, I hope," he said benevolently, and took off his hat and showed his snow-white hair. Priscilla hesitated. She was, it is true, a Protestant, it having been arranged on her mother's marriage with the Catholic Grand Duke that every alternate princess born to them was to belong to the Protestant faith, and Priscilla being the alternate princess it came about that of the Grand Duke's three children she alone was not a Catholic. Therefore she could go to church in Symford as often as she chose; but it was Fritzing's going that made her hesitate, for Fritzing was what the vicar would have called a godless man, and never went to church. "You are a member of the Church of England?" inquired the vicar, seeing her hesitate. "Why, pater, she's not English," burst out Robin. "Not English?" echoed the vicar. "Is my English so bad?" asked Priscilla, smiling. "It's frightfully good," said Robin; "but the 'r's,' you know--" "Ah, yes. No, I'm not English. I'm German." "Indeed?" said the vicar, with all the interest that attaches to any unusual phenomenon, and a German in Symford was of all phenomena the most unusual. "My dear young lady, how remarkable. I don't remember ever having met a German before in these parts. Your English is really surprising. I should never have noticed--my boy's ears are quicker than my old ones. Will you think me unpardonably curious if I ask what made you pitch on Symford as a place to live in?" "My uncle passed through it years ago and thought it so pretty that he determined to spend his old age here." "And you, I suppose, are going to take care of him." "Yes," said Priscilla, "for we only"--she looked from one to the other and thought herself extremely clever--"we only have each other in the whole wide world." "Ah, poor child--you are an orphan." "I didn't say so," said Priscilla quickly, turning red; she who had always been too proud to lie, how was she going to lie now to this aged saint with the snow-white hair? "Ah well, well," said the vicar, vaguely soothing. "We shall see you on Sunday perhaps. There is no reason that I know of why a member of the German Church should not assist at the services of the Church of England." And he took off his hat again, and tried to draw Robin away. But Robin lingered, and Priscilla saw so much bright curiosity in his eyes that she felt she was giving an impression of mysteriousness; and this being the last thing she wanted to do she thought she had better explain a little--always a dangerous course to take--and she said, "My uncle taught languages for years, and is old now and tired, and we both long for the country and to be quiet. He taught me English--that's why it's as good as it is. His name"--She was carried away by the desire to blow out that questioning light in Robin's eyes--"his name is Schultz." The vicar bowed slightly, and Robin asked with an air of great politeness but still with that light in his eyes if he were to address her, then, as Miss Schultz. "I'm afraid so," said Priscilla, regretfully. It really sounded gross. Miss Schultz? She might just as well have chosen something romantic while she was about it, for Fritzing in the hurry of many cares had settled nothing yet with her about a name. Robin stared at her very hard, her answer seemed to him so odd. He stared still more when she looked up with the air of one who has a happy thought and informed him that her Christian name was Ethel. "Ethel?" echoed Robin. "It's a very pretty name, I think," said Priscilla, looking pleased. "Our housemaid's called Ethel, and so is the little girl that wheels the gardener's baby's perambulator," was Robin's impetuous comment. "That doesn't make it less pretty," said Priscilla, frowning. "Surely," interrupted the vicar mildly, "Ethel is not a German name?" "I was christened after my mother," said Priscilla gently; and this was strictly true, for the deceased Grand Duchess had also been Priscilla. Then a feeling came over her that she was getting into those depths where persons with secrets begin to flounder as a preliminary to letting them out, and seized with panic she got up off the slab. "You are half English, then," said Robin triumphantly, his bright eyes snapping. He looked very bold and masterful staring straight at her, his head thrown back, his handsome face twinkling with interest. But a person of Priscilla's training could not possibly be discomposed by the stare of any Robin, however masterful; had it not been up to now her chief function in life to endure being stared at with graceful indifference? "I did not say so," she said, glancing briefly at him; and including both father and son in a small smile composed indescribably of graciousness and chill she added, "It really is damp here--I don't think I'll wait for my uncle," and slightly bowing walked away without more ado. She walked very slowly, her skirts gathered loosely in one hand, every line of her body speaking of the most absolute self-possession and unapproachableness. Never had the two men seen any one quite so calm. They watched her in silence as she went up the path and out at the gate; then Robin looked down at his father and drew his hand more firmly through his arm and said with a slight laugh, "Come on, pater, let's go home. We're dismissed." "By a most charming young lady," said the vicar, smiling. "By a very cool one," said Robin, shrugging his shoulders, for he did not like being dismissed. "Yes--oddly self-possessed for her age," agreed the vicar. "I wonder if all German teacher's nieces are like that," said Robin with another laugh. "Few can be so blest by nature, I imagine." "Oh, I don't mean faces. She is certainly prettier by a good bit than most girls." "She is quite unusually lovely, young man. Don't quibble." "Miss Schultz--Ethel Schultz," murmured Robin; adding under his breath, "Good Lord." "She can't help her name. These things are thrust upon one." "It's a beastly common name. Macgrigor, who was a year in Dresden, told me everybody in Germany is called Schultz." "Except those who are not." "Now, pater, you're being clever again," said Robin, smiling down at his father. "Here comes some one in a hurry," said the vicar, his attention arrested by the rapidly approaching figure of a man; and, looking up, Robin beheld Fritzing striding through the churchyard, his hat well down over his eyes as if clapped on with unusual vigour, both hands thrust deep in his pockets, the umbrella, without which he never, even on the fairest of days, went out, pressed close to his side under his arm, and his long legs taking short and profane cuts over graves and tombstones with the indifference to decency of one immersed in unpleasant thought. It was not the custom in Symford to leap in this manner over its tombs; and Fritzing arriving at a point a few yards from the vicar, and being about to continue his headlong career across the remaining graves to the tree under which he had left Priscilla, the vicar raised his voice and exhorted him to keep to the path. "Quaint-looking person," remarked Robin. "Another stranger. I say, it can't be--no, it can't possibly be the uncle?" For he saw he was a foreigner, yet on the other hand never was there an uncle and a niece who had less of family likeness. Fritzing was the last man wilfully to break local rules or wound susceptibilities; and pulled out of his unpleasant abstraction by the vicar's voice he immediately desisted from continuing his short cut, and coming onto the path removed his hat and apologized with the politeness that was always his so long as nobody was annoying him. "My name is Neumann, sir," he said, introducing himself after the German fashion, "and I sincerely beg your pardon. I was looking for a lady, and"--he gave his spectacles a little adjusting shove as though they were in fault, and gazing across to the elm where he had left Priscilla sitting added with sudden anxiety--"I fear I do not see her." "Do you mean Miss Schultz?" asked the vicar, looking puzzled. "No, sir, I do not mean Miss Schultz," said Fritzing, peering about him at all the other trees in evident surprise and distress. "A lady left about five minutes ago," said Robin. "A tall young lady in a blue costume?" "Yes. Miss Schultz." Fritzing looked at him with some sternness. "Sir, what have I to do with Miss Schultz?" he inquired. "Oh come now," said the cheerful Robin, "aren't you looking for her?" "I am in search of my niece, sir." "Yes. Miss Schultz." "No sir," said Fritzing, controlling himself with an effort, "not Miss Schultz. I neither know Miss Schultz nor do I care a--" "Sir, sir," interposed the vicar, hastily. "I do not care a _pfenning_ for any Miss Schultz." The vicar looked much puzzled. "There was a young lady," he said, "waiting under that tree over there for her uncle who had gone, she said, to see Lady Shuttleworth's agent about the cottage by the gate. She said her uncle's name was Schultz." "She said she was Miss Ethel Schultz," said Robin. "She said she was staying at Baker's Farm," said the vicar. Fritzing stared for a moment from one to the other, then clutching his hat mechanically half an inch into the air turned on his heel without another word and went with great haste out of the churchyard and down the hill and away up the road to the farm. "Quaint, isn't he," said Robin as they slowly followed this flying figure to the gate. "I don't understand it," said the vicar. "It does seem a bit mixed." "Did he not say his name was Neumann?" "He did. And he looked as if he'd fight any one who said it wasn't." "It is hardly credible that there should be two sets of German uncles and nieces in Symford at one and the same time," mused the vicar. "Even one pair is a most unusual occurrence." "If there are," said Robin very earnestly, "pray let us cultivate the Schultz set and not the other." "I don't understand it," repeated the vicar, helplessly. VII Symford, innocent village, went to bed very early; but early as it went long before it had got there on this evening it contained no family that had not heard of the arrivals at Baker's Farm. From the vicarage the news had filtered that a pretty young lady called Schultz was staying there with her uncle; from the agent's house the news that a lunatic called Neumann was staying there with his niece; and about supper-time, while it was still wondering at this sudden influx of related Germans, came the postmistress and said that the boy from Baker's who fetched the letters knew nothing whatever of any one called Schultz. He had, said the postmistress, grown quite angry and forgotten the greater and by far the better part of his manners when she asked him how he could stand there and say such things after all the years he had attended Sunday-school and if he were not afraid the earth would open and swallow him up, and he had stuck to it with an obstinacy that had at length convinced her that only one uncle and niece were at Baker's, and their name was Neumann. He added that there was another young lady there whose name he couldn't catch, but who sat on the edge of her bed all day crying and refusing sustenance. Appeased by the postmistress's apologies for her first unbelief he ended by being anxious to give all the information in his power, and came back quite a long way to tell her that he had forgotten to say that his mother had said that the niece's Christian name was Maria-Theresa. "But what, then," said the vicar's wife to the vicar when this news had filtered through the vicarage walls to the very sofa where she sat, "has become of the niece called Ethel?" "I don't know," said the vicar, helplessly. "Perhaps she is the one who cried all day." "My dear, we met her in the churchyard." "Perhaps they are forgers," suggested the vicar's wife. "My dear?" "Or anarchists." "Kate?" The vicar's wife said no more, but silently made up her mind to go the very next day and call at Baker's. It would be terrible if a bad influence got into Symford, her parish that she had kept in such good order for so long. Besides, she had an official position as the wife of the vicar and could and ought to call on everybody. Her call would not bind her, any more than the call of a district visitor would, to invite the called-upon to her house. Perhaps they were quite decent, and she could ask the girl up to the Tuesday evenings in the parish-room; hardly to the vicarage, because of her daughter Netta. On the other hand, if they looked like what she imagined anarchists or forgers look like, she would merely leave leaflets and be out when they returned her call. Robin, all unaware of his mother's thoughts, was longing to ask her to go to Baker's and take him with her as a first step towards the acquaintance after which his soul thirsted, but he refrained for various discreet reasons based on an intimate knowledge of his mother's character; and he spent the evening perfecting a plan that should introduce him into the interior of Baker's without her help. The plan was of a barbarous simplicity: he was going to choose an umbrella from the collection that years had brought together in the stand in the hall, and go boldly and ask the man Neumann if he had dropped it in the churchyard. The man Neumann would repudiate the umbrella, perhaps with secret indignation, but he would be forced to pretend he was grateful, and who knew what luck might not do for him after that? While Robin was plotting, and his mother was plotting, that the next day would certainly see them inside Baker's, a third person was trying to do exactly the same thing at Symford Hall; and this third person was no other than Augustus, the hope of all the Shuttleworths. Augustus--he was known to his friends briefly as Tussie--had been riding homewards late that afternoon, very slowly, for he was an anxious young man who spent much of his time dodging things like being overheated, when he saw a female figure walking towards him along the lonely road. He was up on the heath above Symford, a solitary place of heather, and gorse bushes, and winding roads that lead with many hesitations and delays to different parts of Exmoor, and he himself with his back to that wild region and the sunset was going, as every sensible person would be going at that time of the evening, in the direction of the village and home. But where could the girl be going? For he now saw it was a girl, and in a minute or two more that it was a beautiful girl. With the golden glow of the sky the sun had just left on her face Priscilla came towards him out of the gathering dusk of approaching evening, and Tussie, who had a poetic soul, gazed at the vision openmouthed. Seeing him, she quickened her steps, and he took off his cap eagerly when she asked him to tell her where Symford was. "I've lost it," she said, looking up at him. "I'm going through it myself," he answered. "Will you let me show you the way?" "Thank you," said Priscilla; and he got off his horse and she turned and walked beside him with the same unruffled indifference with which she would have walked beside the Countess Disthal or in front of an attending lacquey. Nor did she speak, for she was busy thinking of Fritzing and hoping he was not being too anxious about her, and Tussie (God defend his innocence) thought she was shy. So sure was he as the minutes past that her silence was an embarrassed one that he put an end to it by remarking on the beauty of the evening, and Priscilla who had entirely forgotten Miss Schultz gave him the iciest look as a reminder that it was not his place to speak first. It was lost on Tussie as a reminder, for naturally it did not remind him of anything, and he put it down at first to the girl's being ill at ease alone up there with a strange man, and perhaps to her feeling she had better keep him at arm's length. A glance at her profile however dispelled this illusion once and for ever, for never was profile of a profounder calm. She was walking now with her face in shadow, and the glow behind her played strange and glorious tricks with her hair. He looked at her, and looked, and not by the quiver of an eyelash did she show she was aware of anybody's presence. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she was deep in thought tinged with remorsefulness that she should have come up here instead of going straight home to the farm, and by losing her way and staying out so long have given Fritzing's careful heart an unnecessary pang of anxiety. He had had so many, and all because of her. But then it had been the very first time in her life that she had ever walked alone, and if words cannot describe the joy and triumph of it how was it likely that she should have been able to resist the temptation to stray aside up a lovely little lane that lured her on and on from one bend to another till it left her at last high up, breathless and dazzled, on the edge of the heath, with Exmoor rolling far away in purple waves to the sunset and all the splendour of the evening sky in her face? She had gone on, fascinated by the beauty of the place, and when she wanted to turn back found she had lost herself. Then appeared Sir Augustus to set her right, and with a brief thought of him as a useful person on a nice horse she fell into sober meditations as to the probable amount of torture her poor Fritzi was going through, and Augustus ceased to exist for her as completely as a sign-post ceases to exist for him who has taken its advice and passed on. He looked at her, and looked, and looked again. He had never seen any one quite so beautiful, and certainly never any one with such an air of extreme detachment. He was twenty-one and much inclined to poetry, and he thought as she walked beside him so tall and straight and aloof, with the nimbus of flaming hair and the noble little head and slightly stern brow that she looked like nothing less than a young saint of God. Tussie was not bold like Robin. He was a gentle youth who loved quiet things, quiet places, placid people, kind dogs, books, canaries even, if they did not sing too loud. He was sensitive about himself, being small and weakly, and took, as I have said, great care of what he had of health, such care indeed that some of his robust friends called him Fussie. He hated the idea of coming of age and of having a great deal of money and a great many active duties and responsibilities. His dream was to be left in peace to write his verses; to get away into some sweet impossible wilderness, and sit there singing with as much of the spirit of Omar Kayyam as could reasonably be expected to descend on a youth who only drank water. He was not bold, I say; and after that one quelling glance from the young saint's eyes did not dare speak again for a long while. But they were getting near Symford; they were halfway down the hill; he could not let her slip away perhaps suddenly from his side into the shadows without at least trying to find out where she was staying. He looked at her soft kind mouth and opened his own to speak. He looked at her stern level brows and shut it again. At last, keeping his eyes on her mouth he blurted out, growing red, "I know every soul in Symford, and every soul for miles round, but I don't know--" He stopped. He was going to say "you," but he stopped. Priscilla's thoughts were so far away that she turned her head and gazed vaguely at him for a moment while she collected them again. Then she frowned at him. I do not know why Robin should have had at least several smiles and poor Tussie only frowns, unless it was that during this walk the young person Ethel Schultz had completely faded from Priscilla's mind and the Royal Highness was well to the fore. She certainly frowned at Tussie and asked herself what could possess the man to keep on speaking to her. Keep on speaking! Poor Tussie. Aloud she said freezingly, "Did you say something?" "Yes," said Tussie, his eyes on her mouth--surely a mouth only made for kindness and gentle words. "I was wondering whether you were staying at the vicarage." "No," said Priscilla, "we're staying at Baker's Farm." And at the mention of that decayed lodging the friendly Schultz expression crept back, smiling into her eyes. Tussie stopped short. "Baker's Farm?" he said. "Why, then this is the way; down here, to the right. It's only a few yards from here." "Were you going that way too?" "I live on the other side of Symford." "Then good-bye and thank you." "Please let me go with you as far as the high-road--it's almost dark." "Oh no--I can't lose myself again if it's only a few yards." She nodded, and was turning down the lane. "Are you--are you comfortable there?" he asked hurriedly, blushing. "The Pearces are tenants of ours. I hope they make you comfortable?" "Oh, we're only going to be there a few days. My uncle is buying a cottage, and we shall leave almost directly." The girl Ethel nodded and smiled and went away quickly into the dusk; and Tussie rode home thoughtfully, planning elaborate plans for a descent the next day upon Baker's Farm that should have the necessary air of inevitableness. Fritzing was raging up and down the road in front of the gate when Priscilla emerged, five minutes later, from the shadows of the lane. She ran up to him and put her arm through his, and looked up at him with a face of great penitence. "Dear Fritzi," she said, "I'm so sorry. I've been making you anxious, haven't I? Forgive me--it was the first taste of liberty, and it got into my feet and set them off exploring, and then I lost myself. Have you been worrying?" He was immensely agitated, and administered something very like a scolding, and he urged the extreme desirability of taking Annalise with her in future wherever she went--("Oh nonsense, Fritzi," interjected Priscilla, drawing away her arm)--and he declared in a voice that trembled that it was a most intolerable thought for him that two strange men should have dared address her in the churchyard, that he would never forgive himself for having left her there alone--("Oh, Fritzi, how silly," interjected Priscilla)--and he begged her almost with tears to tell him exactly what she had said to them, for her Grand Ducal Highness must see that it was of the first importance they should both say the same things to people. Priscilla declared she had said nothing at all but what was quite diplomatic, in fact quite clever; indeed, she had been surprised at the way ideas had seemed to flow. "So please," she finished, "don't look at me with such lamentable eyes." "Ma'am, did you not tell them our name is Schultz?" "But so it is." "It is not, ma'am. Our name is Neumann." Priscilla stared astonished. "Neumann?" she said. "Nonsense, Fritzi. Why should it be Neumann? We're Schultz. I told these people we were. It's all settled." "Settled, ma'am? I told the woman here as well as the estate agent that you are my brother's child and that we are Neumann." Priscilla was aghast. Then she said severely, "It was your duty to ask me first. What right have you to christen me?" "I intended to discuss it during our walk to the village this afternoon. I admit I forgot it. On the other hand I could not suppose your Grand Ducal Highness, left for a moment unprotected, would inform two strange gentlemen that our name was Schultz." "You should certainly have asked me first," repeated Priscilla with knitted brows. "Why should I have to be Neumann?" "I might inquire with equal reason why I should have to be Schultz," retorted Fritzing. "But why Neumann?" persisted Priscilla, greatly upset. "Ma'am, why not?" said Fritzing, still more upset. Then he added, "Your Grand Ducal Highness might have known that at the agent's I would be obliged to give some name." "I didn't think any more than you did," said Priscilla stopping in front of the gate as a sign he was to open it for her. He did, and they walked through the garden and into the house in silence. Then she went into the parlour and dropped into a horsehair armchair, and leaning her head against its prickliness she sighed a doleful sigh. "Shall I send Annalise to you, ma'am?" asked Fritzing, standing in the doorway. "What can we do?" asked Priscilla, her eyes fixed on the tips of her shoes in earnest thought. "Come in, Fritzi, and shut the door," she added. "You don't behave a bit like an uncle." Then an idea struck her, and looking up at him with sudden gaiety she said, "Can't we have a hyphen?" "A hyphen?" "Yes, and be Neumann-Schultz?" "Certainly we can," said Fritzing, his face clearing; how muddled he must be getting not to have thought of it himself! "I will cause cards to be printed at once, and we will be Neumann-Schultz. Ma'am, your woman's wit--" "Fritzi, you're deteriorating--you never flattered me at Kunitz. Let us have tea. I invite you to tea with me. If you'll order it, I'll pour it out for you and practice being a niece." So the evening was spent in harmony; a harmony clouded at intervals, it is true, first by Priscilla's disappointment about the cottage, then by a certain restiveness she showed before the more blatant inefficiencies of the Baker housekeeping, then by a marked and ever recurring incapacity to adapt herself to her new environment, and lastly and very heavily when Fritzing in the course of conversation let drop the fact that he had said she was Maria-Theresa. This was a very black cloud and hung about for a long while; but it too passed away ultimately in a compromise reached after much discussion that Ethel should be prefixed to Maria-Theresa; and before Priscilla went to bed it had been arranged that Fritzing should go next morning directly after a very early breakfast to Lady Shuttleworth and not leave that lady's side and house till he had secured the cottage, and the Princess for her part faithfully promised to remain within the Baker boundaries during his absence. VIII Lady Shuttleworth then, busiest and most unsuspecting of women, was whisking through her breakfast and her correspondence next morning with her customary celerity and method, when a servant appeared and offered her one of those leaves from Fritzing's note-book which we know did duty as his cards. Tussie was sitting at the other end of the table very limp and sad after a night of tiresome tossing that was neither wholly sleep nor wholly wakefulness, and sheltered by various dishes with spirit-lamps burning beneath them worked gloomily at a sonnet inspired by the girl he had met the day before while his mother thought he was eating his patent food. The girl, it seemed, could not inspire much, for beyond the fourth line his muse refused to go; and he was beginning to be unable to stop himself from an angry railing at the restrictions the sonnet form forces upon poets who love to be vague, which would immediately have concentrated his mother's attention on himself and resulted in his having to read her what he had written--for she sturdily kept up the fiction of a lively interest in his poetic tricklings--when the servant came in with Fritzing's leaf. "A gentleman wishes to see you on business, my lady," said the servant. "Mr. Neumann-Schultz?" read out Lady Shuttleworth in an inquiring voice. "Never heard of him. Where's he from?" "Baker's Farm, my lady." At that magic name Tussie's head went up with a jerk. "Tell him to go to Mr. Dawson," said Lady Shuttleworth. The servant disappeared. "Why do you send him away, mother?" asked Tussie. "Why, you know things must go through Dawson," said Lady Shuttleworth pouncing on her letters again. "I'd be plagued to death if they didn't." "But apparently this is the stranger within our gates. Isn't he German?" "His name is. Dawson will be quite kind to him." "Dawson's rather a brute I fancy, when you're not looking." "Dearest, I always am looking." "He must be one of Pearce's lodgers." "Poor man, I'm sorry for him if he is. Of all the shiftless women--" "The gentleman says, my lady," said the servant reappearing with rather an awestruck face, "that he wishes to speak to you most particular." "James, did I not tell you to send him to Mr. Dawson?" "I delivered the message, my lady. But the gentleman says he's seen Mr. Dawson, and that he"--the footman coughed slightly--"he don't want to see any more of him, my lady." Lady Shuttleworth put on her glasses and stared at the servant. "Upon my word he seems to be very cool," she said; and the servant, his gaze fixed on a respectful point just above his mistress's head, reflected on the extreme inapplicability of the adjective to anything so warm as the gentleman at the door. "Shall I see him for you, mother?" volunteered Tussie briskly. "You?" said his mother surprised. "I'm rather a dab at German, you know. Perhaps he can't talk much English"--the footman started--"evidently he wasn't able to say much to Dawson. Probably he wants you to protect him from the onslaughts of old Pearce's cockroaches. Anyhow as he's a foreigner I think it would be kinder to see him." Lady Shuttleworth was astonished. Was Tussie going to turn over a new leaf after all, now that he was coming of age, and interest himself in more profitable things than verse-making? "Dearest," she said, quite touched, "he shall be seen if you think it kinder. I'll see him--you haven't done breakfast yet. Show him into the library, James." And she gathered up her letters and went out--she never kept people waiting--and as she passed Tussie she laid her hand tenderly for a moment on his shoulder. "If I find I can't understand him I'll send for you," she said. Tussie folded up his sonnet and put it in his pocket. Then he ate a few spoonfuls of the stuff warranted to give him pure blood, huge muscles, and a vast intelligence; then he opened a newspaper and stared vacantly at its contents; then he went to the fire and warmed his feet; then he strolled round the table aimlessly for a little; and then, when half an hour had passed and his mother had not returned, he could bear it no longer and marched straight into the library. "I think the cigarettes must be here," said Tussie, going over to the mantelpiece and throwing a look of eager interest at Fritzing. Fritzing rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lady Shuttleworth was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her elbows on its arms, the tips of her ten fingers nicely fitted together. She looked very angry, and yet there was a sparkle of something like amusement in her eyes. Having bowed to Tussie Fritzing sat down again with the elaboration of one who means to stay a long while. During his walk from the farm he had made up his mind to be of a most winning amiability and patience, blended with a determination that nothing should shake. At the door, it is true, he had been stirred to petulance by the foolish face and utterances of the footman James, but during the whole of the time he had been alone with Lady Shuttleworth he had behaved, he considered, with the utmost restraint and tact. Tussie offered him a cigarette. "My dear Tussie," said his mother quickly, "we will not keep Mr. Neumann-Schultz. I'm sure his time must be quite as valuable as mine is." "Oh madam," said Fritzing with a vast politeness, settling himself yet more firmly in his chair, "nothing of mine can possibly be of the same value as anything of yours." Lady Shuttleworth stared--she had stared a good deal during the last halfhour--then began to laugh, and got up. "If you see its value so clearly," she said, "I'm sure you won't care to take up any more of it." "Nay, madam," said Fritzing, forced to get up too, "I am here, as I explained, in your own interests--or rather in those of your son, who I hear is shortly to attain his majority. This young gentleman is, I take it, your son?" Tussie assented. "And therefore the owner of the cottages?" "What cottages?" asked Tussie, eagerly. He was manifestly so violently interested in Mr. Neumann-Schultz that his mother could only gaze at him in wonder. He actually seemed to hang on that odd person's lips. "My dear Tussie, Mr. Neumann-Schultz has been trying to persuade me to sell him the pair of cottages up by the church, and I have been trying to persuade him to believe me when I tell him I won't." "But why won't you, mother?" asked Tussie. Lady Shuttleworth stared at him in astonishment. "Why won't I? Do I ever sell cottages?" "Your esteemed parent's reasons for refusing," said Fritzing, "reasons which she has given me with a brevity altogether unusual in one of her sex and which I cannot sufficiently commend, do more credit, as was to be expected in a lady, to her heart than to her head. I have offered to build two new houses for the disturbed inhabitants of these. I have offered to give her any price--any price at all, within the limits of reason. Your interests, young gentleman, are what will suffer if this business is not concluded between us." "Do you want them for yourself?" asked Tussie. "Yes, sir, for myself and for my niece." "Mother, why do you refuse to do a little business?" "Tussie, are we so poor?" "As far as I'm concerned," said Tussie airily to Fritzing, "you may have the things and welcome." "Tussie?" "But they are not worth more than about fifty pounds apiece, and I advise you not to give more for them than they're worth. Aren't they very small, though? Isn't there any other place here you'd rather have?" "Tussie?" "Do you mind telling me why you want them?" "Young man, to live in them." "And where are the people to live who are in them now?" asked Lady Shuttleworth, greatly incensed. "Madam, I promised you to build." "Oh nonsense. I won't have new red-brick horrors about the place. There's that nice good old Mrs. Shaw in one, so clean and tidy always, and the shoemaker, a very good man except for his enormous family, in the other. I will not turn them out." "Put 'em in the empty lodge at the north gate," suggested Tussie. "They'd be delighted." Lady Shuttleworth turned angrily on Fritzing--she was indeed greatly irritated by Tussie's unaccountable behaviour. "Why don't you build for yourself?" she asked. "My niece has set her heart on these cottages in such a manner that I actually fear the consequences to her health if she does not get them." "Now, mother, you really can't make Mr. Neumann-Schultz's niece ill." "Dearest boy, have you suddenly lost your senses?" "Not unless it's losing them to be ready to do a kindness." "Well said, well said, young man," said Fritzing approvingly. "Tussie, have I ever shirked doing a kindness?" asked Lady Shuttleworth, touched on her tenderest point. "Never. And that's why I can't let you begin now," said Tussie, smiling at her. "Well said, well said, young man," approved Fritzing. "The woman up to a certain age should lead the youth, and he should in all things follow her counsels with respect and obedience. But she for her part should know at what moment to lay down her authority, and begin, with a fitting modesty, to follow him whom she has hitherto led." "Is that what your niece does?" asked Lady Shuttleworth quickly. "Madam?" "Is she following you into these cottages, or are you following her?" "You must pardon me, madam, if I decline to discuss my niece." "Do have a cigarette," said Tussie, delighted. "I never smoke, young man." "Something to drink, then?" "I never drink, young man." "If I decide to let you have these cottages--_if_ I do," said Lady Shuttleworth, divided between astonishment at everything about Fritzing and blankest amazement at her son's behaviour, "you will understand that I only do it because my son seems to wish it." "Madam, provided I get the cottages I will understand anything you like." "First that. Then I'd want some information about yourself. I couldn't let a stranger come and live in the very middle of my son's estate unless I knew all about him." "Why, mother--" began Tussie. "Is not the willingness to give you your own price sufficient?" inquired Fritzing anxiously. "Not in the least sufficient," snapped Lady Shuttleworth. "What do you wish to know, madam?" said Fritzing stiffly. "I assure you a great deal." "Come, mother," said Tussie, to whom this was painful, for was not the man, apart from his strange clothes and speeches, of a distinctly refined and intellectual appearance? And even if he wasn't, was he not still the uncle of that divine niece?--"these are things for Dawson to arrange." Fritzing started at the hated name, and began to frown dreadfully. His frown was always very impressive because of his bushy eyebrows and deep-set eyes. "Dawson, as you call him," he said, "and he certainly has no claim to any prefix of politeness, is not a person with whom I will consent to arrange anything. Dawson is the most offensive creature who ever walked this earth clad in the outer semblance of one of God's creatures." This was too much for Lady Shuttleworth. "Really--" she said, stretching out her hand to the bell. "Didn't I tell you so, mother?" cried Tussie triumphantly; and that Tussie, her own dear boy, should in all things second this madman completely overwhelmed her. "I knew he was a brute behind your back. Let's sack him." "James, show this gentleman out." "Pardon me, madam, we have not yet arranged--" "Oh," interrupted Tussie, "the business part can be arranged between you and me without bothering my mother. I'll come part of the way with you and we'll talk it over. You're absolutely right about Dawson. He's an outrageous mixture of bully and brute." And he hurried into the hall to fetch his cap, humming _O dear unknown One with the stern sweet face_, which was the first line of his sonnet in praise of Priscilla, to a cheerful little tune of his own. "Tussie, it's so damp," cried his anxious mother after him--"you're not really going out in this nasty Scotch mist? Stay in, and I'll leave you to settle anything you like." "Oh, it's a jolly morning for a walk," called back Tussie gaily, searching about for his cap--"_And eyes all beautiful with strenuous thought_--Come on, sir." But Fritzing would not skimp any part of his farewell ceremonies. "Permit me, madam," he said, deeply bowing, "to thank you for your extremely kind reception." "Kind?" echoed Lady Shuttleworth, unable to stop herself from smiling. "Yes, madam, kind, and before all things patient." "Yes, I do think I've been rather patient," agreed Lady Shuttleworth, smiling again. "And let me," proceeded Fritzing, "join to my thanks my congratulations on your possession of so unusually amiable and promising a son." "Come on, sir--you'll make me vain," said Tussie, in the doorway--"'_Hair like a web divine wherein is caught_,'"--he hummed, getting more and more shrill and happy. Lady Shuttleworth put out her hand impulsively. Fritzing took it, bent over it, and kissed it with much respect. "A most unusually promising young man," he repeated; "and, madam, I can tell you it is not my habit to say a thing I do not mean." "'_The last reflection of God's daily grace_'"--chirped Tussie, looking on much amused. "No, that I'm quite certain you don't," said Lady Shuttleworth with conviction. "Don't say too many nice things about me," advised Tussie. "My mother will swallow positively anything." But nevertheless he was delighted; for here were his mother and the uncle--the valuable and highly to be cherished uncle--looking as pleased as possible with each other, and apparently in the fairest way to becoming fast friends. IX The cheerful goddess who had brought Fritzing and his Princess safely over from Kunitz was certainly standing by them well. She it was who had driven Priscilla up on to the heath and into the acquaintance of Augustus Shuttleworth, without whom a cottage in Symford would have been for ever unattainable. She it was who had sent the Morrisons, father and son, to drive Priscilla from the churchyard before Fritzing had joined her, without which driving she would never have met Augustus. She it was who had used the trifling circumstance of a mislaid sermon-book to take the vicar and Robin into the church at an unaccustomed time, without which sermon-book they would never have met Priscilla in the churchyard and driven her out of it. Thus are all our doings ruled by Chance; and it is a pleasant pastime for an idle hour to trace back big events to their original and sometimes absurd beginnings. For myself I know that the larger lines of my life were laid down once for all by--but what has this to do with Priscilla? Thus, I say, are all our doings ruled by Chance, who loves to use small means for the working of great wonders. And as for the gay goddess's ugly sister, the lady of the shifty eye and lowering brow called variously Misfortune and Ill Luck, she uses the same tools exactly in her hammering out of lives, meanly taking little follies and little weaknesses, so little and so amiable at first as hardly to be distinguished from little virtues, and with them building up a mighty mass that shall at last come down and crush our souls. Of the crushing of souls, however, my story does not yet treat, and I will not linger round subjects so awful. We who are nestling for the moment like Priscilla beneath the warm wing of Good Fortune can dare to make what the children call a face at her grey sister as she limps scowling past. Shall we not too one day in our turn feel her claws? Let us when we do at least not wince; and he who feeling them can still make a face and laugh, shall be as the prince of the fairy tales, transforming the sour hag by his courage into a bright reward, striking his very griefs into a shining shower of blessing. From this brief excursion into the realm of barren musings, whither I love above all things to wander and whence I have continually to fetch myself back again by force, I will return to the story. At Tussie's suggestion when the business part of their talk was over--and it took exactly five minutes for Tussie to sell and Fritzing to buy the cottages, five minutes of the frothiest business talk ever talked, so profound was the ignorance of both parties as to what most people demand of cottages--Fritzing drove to Minehead in the postmistress's son's two-wheeled cart in order to purchase suitable furniture and bring back persons who would paper and paint. Minehead lies about twenty miles to the north of Symford, so Fritzing could not be back before evening. By the time he was back, promised Tussie, the shoemaker and Mrs. Shaw should be cleared out and put into a place so much better according to their views that they would probably make it vocal with their praises. Fritzing quite loved Tussie. Here was a young man full of the noblest spirit of helpfulness, and who had besides the invaluable gift of seeing no difficulties anywhere. Even Fritzing, airy optimist, saw more than Tussie, and whenever he expressed a doubt it was at once brushed aside by the cheerfullest "Oh, that'll be all right." He was the most practical, businesslike, unaffected, energetic young man, thought Fritzing, that he had even seen. Tussie was surprised himself at his own briskness, and putting the wonderful girl on the heath as much as possible out of his thoughts, told himself that it was the patent food beginning at last to keep its promises. He took Fritzing to the post-office and ordered the trap for him, cautioned the postmistress's son, who was going to drive, against going too fast down the many hills, for the bare idea of the priceless uncle being brought back in bits or in any state but absolutely whole and happy turned him cold, told Fritzing which shops to go to and where to lunch, begged him to be careful what he ate, since hotel luncheons were good for neither body nor soul, ordered rugs and a mackintosh covering to be put in, and behaved generally with the forethought of a mother. "I'd go with you myself," he said,--and the postmistress, listening with both her ears, recognized that the Baker's Farm lodgers were no longer persons to be criticised--"but I can be of more use to you here. I must see Dawson about clearing out the cottages. Of course it is very important you shouldn't stay a moment longer than can be helped in uncomfortable lodgings." Here was a young man! Sensible, practical, overflowing with kindness. Fritzing had not met any one he esteemed so much for years. They went down the village street together, for Tussie was bound for Mr. Dawson who was to be set to work at once, and Fritzing for the farm whither the trap was to follow him as soon as ready, and all Symford, curtseying to Tussie, recognized, as the postmistress had recognized, that Fritzing was now raised far above their questionings, seated firmly on the Shuttleworth rock. They parted at Mr. Dawson's gate, Mrs. Dawson mildly watching their warmth over a wire blind. "When we are settled, young man," said Fritzing, after eloquent words of thanks and appreciation, "you must come in the evenings, and together we will roam across the splendid fields of English literature." "Oh _thanks_" exclaimed Tussie, flushing with pleasure. He longed to ask if the divine niece would roam too, but even if she did not, to roam at all would be a delight, and he would besides be doing it under the very roof that sheltered that bright and beautiful head. "Oh _thanks_," cried Tussie, then, flushing. His extreme joy surprised Fritzing. "Are you so great a friend of literature?" he inquired. "I believe," said Tussie, "that without it I'd have drowned myself long ago. And as for the poets--" He stopped. No one knew what poetry had been to him in his sickly existence--the one supreme interest, the one thing he really cared to live for. Fritzing now loved him with all his heart. "_Ach Gott, ja_," he ejaculated, clapping him on the shoulder, "the poets--_ja, ja_--'Blessings be with them and eternal praise,' what? Young man," he added enthusiastically, "I could wish that you had been my son. I could indeed." And as he said it Robin Morrison coming down the street and seeing the two together and the expression on Tussie's face instantly knew that Tussie had met the niece. "Hullo, Tuss," he called across, hurrying past, for it would rather upset his umbrella plan to be stopped and have to talk to the man Neumann thus prematurely. But Tussie neither saw nor heard him, and "By Jove, hasn't he just seen the niece though," said Robin to himself, his eyes dancing as he strode nimbly along on long and bird-like legs. The conviction seized him that when he and his umbrella should descend upon Baker's that afternoon Tussie would either be there already or would come in immediately afterwards. "Who would have thought old Fuss would be so enterprising?" he wondered, thinking of the extreme cordiality of Fritzing's face. "He's given them those cottages, I'll swear." So Fritzing went to Minehead. I will not follow his painful footsteps as they ranged about that dreary place, nor will I dwell upon his purchases, which resolved themselves at last, after an infinite and soul-killing amount of walking and bewilderment, into a sofa, a revolving bookstand, and two beds. He forgot a bed for Annalise because he forgot Annalise; and he didn't buy things like sheets because he forgot that beds want them. On the other hand he spent quite two hours in a delightful second-hand bookshop on his way to the place where you buy crockery, and then forgot the crockery. He did, reminded and directed by Mr. Vickerton, the postmistress's son, get to a paperhanger's and order him and his men to come out in shoals to Symford the next morning at daybreak, making the paperhanger vow, who had never seen them, that the cottages should be done by nightfall. Then, happening to come to the seashore, he stood for a moment refreshing his nostrils with saltness, for he was desperately worn out, and what he did after that heaven knows. Anyhow young Vickerton found him hours afterwards walking up and down the shingle in the dark, waving his arms about and crying-- "O, qui me gelidis convallibus Haemi Sistat et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!" "Talking German out loud to himself," said young Vickerton to his mother that night; and it is possible that he had been doing it all the time. And while he was doing these things Priscilla was having calls paid her. Nothing could exceed her astonishment when about four o'clock, as she was sitting deep in thought and bored on the arm of a horsehair chair, Mrs. Pearce opened the door and without the least warning let in Mrs. Morrison. Priscilla had promised Fritzing for that one day to stay quietly at the farm, and for the last two hours, finding the farm of an intolerable dulness, she had been engaged in reflections of an extremely complex nature on subjects such as Duty, Will, and Personality. Her morning in the Baker fields and by the banks of that part of the Sym that meanders through them had tuned her mind to meditation. The food at one o'clock and the manner of its bringing in by Annalise--Priscilla had relieved Mrs. Pearce of that office--tuned it still more. The blended slipperiness and prickliness of all the things she tried to sit on helped surprisingly; and if I knew how far it is allowable to write of linen I could explain much of her state of mind by a description of the garments in which she was clothed that day. They were new garments taken straight from the Gerstein box. They were not even linen,--how could they be for Fritzing's three hundred marks? And their newness had not yet been exposed to the softening influence of any wash-tub. Straight did they come, in all their crackling stiffness, out of the shop and on to the Princess. Annalise had been supposed to wash them or cause them to be washed the day before, but Annalise had been far too busy crying to do anything of the sort; and by four o'clock Priscilla was goaded by them into a condition of mind so unworthy that she was thinking quite hard about the Kunitz fine linen and other flesh-pots and actually finding the recollection sweet. It was a place, Priscilla mused, where her body had been exquisitely cared for. Those delicate meals, served in spotlessness, surely they had been rather of the nature of poems? Those web-like garments, soft as a kiss, how beautiful they had been to touch and wear. True her soul had starved; yes, it had cruelly starved. But was it then--she started at her own thought--was it then being fed at Baker's? And into the middle of this question, a tremendous one to be asked on the very threshold of the new life, walked Mrs. Morrison. "How d'y do," said Mrs. Morrison. "The vicar asked me to come and see you. I hope the Pearces make you comfortable." "Well I never," thought Mrs. Pearce, lingering as was her custom on the door-mat, and shaking her head in sorrow rather than in anger. Priscilla sat for a moment staring at her visitor. "You are Miss Schultz, are you not?" asked Mrs. Morrison rather nervously. Priscilla said she was,--her name, that is, was Neumann-Schultz--and got up. She had the vaguest notion as to how Miss Schultz would behave under these trying circumstances, but imagined she would begin by getting up. So she got up, and the sofa being a low one and her movements leisurely, Mrs. Morrison told her husband afterwards there seemed to be no end to the girl. The girl certainly was long, and when at last unfolded and quite straightened out she towered over Mrs. Morrison, who looked up uneasily at the grave young face. Why, Mrs. Morrison asked herself, didn't the girl smile? It was the duty of a Miss Schultz called upon by the vicar's wife to smile; so profound a gravity on such an occasion was surely almost rude. Priscilla offered her hand and hoped it was all right to do so, but still she did not smile. "Are you Mrs. Morrison?" she asked. "Yes," said Mrs. Morrison with an immense reserve in her voice. Then Priscilla suggested she should sit down. Mrs. Morrison was already doing it; and Priscilla sank on to her sofa again and wondered what she had better say next. She wondered so much that she became lost in mazes of wonder, and there was so long a silence that Mrs. Pearce outside the door deplored an inconsiderateness that could keep her there for nothing. "I didn't know you had a double name," said Mrs. Morrison, staring at Priscilla and trying to decide whether this was not a case for the application of leaflets and instant departure. The girl was really quite offensively pretty. She herself had been pretty--she thanked heaven that she still was so--but never, never pretty--she thanked heaven again--in this glaringly conspicuous fashion. "My name is Ethel Maria-Theresa Neumann-Schultz," said Priscilla, very clearly and slowly; and though she was, as we know, absolutely impervious to the steadiest staring, she did wonder whether this good lady could have seen her photograph anywhere in some paper, her stare was so very round and bright and piercing. "What a long name," said Mrs. Morrison. "Yes," said Priscilla; and as another silence seemed imminent she added, "I have two hyphens." "Two what?" said Mrs. Morrison, startled; and so full was her head of doubt and distrust that for one dreadful moment she thought the girl had said two husbands. "Oh, hyphens. Yes. Germans have them a good deal, I believe." "That sounds as if we were talking about diseases," said Priscilla, a faint smile dawning far away somewhere in the depths of her eyes. "Yes," said Mrs. Morrison, fidgeting. Odd that Robin should have said nothing about the girl's face. Anyhow she should be kept off Netta. Better keep her off the parish-room Tuesdays as well. What in the world was she doing in Symford? She was quite the sort of girl to turn the heads of silly boys. And so unfortunate, just as Augustus Shuttleworth had taken to giving Netta little volumes of Browning. "Is your uncle out?" she asked, some of the sharpness of her thoughts getting into her voice. "He's gone to Minehead, to see about things for my cottage." "Your cottage? Have you got Mrs. Shaw's, then?" "Yes. She is being moved out to-day." "Dear me," said Mrs. Morrison, greatly struck. "Is it surprising?" "Most. So unlike Lady Shuttleworth." "She has been very kind." "Do you know her?" "No; but my uncle was there this morning." "And managed to persuade her?" "He is very eloquent," said Priscilla, with a demure downward sweep of her eyelashes. "Just a little more," thought Mrs. Morrison, watching their dusky golden curve, "and the girl would have had scarlet hair and white-eyebrows and masses of freckles and been frightful." And she sighed an impatient sigh, which, if translated into verse, would undoubtedly have come out-- "Oh the little more and how much it is, And the little less and what worlds away!" "And poor old Mrs. Shaw--how does she like being turned out?" "I believe she is being put into something that will seem to her a palace." "Dear me, your uncle must really be very eloquent." "I assure you that he is," said Priscilla earnestly. There was a short pause, during which Mrs. Morrison staring straight into those unfathomable pools, Priscilla's eyes, was very angry with them for being so evidently lovely. "You are very young," she said, "so you will not mind my questions--" "Don't the young mind questions?" asked Priscilla, for a moment supposing it to be a characteristic of the young of England. "Not, surely, from experienced and--and married ladies," said Mrs. Morrison tartly. "Please go on then." "Oh, I haven't anything particular to go on about," said Mrs. Morrison, offended. "I assure you curiosity is not one of my faults." "No?" said Priscilla, whose attention had begun to wander. "Being human I have no doubt many failings, but I'm thankful to say curiosity isn't one of them." "My uncle says that's just the difference between men and women. He says women might achieve just as much as men if only they were curious about things. But they're not. A man will ask a thousand questions, and never rest till he's found out as much as he can about anything he sees, and a woman is content hardly even to see it." "I hope your uncle is a Churchman," was Mrs. Morrison's unexpected reply. Priscilla's mind could not leap like this, and she hesitated a moment and smiled. ("It's the first time she's looked pleasant," thought Mrs. Morrison, "and now it's in the wrong place.") "He was born, of course, in the Lutheran faith," said Priscilla. "Oh, a horrid faith. Excuse me, but it really is. I hope he isn't going to upset Symford?" "Upset Symford?" "New people holding wrong tenets coming to such a small place do sometimes, you know, and you say he is eloquent. And we are such a simple and God-fearing little community. A few years ago we had a great bother with a Dissenting family that came here. The cottagers quite lost their heads." "I think I can promise that my uncle will not try to convert anybody," said Priscilla. "Of course you mean pervert. It would be a pity if he did. It wouldn't last, but it would give us a lot of trouble. We are very good Churchmen here. The vicar, and my son too when he's at home, set beautiful examples. My son is going into the Church himself. It has been his dearest wish from a child. He thinks of nothing else--of nothing else at all," she repeated, fixing her eyes on Priscilla with a look of defiance. "Really?" said Priscilla, very willing to believe it. "I assure you it's wonderful how absorbed he is in his studies for it. He reads Church history every spare moment, and he's got it so completely on his mind that I've noticed even when he whistles it's 'The Church's One Foundation.'" "What is that?" inquired Priscilla. "Mr. Robin Morrison," announced Mrs. Pearce. The sitting-room at Baker's was a small, straightforward place, with no screens, no big furniture, no plants in pots, nothing that could for a moment conceal the persons already in it from the persons coming in, and Robin entering jauntily with the umbrella under his arm fell straight as it were into his mother's angry gaze. "Hullo mater, you here?" he exclaimed genially, his face broadening with apparent satisfaction. "Yes, Robin, I am here," she said, drawing herself up. "How do you do, Miss Schultz. I seem to have got shown into the wrong room. It's a Mr. Neumann I've come to see; doesn't he live here?" Priscilla looked at him from her sofa seat and wondered what she had done that she should be scourged in this manner by Morrisons. "You know my son, I believe?" said Mrs. Morrison in the stiffest voice; for the girl's face showed neither recognition nor pleasure, and though she would have been angry if she had looked unduly pleased she was still angrier that she should look indifferent. "Yes. I met him yesterday. Did you want my uncle? His name is Neumann. Neumann-Schultz. He's out." "I only wanted to give him this umbrella," said Robin, with a swift glance at his mother as he drew it from under his arm. Would she recognize it? He had chosen one of the most ancient; the one most appropriate, as he thought, to the general appearance of the man Neumann. "What umbrella is that, Robin?" asked his mother suspiciously. Really, it was more than odd that Robin, whom she had left immersed in study, should have got into Baker's Farm so quickly. Could he have been expected? And had Providence, in its care for the righteous cause of mothers, brought her here just in time to save him from this girl's toils? The girl's indifference could not be real; and if it was not, her good acting only betrayed the depths of her experience and balefulness. "What umbrella is that?" asked Mrs. Morrison. "It's his," said Robin, throwing his head back and looking at his mother as he laid it with elaborate care on the table. "My uncle's?" said Priscilla. "Had he lost it? Oh thank you--he would have been dreadfully unhappy. Sit down." And she indicated with her head the chair she would allow him to sit on. "The way she tells us to sit down!" thought Mrs. Morrison indignantly. "As though she were a queen." Aloud she said, "You could have sent Joyce round with it"--Joyce being that gardener whose baby's perambulator was wheeled by another Ethel--"and need not have interrupted your work." "So I could," said Robin, as though much struck by the suggestion. "But it was a pleasure," he added to Priscilla, "to be able to return it myself. It's a frightful bore losing one's umbrella--especially if it's an old friend." "Uncle Fritzi's looks as if it were a very old friend," said Priscilla, smiling at it. Mrs. Morrison glanced at it too, and then glanced again. When she glanced a third time and her glance turned into a look that lingered Robin jumped up and inquired if he should not put it in the passage. "It's in the way here," he explained; though in whose way it could be was not apparent, the table being perfectly empty. Priscilla made no objection, and he at once removed it beyond the reach of his mother's eye, propping it up in a dark corner of the passage and telling Mrs. Pearce, whom he found there that it was Mr. Neumann's umbrella. "No it ain't," said Mrs. Pearce. "Yes it is," said Robin. "No it ain't. He's took his to Minehead," said Mrs. Pearce. "It is, and he has not," said Robin. "I see him take it," said Mrs. Pearce. "You did not," said Robin. This would have been the moment, Mrs. Morrison felt, for her to go and to carry off Robin with her, but she was held in her seat by the certainty that Robin would not let himself be carried off; and sooner than say good-bye and then find he was staying on alone she would sit there all night. Thus do mothers sacrifice themselves for their children, thought Mrs. Morrison, for their all too frequently thankless children. But though she would do it to any extent in order to guard her boy she need not, she said to herself, be pleasant besides,--she need not, so to speak, be the primroses on his path of dalliance. Accordingly she behaved as little like a primrose as possible, sitting in stony silence while he skirmished in the passage with Mrs. Pearce, and the instant he came in again asked him where he had found the umbrella. "I found it--not far from the church," said Robin, desiring to be truthful as long as he could. "But mater, bother the umbrella. It isn't so very noble to bring a man back his own. Did you get your cottages?" he asked, turning quickly to Priscilla. "Robin, are you sure it is his own?" said his mother. "My dear mother, I'm never sure of anything. Nor are you. Nor is Miss Schultz. Nor is anybody who is really intelligent. But I found the thing, and Mr. Neumann--" "The name to-day is Neumann-Schultz," said Mrs. Morrison, in a voice heavy with implications. "Mr. Neumann-Schultz, then, had been that way just before, and so I felt somehow it must be his." "Your Uncle Cox had one just like it when he stayed with us last time," remarked Mrs. Morrison. "Had he? I say, mater, what an eye you must have for an umbrella. That must be five years ago." "Oh, he left it behind, and I see it in the stand every time I go through the hall." "No! Do you?" said Robin, who was hurled by this statement into the corner where his wits ended and where he probably would have stayed ignominiously, for Miss Schultz seemed hardly to be listening and really almost looked--he couldn't believe it, no girl had ever done it in his presence yet, but she did undoubtedly almost look--bored, if Mrs. Pearce had not flung open the door, and holding the torn portions of her apron bunched together in her hands, nervously announced Lady Shuttleworth. "Oh," thought Priscilla, "what a day I'm having." But she got up and was gracious, for Fritzing had praised this lady as kind and sensible; and the moment Lady Shuttleworth set her eyes on her the mystery of her son's behaviour flashed into clearness. "Tussie's seen her!" she exclaimed inwardly; instantly adding "Upon my word I can't blame the boy." "My dear," she said, holding Priscilla's hand, "I've come to make friends with you. See what a wise old woman I am. Frankly, I didn't want you in those cottages, but now that my son has sold them I lose no time in making friends. Isn't that true wisdom?" "It's true niceness," said Priscilla, smiling down at the little old lady whose eyes were twinkling all over her. "I don't think you'll find us in any way a nuisance. All we want is to be quiet." Mrs. Morrison sniffed. "Do you really?" said Lady Shuttleworth. "Then we shall get on capitally. It's what I like best myself. And you've come too," she went on, turning to Mrs. Morrison, "to make friends with your new parishioner? Why, Robin, and you too?" "Oh, I'm only accidental," said Robin quickly. "Only a restorer of lost property. And I'm just going," he added, beginning to make hasty adieux; for Lady Shuttleworth invariably produced a conviction in him that his clothes didn't fit and wanted brushing badly, and no young man so attentive to his appearance as Robin could be expected to enjoy that. He fled therefore, feeling that even Miss Schultz's loveliness would not make up for Lady Shuttleworth's eyes; and in the passage, from whence Mrs. Pearce had retreated, removing herself as far as might be from the awful lady to whom her father-in-law owed rent and who saw every hole, Robin pounced on his Uncle Cox's umbrella, tucked is once more beneath his arm, and bore it swiftly back to the stand where it had spent five peaceful years. "Really old women are rather terrible things," he thought as he dropped it in again. "I wonder what they're here for." "Ah, it's there, I see," remarked his mother that night as she passed through the hall on her way to dinner. "What is?" inquired Robin who was just behind her. "Your Uncle Cox's umbrella." "Dear mater, why this extreme interest in my Uncle Cox's umbrella?" "I'm glad to see it back again, that's all. One gets so used to things." Lady Shuttleworth and his mother--I shudder to think that it is possible Robin included his mother in the reflection about old women, but on the other hand one never can tell--had stayed on at the farm for another twenty minutes after he left. They would have stayed longer, for Lady Shuttleworth was more interested in Priscilla than she had ever been in any girl before, and Mrs. Morrison, who saw this interest and heard the kind speeches, had changed altogether from ice to amiability, crushing her leaflets in her hand and more than once expressing hopes that Miss Neumann-Schultz would soon come up to tea and learn to know and like Netta--I repeat, they would have stayed much longer, but that an extremely odd thing happened. Priscilla had been charming; chatting with what seemed absolute frankness about her future life in the cottages, answering little questionings of Lady Shuttleworth's with a discretion and plausibility that would have warmed Fritzing's anxious heart, dwelling most, for here the ground was safest, on her uncle, his work, his gifts and character, and Lady Shuttleworth, completely fascinated, had offered her help of every sort, help in the arranging of her little home, in the planting of its garden, even in the building of those bathrooms about which Tussie had been told by Mr. Dawson. She thought the desire for many bathrooms entirely praiseworthy, and only a sign of lunacy in persons of small means. Fritzing had assured Tussie that he had money enough for the bathrooms; and if his poetic niece liked everybody about her to be nicely washed was not that a taste to be applauded? Perhaps Lady Shuttleworth expatiated on plans and probable building-costs longer than Priscilla was able to be interested; perhaps she was over-explanatory of practical details; anyhow Priscilla's attention began to wander, and she gradually became very tired of her callers. She answered in monosyllables, and her smile grew vague. Then suddenly, at the first full stop Lady Shuttleworth reached in a sentence about sanitation--the entire paragraph was never finished--she got up with her usual deliberate grace, and held out her hand. "It has been very kind of you to come and see me," she said to the astounded lady, with a little gracious smile. "I hope you will both come again another time." For an instant Lady Shuttleworth thought she was mad. Then to her own amazement she found her body rising obediently and letting its hand be taken. Mrs. Morrison did the same. Both had their hands slightly pressed, both were smiled upon, and both went out at once and speechless. Priscilla stood calmly while they walked to the door, with the little smile fixed on her face. "Is it possible we've been insulted?" burst out Mrs. Morrison when they got outside. "I don't know," said Lady Shuttleworth, who looked extremely thoughtful. "Do you think it can possibly be the barbarous German custom?" "I don't know," said Lady Shuttleworth again. And all the way to the vicarage, whither she drove Mrs. Morrison, she was very silent, and no exclamations and conjectures of that indignant lady's could get a word out of her. X Kunitz meanwhile was keeping strangely quiet. Not a breath, not a whisper, had reached the newspapers from that afflicted little town of the dreadful thing that had happened to it. It will be remembered that the Princess ran away on a Monday, arrived at Baker's in the small hours of Wednesday morning, and had now spent both Wednesday and Thursday in Symford. There had, then, been ample time for Europe to receive in its startled ears the news of her flight; yet Europe, judging from its silence, knew nothing at all about it. In Minehead on the Thursday evening Fritzing bought papers, no longer it is true with the frenzy he had displayed at Dover when every moment seemed packed with peril, but still with eagerness; and not a paper mentioned Kunitz. On the Saturday he did find the laconic information in the London paper he had ordered to be sent him every day that the Grand Duke of Lothen-Kunitz who was shooting in East Prussia had been joined there by that Prince--I will not reveal his august name--who had so badly wanted to marry Priscilla. And on the Sunday--it was of course the paper published in London on Saturday--he read that the Princess Priscilla of Lothen-Kunitz, the second and only unmarried daughter of the Grand Duke, was confined to her bed by a sharp attack of influenza. After that there was utter silence. Fritzing showed Priscilla the paragraph about her influenza, and she was at first very merry over it. The ease with which a princess can shake off her fetters the moment she seriously tries to surprised her, and amused her too, for a little. It surprised Fritzing, but without amusing him, for he was a man who was never amused. Indeed, I am unable to recall any single occasion on which I saw him smile. Other emotions shook him vigorously as we know, but laughter never visited him with its pleasant ticklings under the ribs; it slunk away abashed before a task so awful, and left him at his happiest to a mood of mild contentment. "Your Royal Parent," he remarked to Priscilla, "has chosen that which is ever the better part of valour, and is hushing the incident up." "He never loved me," said Priscilla, wistfully. On thinking it over she was not quite sure that she liked being allowed to run away so easily. Did nobody care, then, what became of her? Was she of positively no value at all? Running away is all very well, but your pride demands that those runned from shall at least show some sign of not liking it, make some effort, however humble, to fetch you back. If they do not, if they remain perfectly quiescent and resigned, not even sending forth a wail that shall be audible, you are naturally extremely crushed. "My father," said Priscilla bitterly, "doesn't care a bit. He'll give out I'm dangerously ill, and then you'll see, Fritzi--I shall either die, or be sent away for an interminable yachting cruise with the Countess. And so dust will be thrown in people's eyes. My father is very good at that, and the Countess is a perfect genius. You'll see." But Fritzing never saw, for there was no more mention at all either of Kunitz or of influenza. And just then he was so much taken up by his efforts to get into the cottages as quickly as possible that after a passing feeling of thankfulness that the Grand Duke should be of such a convenient indifference to his daughter's fate it dropped from his mind in the easy fashion in which matters of importance always did drop from it. What was the use, briefly reflected this philosopher, of worrying about what they were or were not thinking at Kunitz? There would be time enough for that when they actually began to do something. He felt very safe from Kunitz in the folds of the Somerset hills, and as the days passed calmly by he felt still safer. But though no dangers seemed to threaten from without there were certain dangers within that made it most desirable for them to get away from Baker's and into their own little home without a moment's unnecessary delay. He could not always be watching his tongue, and he found for instance that it positively refused to call the Princess Ethel. It had an almost equal objection to addressing her as niece; and it had a most fatal habit of slipping out Grand Ducal Highnesses. True, at first they mostly talked German together, but the tendency to talk English grew more marked every day; it was in the air they breathed, and they both could talk it so fatally well. Up at the cottages among the workmen, or when they were joined by Mr. Dawson, grown zealous to help, or by either of the young men Robin and Tussie, who seemed constantly to be passing, the danger too was great. Fritzing was so conscious of it that he used to break out into perspirations whenever Priscilla was with him in public, and his very perspirations were conspicuous. The strain made his manner oddly nervous when speaking to or of his niece, and he became the subject of much conjecture to the observant Robin. Robin thought that in spite of her caressing ways with her uncle the girl must be privately a dreadful tyrant. It seemed difficult to believe, but Robin prided himself on being ready to believe anything at a moment's notice, especially if it was the worst, and he called it having an open mind. The girl was obviously the most spoilt of girls. No one could help seeing that. Her least wish seemed to be for the uncle a command that was not even to be talked about. Yet the uncle was never openly affectionate to her. It almost seemed as though she must have some secret hold over him, be in possession, perhaps, of some fact connected with a guilty past. But then this girl and guilty pasts! Why, from the look in her eyes she could never even have heard of such things. Robin thought himself fairly experienced in knowledge of human nature, but he had to admit that he had never yet met so incomprehensible a pair. He wanted to talk to Tussie Shuttleworth about them, but Tussie would not talk. To Tussie it seemed impossible to talk about Priscilla because she was sacred to him, and she was sacred to him because he adored her so. He adored her to an extent that amazes me to think of, worshipping her beauty with all the headlong self-abasement of a very young man who is also a poet. His soul was as wax within him, softest wax punched all over with little pictures of Priscilla. No mother is happy while her child's soul is in this state, and though he was extremely decent, and hid it and smothered it and choked it with all the energy he possessed, Lady Shuttleworth knew very well what was going on inside him and spent her spare time trying to decide whether to laugh or to cry over her poor Tussie. "When does Robin go back to Cambridge?" she asked Mrs. Morrison the next time she met her, which was in the front garden of a sick old woman's cottage. Mrs. Morrison was going in with a leaflet; Lady Shuttleworth was going in with a pound of tea. From this place they could see Priscilla's cottage, and Robin was nailing up its creepers in the sight of all Symford. "Ah--I know what you mean," said Mrs. Morrison quickly. "It is always such a pity to see emotions wasted," said Lady Shuttleworth slowly, as if weighing each word. "Wasted? You do think she's an adventuress, then?" said Mrs. Morrison eagerly. "Sh-sh. My dear, how could I think anything so unkind? But we who are old"--Mrs. Morrison jerked up her chin--"and can look on calmly, do see the pity of it when beautiful emotions are lavished and wasted. So much force, so much time frittered away in dreams. And all so useless, so barren. Nothing I think is so sad as waste, and nothing is so wasteful as a one-sided love." Mrs. Morrison gave the pink tulle bow she liked to wear in the afternoons at her throat an agitated pat, and tried to conceal her misery that Augustus Shuttleworth should also have succumbed to Miss Neumann-Schultz. That he had done so was very clear from Lady Shuttleworth's portentous remarks, for it was not in human nature for a woman to be thus solemn about the wasted emotions of other people's sons. His doing so might save Robin's future, but it would ruin Netta's. We all have our little plans for the future--dear rosy things that we dote on and hug to our bosoms with more tenderness even than we hug the babies of our bodies, and the very rosiest and best developed of Mrs. Morrison's darling plans was the marriage of her daughter Netta with the rich young man Augustus. It was receiving a rude knock on its hopeful little head at this moment in old Mrs. Jones's front garden, and naturally the author of its being winced. Augustus, she feared, must be extremely far gone in love, and it was not likely that the girl would let such a chance go. It was a consolation that the marriage would be a scandal,--this person from nowhere, this niece of a German teacher, carrying off the wealthiest young man in the county. The ways of so-called Providence were quite criminally inscrutable, she thought, in stark defiance of what a vicar's wife should think; but then she was greatly goaded. Priscilla herself came out of Mrs. Jones's door at that moment with a very happy face. She had succeeded in comforting the sick woman to an extent that surprised her. The sick woman had cheered up so suddenly and so much that Priscilla, delighted, had at once concluded that work among the sick poor was her true vocation. And how easy it had been! A few smiles, a few kind words, a five-pound note put gently into the withered old hands, and behold the thing was done. Never was sick woman so much comforted as Mrs. Jones. She who had been disinclined to speak above a whisper when Priscilla went in was able at the end of the visit to pour forth conversation in streams, and quite loud conversation, and even interspersed with chuckles. All Friday Priscilla had tried to help in the arranging of her cottage, and had made herself and Fritzing so tired over it that on Saturday she let him go up alone and decided that she would, for her part, now begin to do good to the people in the village. It was what she intended to do in future. It was to be the chief work of her new life. She was going to live like the poor and among them, smooth away their sorrows and increase their joys, give them, as it were, a cheery arm along the rough path of poverty, and in doing it get down herself out of the clouds to the very soil, to the very beginnings and solid elementary facts of life. And she would do it at once, and not sit idle at the farm. It was on such idle days as the day Fritzing went to Minehead that sillinesses assailed her soul--shrinkings of the flesh from honest calico, disgust at the cooking, impatience at Annalise's swollen eyes. Priscilla could have cried that night when she went to bed, if she had not held tears in scorn, at the sickliness of her spirit, her spirit that she had thought more than able to keep her body in subjection, that she had hoped was unalterably firm and brave. But see the uses of foolishness,--the reaction from it is so great that it sends us with a bound twice as far again along the right road as we were while we were wise and picking our way with clean shoes slowly among the puddles. Who does not know that fresh impulse, so strong and gracious, towards good that surges up in us after a period of sitting still in mud? What an experience it is, that vigorous shake and eager turning of our soiled face once more towards the blessed light. "I will arise and go to my Father"--of all the experiences of the spirit surely this is the most glorious; and behold the prudent, the virtuous, the steadfast--dogged workers in the vineyard in the heat of the day--are shut out from it for ever. Priscilla had not backslided much; but short as her tarrying had been among the puddles she too sprang forward after it with renewed strength along the path she had chosen as the best, and having completed the second of her good works--the first had been performed just previously, and had been a warm invitation made personally from door to door to all the Symford mothers to send their children to tea and games at Baker's Farm the next day, which was Sunday--she came away very happy from the comforted Mrs. Jones, and met the two arriving comforters in the front garden. Now Priscilla's and Mrs. Jones's last words together had been these: "Is there anything else I can do for you?" Priscilla had asked, leaning over the old lady and patting her arm in farewell. "No, deary--you've done enough already, God bless your pretty face," said Mrs. Jones, squeezing the five-pound note ecstatically in her hands. "But isn't there anything you'd like? Can't I get you anything? See, I can run about and you are here in bed. Tell me what I can do." Mrs. Jones blinked and worked her mouth and blinked again and wheezed and cleared her throat. "Well, I do know of something would comfort me," she said at last, amid much embarrassed coughing. "Tell me," said Priscilla. "I don't like," coughed Mrs. Jones. "Tell me," said Priscilla. "I'll whisper it, deary." Priscilla bent down her head, and the old lady put her twitching mouth to her ear. "Why, of course," said Priscilla smiling, "I'll go and get you some at once." "Now God for ever bless your beautiful face, darlin'!" shrilled Mrs. Jones, quite beside herself with delight. "The Cock and 'Ens, deary--that's the place. And the quart bottles are the best; one gets more comfort out of them, and they're the cheapest in the end." And Priscilla issuing forth on this errand met the arriving visitors in the garden. "How do you do," she said in a happy voice, smiling gaily at both of them. She had seen neither since she had dismissed them, but naturally she had never given that strange proceeding a thought. "Oh--how do you do," said Lady Shuttleworth, surprised to see her there, and with a slight and very unusual confusion of manner. Mrs. Morrison said nothing but stood stiffly in the background, answering Priscilla's smile with a stern, reluctant nod. "I've been talking to poor old Mrs. Jones. Your son"--she looked at Mrs. Morrison--"told me how ill she was." "Did he?" said Mrs. Morrison, hardly raising her eyes a moment from the ground. This girl was her double enemy: bound, whatever she did, to make either a fool of her son or of her daughter. "So I went in and tried to cheer her up. And I really believe I did." "Well that was very kind of you," said Lady Shuttleworth, smiling in spite of herself, unable to withstand the charm of Priscilla's personality. How supremely ridiculous of Mrs. Morrison to think that this girl was an adventuress. Such are the depths of ignorance one can descend to if one is buried long enough in the country. "Now," said Priscilla cheerfully, "she wants rum, and I'm just going to buy her some." "Rum?" cried Lady Shuttleworth in a voice of horror; and Mrs. Morrison started violently. "Is it bad for her?" said Priscilla, surprised. "Bad!" cried Lady Shuttleworth. "It is," said Mrs. Morrison with her eyes on the ground, "poison for both body and soul." "Dear me," said Priscilla, her face falling. "Why, she said it would comfort her." "It will poison both her body and her soul," repeated Mrs. Morrison grimly. "My dear," said Lady Shuttleworth, "our efforts are all directed towards training our people to keep from drinking." "But she doesn't want to drink," said Priscilla. "She only wants to taste it now and then. I'm afraid she's dying. Mustn't she die happy?" "It is our duty," said Mrs. Morrison, "to see that our parishioners die sober." "But I've promised," said Priscilla. "Did she--did she ask for it herself?" asked Lady Shuttleworth, a great anxiety in her voice. "Yes, and I promised." Both the women looked very grave. Mrs. Jones, who was extremely old and certainly dying--not from any special disease but from mere inability to go on living--had been up to this a shining example to Symford of the manner in which Christian old ladies ought to die. As such she was continually quoted by the vicar's wife, and Lady Shuttleworth had felt an honest pride in this ordered and seemly death-bed. The vicar went every day and sat with her and said that he came away refreshed. Mrs. Morrison read her all those of her leaflets that described the enthusiasm with which other good persons behave in a like case. Lady Shuttleworth never drove through the village without taking her some pleasant gift--tea, or fruit, or eggs, or even little pots of jam, to be eaten discreetly and in spoonfuls. She also paid a woman to look in at short intervals during the day and shake up her pillow. Kindness and attention and even affection could not, it will be admitted, go further; all three had been heaped on Mrs. Jones with generous hands; and in return she had expressed no sentiments that were not appropriate, and never, never had breathed the faintest suggestion to any of her benefactors that what she really wanted most was rum. It shocked both the women inexpressibly, and positively pained Lady Shuttleworth. Mrs. Morrison privately believed Priscilla had put the idea into the old lady's head, and began to regard her in something of the light of a fiend. "Suppose," said Priscilla, "we look upon it as medicine." "But my dear, it is not medicine," said Lady Shuttleworth. "It is poison," repeated Mrs. Morrison. "How can it be if it does her so much good? I must keep my promise. I wouldn't disappoint her for the world. If only you'd seen her delight"--they quivered--"you'd agree that she mustn't be disappointed, poor old dying thing. Why, it might kill her. But suppose we treat it as a medicine, and I lock up the bottle and go round and give her a little myself three or four times a day--wouldn't that be a good plan? Surely it couldn't hurt?" "There is no law to stop you," said Mrs. Morrison; and Lady Shuttleworth stared at the girl in silent dismay. "I can try it at least," said Priscilla; "and if I find it's really doing her harm I'll leave off. But I promised, and she's expecting it now every minute. I can't break my promise. Do tell me--is the Cock and Hens that inn round the corner? She told me it was best there." "But you cannot go yourself to the Cock and Hens and buy rum," exclaimed Lady Shuttleworth, roused to energy; and her voice was full of so determined a protest that the vicar's wife, who thought it didn't matter at all where such a young woman went, received a fresh shock. "Why not?" inquired Priscilla. "My dear, sooner than you should do that I'll--I'll go and buy it myself," cried Lady Shuttleworth. "Gracious heavens," thought Mrs. Morrison, perfectly staggered by this speech. Had Lady Shuttleworth suddenly lost her reason? Or was she already accepting the girl as her son's wife? Priscilla looked at her a moment with grave eyes. "Is it because I'm a girl that I mustn't?" she asked. "Yes. For one thing. But--" Lady Shuttleworth shut her mouth. "But what?" asked Priscilla. "Oh, nothing." "If it's not the custom of the country for a girl to go I'll send Mr. Morrison," said Priscilla. "Send Mr. Morrison?" gasped the vicar's wife. "What, the vicar?" exclaimed Lady Shuttleworth. "No, no," said Priscilla smiling, "young Mr. Morrison. I see him over there tying up my creepers. He's so kind. He'll go. I'll ask him." And nodding good-bye she hurried out of the garden and over to her cottage, almost running in her desire not to keep Mrs. Jones any longer in suspense. The two women, rooted to the ground, watched her as if fascinated, saw her speak to Robin on his ladder, saw how he started and dropped his nails, saw how nimbly he clambered down, and how after the shortest parley the infatuated youth rushed away at once in the direction of the Cock and Hens. The only thing they did not see from where they stood was the twinkle in his eye. "I don't think," murmured Lady Shuttleworth, "I don't think, my dear, that I quite care to go in to Mrs. Jones to-day. I--I think I'll go home." "So shall I," said Mrs. Morrison, biting her lips to keep them steady. "I shall go and speak to the vicar." XI What she meant by speaking to the vicar was a vigorous stirring of him up to wrath; but you cannot stir up vicars if they are truly good. The vicar was a pious and patient old man, practiced in forgiveness, in overlooking, in waiting, in trying again. Always slow to anger, as the years drew him more and more apart into the shadows of old age and he watched from their clear coolness with an ever larger comprehension the younger generations striving together in the heat, he grew at last unable to be angered at all. The scriptural injunction not to let the sun go down upon your wrath had no uses for him, for he possessed no wrath for the sun to go down upon. He had that lovable nature that sees the best in everything first, and then prefers to look no further. He took for granted that people were at bottom good and noble, and the assumption went a long way towards making them so. Robin, for instance, was probably saved by his father's unclouded faith in him. Mrs. Morrison, a woman who had much trouble with herself, having come into the world with the wings of the angel in her well glued down and prevented from spreading by a multitude of little defects, had been helped without her knowing it by his example out of many a pit of peevishness and passion. Who shall measure the influence of one kind and blameless life? His wife, in her gustier moments, thought it sheer weakness, this persistent turning away from evil, this refusal to investigate and dissect, to take sides, to wrestle. The evil was there, and it was making an ostrich or a vegetable of one's self to go on being calm in the face of it. With the blindness of wives, who are prevented from seeing clearly by the very closeness of the object--the same remark exactly applies to husbands--she did not see that the vicar was the candle shining in a naughty world, that he was the leaven that leaveneth the whole lump. And just as leaven leavens by its mere presence in the lump, by merely passively being there, and will go on doing it so long as there is a lump to leaven, so had the vicar, more than his hardworking wife, more than the untiring Lady Shuttleworth, more than any district visitor, parish nurse, or other holy person, influenced Symford by simply living in it in a way that would have surprised him had he known. There is a great virtue in sweeping out one's own house and trimming its lamps before starting on the house and lamps of a neighbour; and since new dust settles every day, and lamps, I believe, need constant trimming, I know not when the truly tidy soul will have attained so perfect a spotlessness as to justify its issuing forth to attack the private dust of other people. And if it ever did, lo, it would find the necessity no longer there. Its bright untiringness would unconsciously have done its work, and every dimmer soul within sight of that cheerful shining been strengthened and inspired to go and do likewise. But Mrs. Morrison, who saw things differently, was constantly trying to stir up storms in the calm waters of the vicar's mind; and after the episode in Mrs. Jones's front garden she made a very determined effort to get him to rebuke Priscilla. Her own indignation was poured out passionately. The vicar was surprised at her heat, he who was so beautifully cool himself, and though he shook his head over Mrs. Jones's rum he also smiled as he shook it. Nor was he more reasonable about Robin. On the contrary, he declared that he would think mightily little of a young man who did not immediately fall head over ears in love with such a pretty girl. "You don't mind our boy's heart being broken, then?" questioned his wife bitterly; of her plans for Netta she had never cared to speak. "My dear, if it is to be broken there is no young lady I would sooner entrust with the job." "You don't mind his marrying an adventuress, then?" "My dear, I know of no adventuress." "You rather like our old people to be tempted to drink, to have it thrust upon them on their very dying beds?" "Kate, are you not bitter?" "Psha," said his wife, drumming her foot. "Psha, Kate?" inquired the vicar mildly; and it is not always that the saintly produce a soothing effect on their wives. It really seemed as if the girl were to have her own way in Symford, unchecked even by Lady Shuttleworth, whose attitude was entirely incomprehensible. She was to be allowed to corrupt the little hamlet that had always been so good, to lead it astray, to lure it down paths of forbidden indulgence, to turn it topsy turvy to an extent not even reached by the Dissenting family that had given so much trouble a few years before. It was on the Sunday morning as the church bells were ringing, that Mrs. Morrison, prayer-book in hand, looked in at Mrs. Jones's on her way to service and discovered the five-pound note. The old lady was propped up in bed with her open Bible on her lap and her spectacles lying in it, and as usual presented to her visitor the perfect realization of her ideal as to the looks and manners most appropriate to ailing Christians. There was nowhere a trace of rum, and the only glass in the room was innocently filled with the china roses that flowered so profusely in the garden at Baker's Farm. But Mrs. Morrison could not for all that dissemble the disappointment and sternness of her heart, and the old lady glanced up at her as she came in with a kind of quavering fearfulness, like that of a little child who is afraid it may be going to be whipped, or of a conscientious dog who has lapsed unaccountably from rectitude. "I have come to read the gospel for the day to you," said Mrs. Morrison, sitting down firmly beside her. "Thank you mum," said Mrs. Jones with meekness. "My prayer-book has such small print--give me your Bible." A look of great anxiety came into Mrs. Jones's eyes, but the Bible was drawn from between her trembling old hands, and Mrs. Morrison began to turn its pages. She had not turned many before she came to the five-pound note. "What is this?" she asked, in extreme surprise. Mrs. Jones gave a little gasp, and twisted her fingers about. "A five-pound note?" exclaimed Mrs. Morrison, holding it up. "How did it come here?" "It's mine, mum," quavered Mrs. Jones. "Yours? Do you mean to say you have money hidden away and yet allow Lady Shuttleworth to pay everything for you?" "It's the first I ever 'ad, mum," faintly murmured the old lady, her eyes following every movement of Mrs. Morrison's hands with a look of almost animal anxiety. "Where did it come from?" "The young lady give it me yesterday, mum." "The young lady?" Mrs. Morrison's voice grew very loud. "Do you mean the person staying at the Pearces'?" Mrs. Jones gulped, and feebly nodded. "Most improper. Most wrong. Most dangerous. You cannot tell how she came by it, and I must say I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Jones. It probably is not a real one. It is unlikely a chit like that should be able to give so large a sum away--" And Mrs. Morrison held up the note to the light and turned it round and round, scrutinizing it from every point of view, upside down, back to front, sideways, with one eye shut; but it refused to look like anything but a good five-pound note, and she could only repeat grimly "Most dangerous." The old lady watched her, a terrible anxiety in her eyes. Her worst fears were fulfilled when the vicar's wife folded it up and said decidedly, "For the present I shall take care of it for you. You cannot lie here with so much money loose about the place. Why, if it got round the village you might have some one in who'd murder you. People have been murdered before now for less than this. I shall speak to the vicar about it." And she put it in her purse, shut it with a snap, and took up the Bible again. Mrs. Jones made a little sound between a gasp and a sob. Her head rolled back on the pillow, and two tears dropped helplessly down the furrows of her face. In that moment she felt the whole crushing misery of being weak, and sick, and old,--so old that you have outlived your claims to everything but the despotic care of charitable ladies, so old that you are a mere hurdy-gurdy, expected each time any one in search of edification chooses to turn your handle to quaver out tunes of immortality. It is a bad thing to be very old. Of all the bad things life forces upon us as we pass along it is the last and worst--the bitterness at the bottom of the cup, the dregs of what for many was after all always only medicine. Mrs. Jones had just enough of the strength of fear left to keep quite still while the vicar's wife read the Gospel in a voice that anger made harsh; but when she had gone, after a parting admonition and a dreadful assurance that she would come again soon, the tears rolled unchecked and piteous, and it was a mercy that Priscilla also took it into her head to look in on her way to church, for if she had not I don't know who would have dried them for this poor baby of eighty-five. And I regret to say that Priscilla's ideas of doing good were in such a state of crudeness that she had no sooner mastered the facts brokenly sobbed out than she ran to the cupboard and gave Mrs. Jones a tablespoonful of rum for the strengthening of her body and then took out her purse and gave her another five-pound note for the comforting of her soul. And then she wiped her eyes, and patted her, and begged her not to mind. Such conduct was, I suppose, what is called indiscriminate charity and therefore blameworthy, but its effect was great. Priscilla went to church with the reflection of the old lady's wonder and joy shining in her own face. "Hide it," had been her last words at the door, her finger on her lips, her head nodding expressively in the direction of the vicarage; and by this advice she ranged herself once and for all on the opposite side to Mrs. Morrison and the followers of obedience and order. Mrs. Jones would certainly have taken her for an angel working miracles with five-pound notes and an inexhaustible pocket if it had not been for the rum; even in her rapture she did feel that a genuine angel would be incapable of any really harmonious combination with rum. But so far had she fallen from the kind of thinking that the vicar's wife thought proper in a person so near her end that she boldly told herself she preferred Priscilla. Now this was the day of Priscilla's children's party, and though all Symford had been talking of it for twenty-four hours the news of it had not yet reached Mrs. Morrison's ears. The reason was that Symford talked in whispers, only too sure that the authorities would consider it wrong for it to send its children a-merrymaking on a Sunday, and desperately afraid lest the forbidden cup should be snatched from its longing lips. But the news did get to Mrs. Morrison's ears, and it got to them in the porch of the church as she was passing in to prayer. She had it from an overgrown girl who was waiting outside for her father, and who was really much too big for children's parties but had got an invitation by looking wistful at the right moment. "Emma," said Mrs. Morrison in passing, "you have not returned the book I lent you. Bring it up this afternoon." "Please mum, I'll bring it to-morrow, mum," said the girl, curtseying and turning red. "No, Emma, you will do as I direct. One can never be too particular about returning books. You have kept it an unconscionable time. You will bring it to the vicarage at four o'clock." "Please mum, I--I can't at four o'clock." "And pray, Emma, what is to prevent you?" "I--I'm going to Baker's, mum." "Going to Baker's? Why are you going to Baker's, Emma?" So it all came out. The bells were just stopping, and Mrs. Morrison, who played the organ, was forced to hurry in without having told Emma her whole opinion of those who gave and those who attended Sunday parties, but the prelude she played that day expressed the tumult of her mind very well, and struck Tussie Shuttleworth, who had sensitive ears, quite cold. He was the only person in the church acutely sensitive to sound, and it was very afflicting to him, this plunging among the pedals, this angry shrieking of stops no man ever yet had heard together. The very blower seemed frightened, and blew in gasps; and the startled Tussie, comparing the sounds to the clamourings of a fiend in pain, could not possibly guess they were merely the musical expression of the state of a just woman's soul. Mrs. Morrison's anger was perfectly proper. It had been the conscientious endeavour of twenty-five solid years of her life to make of Symford a model parish, and working under Lady Shuttleworth, whose power was great since all the cottages were her son's and were lived in by his own labourers, it had been kept in a state of order so nearly perfect as to raise it to the position of an example to the adjoining parishes. The church was full, the Sunday-school well attended, the Sabbath was kept holy, the women were one and all sober and thrifty, the men were fairly satisfactory except on Saturday nights, there was no want, little sickness, and very seldom downright sin. The expression downright sin is Mrs. Morrison's own,--heaven forbid that I should have anything to do with such an expression--and I suppose she meant by it thieving, murder, and other grossnesses that would bring the sinner, as she often told her awe-struck Dorcas class, to infallible gallows, and the sinner's parents' grey hairs to sorrowful graves. "Please mum, will the parents go too?" asked a girl one day who had listened breathlessly, an inquiring-minded girl who liked to get to the root of things. "Go where, Bessie?" "With the grey hairs, mum." Mrs. Morrison paused a moment and fixed a searching gaze on Bessie's face. Then she said with much dignity, "The parents, Bessie, will naturally follow the hairs." And to a girl bred in the near neighbourhood of Exmoor it sounded very sporting. Into this innocent, frugal, well-managed hamlet Priscilla dropped suddenly from nowhere, trailing with her thunder-clouds of impulsive and childish ideas about doing good, and holding in her hands the dangerous weapon of wealth. It is hard to stand by and see one's life-work broken up before one's eyes by an irresponsible stranger, a foreigner, a girl, a young girl, a pretty girl; especially hard if one was born with an unbending character, tough and determined, ambitious and vain. These are not reproaches being piled up on the vicar's wife; who shall dare reproach another? And how could she help being born so? We would all if we could be born good and amiable and beautiful, and remain so perpetually during our lives; and she too was one of God's children, and inside her soul, behind the crust of failings that hindered it during these years from coming out, sat her bright angel, waiting. Meanwhile she was not a person to watch the destruction of her hopes without making violent efforts to stop it; and immediately she had played the vicar into the vestry after service that Sunday she left the congregation organless and hurried away into the churchyard. There she stood and waited for the villagers to question them about this unheard of thing; and it was bad to see how they melted away in other directions,--out at unused gates, making detours over the grass, visiting the long-neglected graves of relatives, anywhere rather than along the ordinary way, which was the path where the vicar's wife stood. At last came Mrs. Vickerton the postmistress. She was deep in conversation with the innkeeper's wife, and did not see the figure on the path in time to melt away herself. If she had she certainly would have melted, for though she had no children but her grown-up son she felt very guilty; for it was her son who had been sent the afternoon before to Minehead by Priscilla with a list as long as his arm of the cakes and things to be ordered for the party. "Oh Mrs. Morrison, I didn't see you," she exclaimed, starting and smiling and turning red. She was a genteel woman who called no one mum. The innkeeper's wife slipped deftly away among graves. "Is it true that the children are going to Baker's Farm this afternoon?" asked Mrs. Morrison, turning and walking grimly by Mrs. Vickerton. "I did hear something about it, Mrs. Morrison," said Mrs. Vickerton, hiding her agitation behind a series of smiles with sudden endings. "All?" "I did hear they pretty well all thought of it," said Mrs. Vickerton, coughing. "Beautiful weather, isn't it, Mrs. Morrison." "They are to have tea there?" Mrs. Vickerton gazed pleasantly at the clouds and the tree-tops. "I should think there might be tea, Mrs. Morrison," she said; and the vision of that mighty list of cakes rising before her eyes made her put up her hand and cough again. "Have the parents lost their senses?" "I couldn't say--I really couldn't say, Mrs. Morrison." "Have they forgotten the commandments?" "Oh I 'ope not, Mrs. Morrison." "And the vicar's teaching? And the good habits of years?" "Oh, Mrs. Morrison." "I never heard of anything more disgraceful. Disgraceful to the giver and to those who accept. Wicked, scandalous, and unscriptural." "We all 'oped you'd see no harm in it, Mrs. Morrison. It's a fine day, and they'll just have tea, and perhaps--sing a little, and they don't get treats often this time of year." "Why, it's disgraceful--disgraceful anywhere to have a treat on a Sunday; but in a parish like this it is scandalous. When Lady Shuttleworth hears of it I quite expect she'll give everybody notice to quit." "Notice to quit? Oh I hope not, Mrs. Morrison. And she do know about it. She heard it last night. And Sir Augustus himself has promised the young lady to go and help." "Sir Augustus?" "And we all think it so kind of him, and so kind of the young lady too," said Mrs. Vickerton, gathering courage. "Sir Augustus?" repeated Mrs. Morrison. Then a horrid presentiment laid cold fingers on her heart. "Is any one else going to help?" she asked quickly. "Only the young lady's uncle, and--" Mrs. Vickerton hesitated, and looked at the vicar's wife with a slightly puzzled air. "And who?" "Of course Mr. Robin." XII It is the practice of Providence often to ignore the claims of poetic justice. Properly, the Symford children ought to have been choked by Priscilla's cakes; and if they had been, the parents who had sent them merrymaking on a Sunday would have been well punished by the undeniable awfulness of possessing choked children. But nobody was choked; and when in the early days of the following week there were in nearly every cottage pangs being assuaged, they were so naturally the consequence of the strange things that had been eaten that only Mrs. Morrison was able to see in them weapons being wielded by Providence in the cause of eternal right. She, however, saw it so plainly that each time during the next few days that a worried mother came and asked advice, she left her work or her meals without a murmur, and went to the castor-oil cupboard with an alacrity that was almost cheerful; and seldom, I suppose, have such big doses been supplied and administered as the ones she prescribed for suffering Symford. But on this dark side of the picture I do not care to look; the party, anyhow, had been a great success, and Priscilla became at one stroke as popular among the poor of Symford as she had been in Lothen-Kunitz. Its success it is true was chiefly owing to the immense variety of things to eat she had provided; for the conjuror, merry-go-round, and cocoa-nuts to be shied at that she had told young Vickerton to bring with him from Minehead, had all been abandoned on Tussie's earnest advice, who instructed her innocent German mind that these amusements, undoubtedly admirable in themselves and on week days, were looked upon askance in England on Sundays. "Why?" asked Priscilla, in great surprise. "It's not keeping the day holy," said Tussie, blushing. "How funny," said Priscilla. "Oh, I don't know." "Why," said Priscilla, "in Kun--" but she pulled herself up just as she was about to give him a description of the varied nature of Sunday afternoons in Kunitz. "You must have noticed," said Tussie, "as you have lived so long in London, that everything's shut on Sundays. There are no theatres and things--certainly no cocoa-nuts." "No, I don't remember any cocoa-nuts," mused Priscilla, her memory going over those past Sundays she had spent in England. Tussie tried to make amends for having obstructed her plans by exerting himself to the utmost to entertain the children as far as decorum allowed. He encouraged them to sing, he who felt every ugliness in sound like a blow; he urged them to recite for prizes of sixpences, he on whose soul Casabianca and Excelsior had much the effect of scourges on a tender skin; he led them out into a field between tea and supper and made them run races, himself setting the example, he who caught cold so easily that he knew it probably meant a week in bed. Robin helped too, but his exertions were confined to the near neighbourhood of Priscilla. His mother had been very angry with him, and he had been very angry with his mother for being angry, and he had come away from the vicarage with a bad taste in his mouth and a great defiance in his heart. It was the first time he had said hard things to her, and it had been a shocking moment,--a moment sometimes inevitable in the lives of parents and children of strong character and opposed desires. He had found himself quite unable in his anger to clothe his hard sayings in forms of speech that would have hidden their brutal force, and he had turned his back at last on her answering bitterness and fled to Baker's, thankful to find when he got there that Priscilla's beauty and the interest of the mystery that hung about her wiped out every other remembrance. Priscilla was in the big farm kitchen, looking on at the children having tea. That was all she did at her party, except go round every now and then saying pleasant little things to each child; but this going round was done in so accomplished a manner, she seemed so used to it, was so well provided with an apparently endless supply of appropriate remarks, was so kind, and yet so--what was the word? could it be mechanical?--that Robin for the hundredth time found himself pondering over something odd, half-remembered, elusive about the girl. Then there was the uncle; manifestly a man who had never before been required to assist at a school-treat, manifestly on this occasion an unhappy man, yet look how he worked while she sat idly watching, look how he laboured round with cakes and bread-and-butter, clumsily, strenuously, with all the heat and anxiety of one eager to please and obey. Yes, that was what he did; Robin had hit on it at last. This extraordinary uncle obeyed his niece; and Robin knew very well that Germany was the last country in the world to produce men who did that. Had he not a cousin who had married a German officer? A whilom gay and sprightly cousin, who spent her time, as she dolefully wrote, having her mind weeded of its green growth of little opinions and gravelled and rolled and stamped with the opinions of her male relations-in-law. "And I'd rather have weeds than gravel," she wrote at the beginning of this process when she was still restive under the roller, "for they at least are green." But long ago she had left off complaining, long ago she too had entered into the rest that remaineth for him who has given up, who has become what men praise as reasonable and gods deplore as dull, who is tired of bothering, tired of trying, tired of everything but sleep. Then there was the girl's maid. This was the first time Robin had seen her; and while she was helping Mrs. Pearce pour out cups of chocolate and put a heaped spoonful of whipped cream on the top of each cup in the fashion familiar to Germans and altogether lovely in the eyes of the children of Symford, Robin went to her and offered help. Annalise looked at him with heavy eyes, and shook her head. "She don't speak no English, sir," explained Mrs. Pearce. "This one's pure heathen." "No English," echoed Annalise drearily, who had at least learned that much, "no English, no English." Robin gathered up his crumbs of German and presented them to her with a smile. Immediately on hearing her own tongue she flared into life, and whipping out a little pocket-book and pencil asked him eagerly where she was. "Where you are?" repeated Robin, astonished. "_Ja, Ja_. The address. This address. What is it? Where am I?" "What, don't you know?" "Tell me--quick," begged Annalise. "But why--I don't understand. You must know you are in England?" "England! Naturally I know it is England. But this--where is it? What is its address? For letters to reach me? Quick--tell me quick!" Robin, however, would not be quick. "Why has no one told you?" he asked, with an immense curiosity. "_Ach_, I have not been told. I know nothing. I am kept in the dark like--like a prisoner." And Annalise dragged her handkerchief out of her pocket, and put it to her eyes just in time to stop her ready tears from falling into the whipped cream and spoiling it. "There she goes again," sniffed Mrs. Pearce. "It's cry, cry, from morning till night, and nothing good enough for her. It's a mercy she goes out of this to-morrow. I never see such an image." "Tell me," implored Annalise, "tell me quick, before my mistress--" "I'll write it for you," said Robin, taking the note-book from her. "You know you go into a cottage next week, so I'll put your new address." And he wrote it in a large round hand and gave it to her quickly, for Mrs. Pearce was listening to all this German and watching him write with a look that made him feel cheap. So cheap did it make him feel that he resisted for the present his desire to go on questioning Annalise, and putting his hands in his pockets sauntered away to the other end of the kitchen where Priscilla sat looking on. "I'm afraid that really was cheap of me," he thought ruefully, when he came once more into Priscilla's sweet presence; but he comforted himself with the reflection that no girl ought to be mysterious, and if this one chose to be so it was fair to cross her plans occasionally. Yet he went on feeling cheap; and when Tussie who was hurrying along with a cup of chocolate in each hand ran into him and spilt some on his sleeve the sudden rage with which he said "Confound you, Tussie," had little to do with the hot stuff soaking through to his skin and a great deal with the conviction that Tussie, despised from their common childhood for his weakness, smallness and ugliness, would never have done what he had just done and betrayed what the girl had chosen to keep secret from her maid. "But why secret? Why? Why?" asked Robin, torn with desire to find out all about Priscilla. "I'm going to do this often," said Priscilla, looking up at him with a pleased smile. "I never saw such easily amused little creatures. Don't you think it is beautiful, to give poor people a few happy moments sometimes?" "Very beautiful," said Robin, his eyes on her face. "It is what I mean to do in future," she said dreamily, her chin on her hand. "It will be expensive," remarked Robin; for there were nearly two hundred children, and Priscilla had collected the strangest things in food on the long tables as a result of her method, when inviting, of asking each mother what her child best liked to eat and then ordering it with the lavishness of ignorance from Minehead. "Oh, we shall live so simply ourselves that there will be enough left to do all I want. And it will be the most blessed change and refreshment, living simply. Fritzi hated the fuss and luxury quite as much as I did." "Did he?" said Robin, holding his breath. The girl was evidently off her guard. He had not heard her call her uncle baldly Fritzi before; and what fuss and luxury could a German teacher's life have known? "He it was who first made me see that the body is more than meat and the soul than raiment," mused Priscilla. "Was he?" "He pulled my soul out of the flesh-pots. I'm a sort of Israel come out of Egypt, but an Egypt that was altogether too comfortable." "Too comfortable? Can one be too comfortable?" "I was. I couldn't move or see or breathe for comfort. It was like a feather bed all over me." "I wouldn't call that comfort," said Robin, for she paused, and he was afraid she was not going on. "It sounds much more like torture." "So it was at last. And Fritzi helped me to shake it off. If he hadn't I'd have smothered slowly, and perhaps if I'd never known him I'd have done it as gracefully as my sisters did. Why, they don't know to this day that they are dead." Robin was silent. He was afraid to speak lest anything he said should remind her of the part she ought to be playing. He had no doubt now at all that she was keeping a secret. A hundred questions were burning on his lips. He hated himself for wanting to ask them, for being so inquisitive, for taking advantage of the girl's being off her guard, but what are you to do with your inherited failings? Robin's mother was inquisitive and it had got into his blood, and I know of no moral magnesia that will purify these things away. "You said the other day," he burst out at last, quite unable to stop himself, "that you only had your uncle in the world. Are your sisters--are they in London?" "In London?" Priscilla gazed at him a moment with a vague surprise. Then fright flashed into her eyes. "Did I not tell you they were dead? Smothered?" she said, getting up quickly, her face setting into the frown that had so chilled Tussie on the heath. "But I took that as a parable." "How can I help how you took it?" And she instantly left him and went away round the tables, beginning those little pleasant observations to the children again that struck him as so strange. Well did he know the sort of thing. He had seen Lady Shuttleworth do it fifty times to the tenants, to the cottagers, at flower-shows, bazaars, on all occasions of public hospitality or ceremony; but practised and old as Lady Shuttleworth was this girl seemed yet more practised. She was a finished artist in the work, he said to himself as he leaned against the wall, his handsome face flushed, his eyes sulky, watching her. It was enough to make any good-looking young man sulky, the mixture of mystery and aloofness about Miss Neumann-Schultz. Extraordinary as it seemed, up to this point he had found it quite impossible to indulge with her in that form of more or less illustrated dialogue known to Symford youths and maidens as billing and cooing. Very fain would Robin have billed and have cooed. It was a practice he excelled in. And yet though he had devoted himself for three whole days, stood on ladders, nailed up creepers, bought and carried rum, had a horrible scene with his mother because of her, he had not got an inch nearer things personal and cosy. Miss Neumann-Schultz thanked him quite kindly and graciously for his pains--oh, she was very gracious; gracious in the sort of way Lady Shuttleworth used to be when he came home for the holidays and she patted his head and uttered benignities--and having thanked, apparently forgot him till the next time she wanted anything. "Fritzi," said Priscilla, when in the course of her progress down the room she met that burdened man, "I'm dreadfully afraid I've said some foolish things." Fritzing put the plate of cake he was carrying down on a dresser and wiped his forehead. "Ma'am," he said looking worried, "I cannot watch you and administer food to these barbarians simultaneously. If your tongue is so unruly I would recommend complete silence." "I've said something about my sisters." "Sisters, ma'am?" said Fritzing anxiously. "Does it matter?" "Matter? I have carefully instructed the woman Pearce, who has certainly informed, as I intended she should inform, the entire village, that you were my brother's only child. Consequently, ma'am, you have no sisters." Priscilla made a gesture of despair. "How fearfully difficult it is not to be straightforward," she said. "Yes, ma'am, it is. Since we started on this adventure the whole race of rogues has become the object of my sincerest admiration. What wits, what quickness, what gifts--so varied and so deftly used--what skill in deception, what resourcefulness in danger, what self-command--" "Yes but Fritzi what are we to do?" "Do, ma'am? About your royal sisters? Would to heaven I had been born a rogue!" "Yes, but as you were not--ought I to go back and say they're only half-sisters? Or step-sisters? Or sisters in law? Wouldn't that do?" "With whom were you speaking?" "Mr. Morrison." "Ma'am, let me beg you to be more prudent with that youth than with any one. Our young friend Cæsar Augustus is I believe harmlessness itself compared with him. Be on your guard, ma'am. Curb that fatal feminine appendage, your tongue. I have remarked that he watches us. But a short time since I saw him eagerly conversing with your Grand Ducal Highness's maid. For me he has already laid several traps that I have only just escaped falling into by an extraordinary presence of mind and a nimbleness in dialectic almost worthy of a born rogue." "Oh Fritzi," said the frightened Priscilla, laying her hand on his sleeve, "do go and tell him I didn't mean what I said." Fritzing wiped his brow again. "I fail to understand," he said, looking at Priscilla with worried eyes, "what there is about us that can possibly attract any one's attention." "Why, there isn't anything," said Priscilla, with conviction. "We've been most careful and clever. But just now--I don't know why--I began to think aloud." "Think aloud?" exclaimed Fritzing, horrified. "Oh ma'am let me beseech you never again to do that. Better a thousand times not to think at all. What was it that your Grand Ducal Highness thought aloud?" And Priscilla, shamefaced, told him as well as she could remember. "I will endeavour to remedy it," said poor Fritzing, running an agitated hand through his hair. Priscilla sighed, and stood drooping and penitent by the dresser while he went down the room to where Robin still leaned against the wall. "Sir," said Fritzing--he never called Robin young man, as he did Tussie--"my niece tells me you are unable to distinguish truth from parable." "What?" said Robin staring. "You are not, sir, to suppose that when my niece described her sisters as dead that they are not really so." "All right sir," said Robin, his eyes beginning to twinkle. "The only portion of the story in which my niece used allegory was when she described them as having been smothered. These young ladies, sir, died in the ordinary way, in their beds." "Feather beds, sir?" asked Robin briskly. "Sir, I have not inquired into the nature of the beds," said Fritzing with severity. "Is it not rather unusual," asked Robin, "for two young ladies in one family to die at once? Were they unhealthy young ladies?" "Sir, they did not die at once, nor were they unhealthy. They were perfectly healthy until they--until they began to die." "Indeed," said Robin, with an interest properly tinged with regret. "At least, sir," he added politely, after a pause in which he and Fritzing stared very hard at each other, "I trust I may be permitted to express my sympathy." "Sir, you may." And bowing stiffly Fritzing returned to Priscilla, and with a sigh of relief informed her that he had made things right again. "Dear Fritzi," said Priscilla looking at him with love and admiration, "how clever you are." XIII It was on the Tuesday, the day Priscilla and Fritzing left Baker's and moved into Creeper Cottage, that the fickle goddess who had let them nestle for more than a week beneath her wing got tired of them and shook them out. Perhaps she was vexed by their clumsiness at pretending, perhaps she thought she had done more than enough for them, perhaps she was an epicure in words and did not like a cottage called Creeper; anyhow she shook them out. And if they had had eyes to see they would not have walked into their new home with such sighs of satisfaction and such a comfortable feeling that now at last the era of systematic serenity and self-realization, beautifully combined with the daily exercise of charity, had begun; for waiting for them in Priscilla's parlour, established indeed in her easy-chair by the fire and warming her miserable toes on the very hob, sat grey Ill Luck horribly squinting. Creeper Cottage, it will be remembered, consisted of two cottages, each with two rooms, an attic, and a kitchen, and in the back yard the further accommodation of a coal-hole, a pig-stye, and a pump. Thanks to Tussie's efforts more furniture had been got from Minehead. Tussie had gone in himself, after a skilful questioning of Fritzing had made him realize how little had been ordered, and had, with Fritzing's permission, put the whole thing into the hands of a Minehead firm. Thus there was a bed for Annalise and sheets for everybody, and the place was as decent as it could be made in the time. It was so tiny that it got done, after a great deal of urging from Tussie, by the Tuesday at midday, and Tussie himself had superintended the storing of wood in the coal-hole and the lighting of the fire that was to warm his divine lady and that Ill Luck found so comforting to her toes. The Shuttleworth horses had a busy time on the Friday, Saturday, and Monday, trotting up and down between Symford and Minehead; and the Shuttleworth servants and tenants, not being more blind than other people, saw very well that their Augustus had lost his heart to the lady from nowhere. As for Lady Shuttleworth, she only smiled a rueful smile and stroked her poor Tussie's hair in silence when, having murmured something about the horses being tired, he reproved her by telling her that it was everybody's duty to do what they could for strangers in difficulties. Priscilla's side of Creeper Cottage was the end abutting on the churchyard, and her parlour had one latticed window looking south down the village street, and one looking west opening directly on to the churchyard. The long grass of the churchyard, its dandelions and daisies, grew right up beneath this window to her wall, and a tall tombstone half-blocked her view of the elm-trees and the church. Over this room, with the same romantic and gloomy outlook, was her bedroom. Behind her parlour was what had been the shoemaker's kitchen, but it had been turned into a temporary bathroom. True no water was laid on as yet, but the pump was just outside, and nobody thought there would be any difficulty about filling the bath every morning by means of the pump combined with buckets. Over the bathroom was the attic. This was Annalise's bedroom. Nobody thought there would be any difficulty about that either; nobody, in fact, thought anything about anything. It was a simple place, after the manner of attics, with a window in its sloping ceiling through which stars might be studied with great comfort as one lay in bed. A frugal mind, an earnest soul, would have liked the attic, would have found a healthy enjoyment in a place so plain and fresh, so swept in windy weather by the airs of heaven. A poet, too, would certainly have flooded any parts of it that seemed dark with the splendour of his own inner light; a nature-lover, again, would have quickly discovered the spiders that dwelt in its corners, and spent profitable hours on all fours observing them. But an Annalise--what was she to make of such a place? Is it not true that the less a person has inside him of culture and imagination the more he wants outside him of the upholstery of life? I think it is true; and if it is, then the vacancy of Annalise's mind may be measured by the fact that what she demanded of life in return for the negative services of not crying and wringing her hands was nothing less filled with food and sofas and servants than a grand ducal palace. But neither Priscilla nor Fritzing knew anything of Annalise's mind, and if they had they would instantly have forgotten it again, of such extreme unimportance would it have seemed. Nor would I dwell on it myself if it were not that its very vacancy and smallness was the cause of huge upheavals in Creeper Cottage, and the stone that the builders ignored if they did not actually reject behaved as such stones sometimes do and came down upon the builders' heads and crushed them. Annalise, you see, was unable to appreciate peace, yet on the other hand she was very able to destroy the peace of other people; and Priscilla meant her cottage to be so peaceful--a temple, a holy place, within whose quiet walls sacred years were going to be spent in doing justly, in loving mercy, in walking humbly. True she had not as yet made a nearer acquaintance with its inconveniences, but anyhow she held the theory that inconveniences were things to be laughed at and somehow circumvented, and that they do not enter into the consideration of persons whose thoughts are absorbed by the burning desire to live out their ideals. "You can be happy in any place whatever," she remarked to Tussie on the Monday, when he was expressing fears as to her future comfort; "absolutely any place will do--a tub, a dingle, the top of a pillar--any place at all, if only your soul is on fire." "Of course you can," cried Tussie, ready to kiss her feet. "And look how comfortable my cottage seems," said Priscilla, "directly one compares it with things like tubs." "Yes, yes," agreed Tussie, "I do see that it's enough for free spirits to live in. I was only wondering whether--whether bodies would find it enough." "Oh bother bodies," said Priscilla airily. But Tussie could not bring himself to bother bodies if they included her own; on the contrary, the infatuated young man thought it would be difficult sufficiently to cherish a thing so supremely precious and sweet. And each time he went home after having been in the frugal baldness of Creeper Cottage he hated the superfluities of his own house more and more, he accused himself louder and louder of being mean-spirited, effeminate, soft, vulgar, he loathed himself for living embedded in such luxury while she, the dear and lovely one, was ready cheerfully to pack her beauty into a tub if needs be, or let it be weather-beaten on a pillar for thirty years if by so doing she could save her soul alive. Tussie at this time became unable to see a sleek servant dart to help him take off his coat without saying something sharp to him, could not sit through a meal without making bitter comparisons between what they were eating and what the poor were probably eating, could not walk up his spacious staircase and along his lofty corridors without scowling; they, indeed, roused his contemptuous wrath in quite a special degree, the reason being that Priscilla's stairs, the stairs up and down which her little feet would have to clamber daily, were like a ladder, and she possessed no passages at all. But what of that? Priscilla could not see that it mattered, when Tussie drew her attention to it. Both Fritzing's and her front door opened straight into their sitting-rooms; both their staircases walked straight from the kitchens up into the rooms above. They had meant to have a door knocked in the dividing wall downstairs, but had been so anxious to get away from Baker's that there was no time. In order therefore to get to Fritzing Priscilla would have either to go out into the street and in again at his front door, or go out at her back door and in again at his. Any meals, too, she might choose to have served alone would have to be carried round to her from the kitchen in Fritzing's half, either through the backyard or through the street. Tussie thought of this each time he sat at his own meals, surrounded by deft menials, lapped as he told himself in luxury,--oh, thought Tussie writhing, it was base. His much-tried mother had to listen to many a cross and cryptic remark flung across the table from the dear boy who had always been so gentle; and more than that, he put his foot down once and for all and refused with a flatness that silenced her to eat any more patent foods. "Absurd," cried Tussie. "No wonder I'm such an idiot. Who could be anything else with his stomach full of starch? Why, I believe the stuff has filled my veins with milk instead of good honest blood." "Dearest, I'll have it thrown out of the nearest window," said Lady Shuttleworth, smiling bravely in her poor Tussie's small cross face. "But what shall I give you instead? You know you won't eat meat." "Give me lentils," cried Tussie. "They're cheap." "Cheap?" "Mother, I do think it offensive to spend much on what goes into or onto one's body. Why not have fewer things, and give the rest to the poor?" "But I do give the rest to the poor; I'm always doing it. And there's quite enough for us and for the poor too." "Give them more, then. Why," fumed Tussie, "can't we live decently? Hasn't it struck you that we're very vulgar?" "No, dearest, I can't say that it has." "Well, we are. Everything we have that is beyond bare necessaries makes us vulgar. And surely, mother, you do see that that's not a nice thing to be." "It's a horrid thing to be," said his mother, arranging his tie with an immense and lingering tenderness. "It's a difficult thing not to be," said Tussie, "if one is rich. Hasn't it struck you that this ridiculous big house, and the masses of things in it, and the whole place and all the money will inevitably end by crushing us both out of heaven?" "No, I can't say it has. I expect you've been thinking of things like the eyes of needles and camels having to go through them," said his mother, still patting and stroking his tie. "Well, that's terrifically true," mused Tussie, reflecting ruefully on the size and weight of the money-bags that were dragging him down into darkness. Then he added suddenly, "Will you have a small bed--a little iron one--put in my bedroom?" "A small bed? But there's a bed there already, dear." "That big thing's only fit for a sick woman. I won't wallow in it any longer." "But dearest, all your forefathers wallowed, as you call it, in it. Doesn't it seem rather--a pity not to carry on traditions?" "Well mother be kind and dear, and let me depart in peace from them. A camp bed,--that's what I'd like. Shall I order it, or will you? And did I tell you I've given Bryce the sack?" "Bryce? Why, what has he done?" "Oh he hasn't done anything that I know of, except make a sort of doll or baby of me. Why should I be put into my clothes and taken out of them again as though I hadn't been weaned yet?" Now all this was very bad, but the greatest blow for Lady Shuttleworth fell when Tussie declared that he would not come of age. The cheerful face with which his mother had managed to listen to his other defiances went very blank at that; do what she would she could not prevent its falling. "Not come of age?" she repeated stupidly. "But my darling, you can't help yourself--you must come of age." "Oh I know I can't help being twenty-one and coming into all this"--and he waved contemptuous arms--"but I won't do it blatantly." "I--I don't understand," faltered Lady Shuttleworth. "There mustn't be any fuss, mother." "Do you mean no one is to come?" "No one at all, except the tenants and people. Of course they are to have their fun--I'll see that they have a jolly good time. But I won't have our own set and the relations." "Tussie, they've all accepted." "Send round circulars." "Tussie, you are putting me in a most painful position." "Dear mother, I'm very sorry for that. I wish I'd thought like this sooner. But really the idea is so revolting to me--it's so sickening to think of all these people coming to pretend to rejoice over a worm like myself." "Tussle, you are not a worm." "And then the expense and waste of entertaining them--the dreariness, the boredom--oh, I wish I only possessed a tub--one single tub--or had the pluck to live like Lavengro in a dingle." "It's quite impossible to stop it now," interrupted Lady Shuttleworth in the greatest distress; of Lavengro she had never heard. "Yes you can, mother. Write and put it off." "Write? What could I write? To-day is Tuesday, and they all arrive on Friday. What excuse can I make at the last moment? And how can a birthday be put off? My dearest boy, I simply can't." And Lady Shuttleworth, the sensible, the cheery, the resourceful, the perennially brave, wrung her hands and began quite helplessly to cry. This unusual and pitiful sight at once conquered Tussie. For a moment he stood aghast; then his arms were round his mother, and he promised everything she wanted. What he said to her besides and what she sobbed back to him I shall not tell. They never spoke of it again; but for years they both looked back to it, that precious moment of clinging together with bursting hearts, her old cheek against his young one, her tears on his face, as to one of the most acutely sweet, acutely, painfully, tender experiences of their joint lives. It will be conceded that Priscilla had achieved a good deal in the one week that had passed since she laid aside her high estate and stepped down among ordinary people for the purpose of being and doing good. She had brought violent discord into a hitherto peaceful vicarage, thwarted the hopes of a mother, been the cause of a bitter quarrel between her and her son, brought out by her mysteriousness a prying tendency in the son that might have gone on sleeping for ever, entirely upset the amiable Tussie's life by rending him asunder with a love as strong as it was necessarily hopeless, made his mother anxious and unhappy, and, what was perhaps the greatest achievement of all, actually succeeded in making that mother cry. For of course Priscilla was the ultimate cause of these unusual tears, as Lady Shuttleworth very well knew. Lady Shuttleworth was the deceased Sir Augustus's second wife, had married him when she was over forty and well out of the crying stage, which in the busy does not last beyond childhood, had lost him soon after Tussie's birth, had cried copiously and most properly at his funeral, and had not cried since. It was then undoubtedly a great achievement on the part of the young lady from nowhere, this wringing of tears out of eyes that had been dry for one and twenty years. But the list of what Priscilla had done does not end with this havoc among mothers. Had she not interrupted the decent course of Mrs. Jones's dying, and snatched her back to a hankering after the unfit? Had she not taught the entire village to break the Sabbath? Had she not made all its children either sick or cross under the pretence of giving them a treat? On the Monday she did something else that was equally well-meaning, and yet, as I shall presently relate, of disastrous consequences: she went round the village from cottage to cottage making friends with the children's mothers and leaving behind her, wherever she went, little presents of money. She had found money so extraordinarily efficacious in the comforting of Mrs. Jones that before she started she told Fritzing to fill her purse well, and in each cottage it was made somehow so clear how badly different things were wanted that the purse was empty before she was half round the village and she had to go back for a fresh supply. She was extremely happy that afternoon, and so were the visited mothers. They, indeed, talked of nothing else for the rest of the day, discussed it over their garden hedges, looked in on each other to compare notes, hurried to meet their husbands on their return from work to tell them about it, and were made at one stroke into something very like a colony of eager beggars. And in spite of Priscilla's injunction to Mrs. Jones to hide her five-pound note all Symford knew of that as well, and also of the five-pound note Mrs. Morrison had taken away. Nothing was talked of in Symford but Priscilla. She had in one week created quite a number of disturbances of a nature fruitful for evil in that orderly village; and when on the Tuesday she and Fritzing moved into Creeper Cottage they were objects of the intensest interest to the entire country side, and the report of their riches, their recklessness, and their eccentric choice of a dwelling had rolled over the intervening hills as far as Minehead, where it was the subject of many interesting comments in the local papers. They got into their cottage about tea time; and the first thing Priscilla did was to exclaim at the pleasant sight of the wood fire and sit down in the easy-chair to warm herself. We know who was sitting in it already; and thus she was received by Bad Luck at once into her very lap, and clutched about securely by that unpleasant lady's cold and skinny arms. She looked up at Fritzing with a shiver to remark wonderingly that the room, in spite of its big fire and its smallness, was like ice, but her lips fell apart in a frozen stare and she gazed blankly past him at the wall behind his head. "Look," she whispered, pointing with a horrified forefinger. And Fritzing, turning quickly, was just in time to snatch a row of cheap coloured portraits from the wall and fling them face downwards under the table before Tussie came in to ask if he could do anything. The portraits were those of all the reigning princes of Germany and had been put up as a delicate compliment by the representative of the Minehead furnishers, while Priscilla and Fritzing were taking leave of Baker's Farm; and the print Priscilla's eye had lighted on was the portrait of her august parent, smiling at her. He was splendid in state robes and orders, and there was a charger, and an obviously expensive looped-up curtain, and much smoke as of nations furiously raging together in the background, and outside this magnificence meandered the unmeaning rosebuds of Priscilla's cheap wallpaper. His smile seemed very terrible under the circumstances. Fritzing felt this, and seized him and flung him with a desperate energy under the table, where he went on smiling, as Priscilla remembered with a guilty shudder, at nothing but oilcloth. "I don't believe I'll sleep if I know he--he's got nothing he'd like better than oilcloth to look at," she whispered with an awestruck face to Fritzing as Tussie came in. "I will cause them all to be returned," Fritzing assured her. "What, have those people sent wrong things?" asked Tussie anxiously, who felt that the entire responsibility of this _ménage_ was on his shoulders. "Oh, only some cheap prints," said Priscilla hastily. "I think they're called oleographs or something." "What impertinence," said Tussie hotly. "I expect it was kindly meant, but I--I like my cottage quite plain." "I'll have them sent back, sir," Tussie said to Fritzing, who was rubbing his hands nervously through his hair; for the sight of his grand ducal master's face smiling at him on whom he would surely never wish to smile again, and doing it, too, from the walls of Creeper Cottage, had given him a shock. "You are ever helpful, young man," he said, bowing abstractedly and going away to put down his hat and umbrella; and Priscilla, with a cold feeling that she had had a bad omen, rang the handbell Tussie's thoughtfulness had placed on her table and ordered Annalise to bring tea. Now Annalise had been standing on the threshold of her attic staring at it in an amazement too deep for words when the bell fetched her down. She appeared, however, before her mistress with a composed face, received the order with her customary respectfulness, and sought out Fritzing to inquire of him where the servants were to be found. "Her Grand Ducal Highness desires tea," announced Annalise, appearing in Fritzing's sitting-room, where he was standing absorbed in the bill from the furnishers that he had found lying on his table. "Then take it in," said Fritzing impatiently, without looking up. "To whom shall I give the order?" inquired Annalise. "To whom shall you give the order?" repeated Fritzing, pausing in his study to stare at her, the bill in one hand and his pocket-handkerchief, with which he was mopping his forehead, in the other. "Where," asked Annalise, "shall I find the cook?" "Where shall you find the cook?" repeated Fritzing, staring still harder. "This house is so gigantic is it not," he said with an enormous sarcasm, "that no doubt the cook has lost himself. Have you perhaps omitted to investigate the coal-hole?" "Herr Geheimrath, where shall I find the cook?" asked Annalise tossing her head. "Fräulein, is there a mirror in your bedroom?" "The smallest I ever saw. Only one-half of my face can I see reflected in it at a time." "Fräulein, the half of that face you see reflected in it is the half of the face of the cook." "I do not understand," said Annalise. "Yet it is as clear as shining after rain. You, _mein liebes Kind_, are the cook." It was now Annalise's turn to stare, and she stood for a moment doing it, her face changing from white to red while Fritzing turned his back and taking out a pencil made little sums on the margin of the bill. "Herr Geheimrath, I am not a cook," she said at last, swallowing her indignation. "What, still there?" he exclaimed, looking up sharply. "Unworthy one, get thee quickly to the kitchen. Is it seemly to keep the Princess waiting?" "I am not a cook," said Annalise defiantly. "I was not engaged as a cook, I never was a cook, and I will not be a cook." Fritzing flung down the bill and came and glared close into Annalise's face. "Not a cook?" he cried. "You, a German girl, the daughter of poor parents, you are not ashamed to say it? You do not hide your head for shame? No--a being so useful, so necessary, so worthy of respect as a cook you are not and never will be. I'll tell you what you are,--I've told you once already, and I repeat it--you are a knave, my Fräulein, a knave, I say. And in those parts of your miserable nature where you are not a knave--for I willingly concede that no man or woman is bad all through--in those parts, I say, where your knavishness is intermittent, you are an absolute, unmitigated fool." "I will not bear this," cried Annalise. "Will not! Cannot! Shall not! Inept Negation, get thee to thy kitchen and seek wisdom among the pots." "I am no one's slave," cried Annalise, "I am no one's prisoner." "Hark at her! Who said you were? Have I not told you the only two things you are?" "But I am treated as a prisoner, I am treated as a slave," sobbed Annalise. "Unmannerly one, how dare you linger talking follies when your royal mistress is waiting for her tea? Run--run! Or must I show you how?" "Her Grand Ducal Highness," said Annalise, not budging, "told me also to prepare the bath for her this evening." "Well, what of that?" cried Fritzing, snatching up the bill again and adding up furiously. "Prepare it, then." "I see no water-taps." "Woman, there are none." "How can I prepare a bath without water-taps?" "O thou Inefficiency! Ineptitude garbed as woman! Must I then teach thee the elements of thy business? Hast thou not observed the pump? Go to it, and draw water. Cause the water to flow into buckets. Carry these buckets--need I go on? Will not Nature herself teach thee what to do with buckets?" Annalise flushed scarlet. "I will not go to the pump," she said. "What, you will not carry out her Grand Ducal Highness's orders?" "I will not go to the pump." "You refuse to prepare the bath?" "I will not go to the pump." "You refuse to prepare the tea?" "I will not be a cook." "You are rankly rebellious?" "I will not sleep in the attic." "What!" "I will not eat the food." "What!" "I will not do the work." "What!" "I will go." "Go?" "_Go_," repeated Annalise, stamping her foot. "I demand my wages, the increased wages that were promised me, and I will go." "And where, Impudence past believing, will you go, in a country whose tongue you most luckily do not understand?" Annalise looked up into Fritzing's furious eyes with the challenge of him who flings down his trump card. "Go?" she cried, with a defiance that was blood-curdling in one so small and hitherto so silent, "I will first go to that young gentleman who speaks my language and I will tell him all, and then, with his assistance, I will go straight--but _straight_, do you hear?"--and she stamped her foot again--"to Lothen-Kunitz." XIV Early in this story I pointed out what to the intelligent must have been from the beginning apparent, that Annalise held Priscilla and Fritzing in the hollow of her hand. In the first excitement of the start she had not noticed it, but during those woeful days of disillusionment at Baker's she saw it with an ever-growing clearness; and since Sunday, since the day she found a smiling young gentleman ready to talk German to her and answer questions, she was perfectly aware that she had only to close her hand and her victims would squeeze into any shape she liked. She proposed to do this closing at the first moment of sheer intolerableness, and that moment seemed well reached when she entered Creeper Cottage and realized what the attic, the kitchen, and the pump really meant. It is always a shock to find one's self in the company of a worm that turns, always a shock and an amazement; a spectacle one never, somehow, gets used to. But how dreadful does it become when one is in the power of the worm, and the worm is resentful, and ready to squeeze to any extent. Fritzing reflected bitterly that Annalise might quite well have been left at home. Quite well? A thousand times better. What had she done but whine during her passive period? And now that she was active, a volcano in full activity hurling forth hot streams of treachery on two most harmless heads, she, the insignificant, the base-born, the empty-brained, was actually going to be able to ruin the plans of the noblest woman on earth. Thus thought Fritzing, mopping his forehead. Annalise had rushed away to her attic after flinging her defiance at him, her spirit ready to dare anything but her body too small, she felt, to risk staying within reach of a man who looked more like somebody who meant to shake her than any one she had ever seen. Fritzing mopped his forehead, and mopped and mopped again. He stood where she had left him, his eyes fixed on the ground, his distress so extreme that he was quite near crying. What was he to do? What was he to say to his Princess? How was he to stop the girl's going back to Kunitz? How was he to stop her going even so far as young Morrison? That she should tell young Morrison who Priscilla was would indeed be a terrible thing. It would end their being able to live in Symford. It would end their being able to live in England. The Grand Duke would be after them, and there would have to be another flight to another country, another start there, another search for a home, another set of explanations, pretences, fears, lies,--things of which he was so weary. But there was something else, something worse than any of these things, that made Fritzing mop his forehead with so extreme a desperation: Annalise had demanded the money due to her, and Fritzing had no money. I am afraid Fritzing was never meant for a conspirator. Nature never meant him to be a plotter, an arranger of unpleasant surprises for parents. She never meant him to run away. She meant him, probably, to spend his days communing with the past in a lofty room with distempered walls and busts round them. That he should be forced to act, to decide, to be artful, to wrangle with maids, to make ends meet, to squeeze his long frame and explosive disposition into a Creeper Cottage where only an ill-fitting door separated him from the noise and fumes of the kitchen, was surely a cruel trick of Fate, and not less cruel because he had brought it on himself. That he should have thought he could run away as well as any man is merely a proof of his singleness of soul. A man who does that successfully is always, among a great many other things, a man who takes plenty of money with him and knows exactly where to put his hand on more when it is wanted. Fritzing had thought it better to get away quickly with little money than to wait and get away with more. He had seized all he could of his own that was not invested, and Priscilla had drawn her loose cash from the Kunitz bank; but what he took hidden in his gaiters after paying for Priscilla's outfit and bribing Annalise was not more than three hundred pounds; and what is three hundred pounds to a person who buys and furnishes cottages and scatters five-pound notes among the poor? The cottages were paid for. He had insisted on doing that at once, chiefly in order to close his dealings with Mr. Dawson; but Mr. Dawson had not let them go for less than a hundred and fifty for the two, in spite of Tussie's having said a hundred was enough. When Fritzing told Mr. Dawson what Tussie had said Mr. Dawson soon proved that Tussie could not possibly have meant it; and Fritzing, knowing how rich Priscilla really was and what vast savings he had himself lying over in Germany in comfortable securities, paid him without arguing and hastened from the hated presence. Then the journey for the three from Kunitz had been expensive; the stay at Baker's Farm had been, strange to say, expensive; Mrs. Jones's comforting had been expensive; the village mothers had twice emptied Priscilla's purse of ten pounds; and the treat to the Symford children had not been cheap. After paying for this--the Minehead confectioner turned out to be a man of little faith in unknown foreigners, and insisted on being paid at once--Fritzing had about forty pounds left. This, he had thought, would do for food and lights and things for a long while,--certainly till he had hit on a plan by which he would be able to get hold of the Princess's money and his own without betraying where they were; and here on his table, the second unpleasant surprise that greeted him on entering his new home (the first had been his late master's dreadful smile) was the bill for the furnishing of it. To a man possessed of only forty pounds any bill will seem tremendous. This one was for nearly two hundred; and at the end of the long list of items, the biggest of which was that bathroom without water that had sent Annalise out on strike, was the information that a remittance would oblige. A remittance! Poor Fritzing. He crushed the paper in his hand and made caustic mental comments on the indecency of these people, clamouring for their money almost before the last workman was out of the place, certainly before the smell of paint was out of it, and clamouring, too, in the face of the Shuttleworth countenance and support. He had not been a week yet in Symford, and had been so busy, so rushed, that he had put off thinking out a plan for getting his money over from Germany until he should be settled. Never had he imagined people would demand payment in this manner. Never, either, had he imagined the Princess would want so much money for the poor; and never, of course, had he imagined that there would be a children's treat within three days of their arrival. Least of all had he dreamed that Annalise would so soon need more bribing; for that was clearly the only thing to do. He saw it was the only thing, after he had stood for some time thinking and wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. She must be bribed, silenced, given in to. He must part with as much as he possibly could of that last forty pounds; as much, also, as he possibly could of his pride, and submit to have the hussy's foot on his neck. Some day, some day, thought Fritzing grinding his teeth, he would be even with her; and when that day came he promised himself that it should certainly begin with a sound shaking. "Truly," he reflected, "the foolish things of the world confound the wise, and the weak things of the world confound the things that are mighty." And he went out, and standing in the back yard beneath Annalise's window softly called to her. "Fräulein," called Fritzing, softly as a dove wooing its mate. "Aha," thought Annalise, sitting on her bed, quick to mark the change; but she did not move. "Fräulein," called Fritzing again; and it was hardly a call so much as a melodious murmur. Annalise did not move, but she grinned. "Fräulein, come down one moment," cooed Fritzing, whose head was quite near the attic window so low was Creeper Cottage. "I wish to speak to you. I wish to give you something." Annalise did not move, but she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth; for the first time since she left Calais she was enjoying herself. "If," went on Fritzing after an anxious pause, "I was sharp with you just now--and I fear I may have been hasty--you should not take it amiss from one who, like Brutus, is sick of many griefs. Come down, Fräulein, and let me make amends." The Princess's bell rang. At once habit impelled Annalise to that which Fritzing's pleadings would never have effected; she scrambled down the ladder, and leaving him still under her window presented herself before her mistress with her usual face of meek respect. "I said tea," said Priscilla very distinctly, looking at her with slightly lifted eyebrows. Annalise curtseyed and disappeared. "How fearfully polite German maids are," remarked Tussie. "In what way?" asked Priscilla. "Those curtseys. They're magnificent." "Don't English maids curtsey?" "None that I've ever seen. Perhaps they do to royalties." "Oh?" said Priscilla with a little jump. She was still so much unnerved by the unexpected meeting with her father on the wall of Creeper Cottage that she could not prevent the little jump. "What would German maids do, I wonder, in dealing with royalties," said Tussie, "if they curtsey so beautifully to ordinary mistresses? They'd have to go down on their knees to a princess, wouldn't they?" "How should I know?" said Priscilla, irritably, alarmed to feel she was turning red; and with great determination she began to talk literature. Fritzing was lying in wait for Annalise, and caught her as she came into the bathroom. "Fräulein," said the miserable man trying to screw his face into persuasiveness, "you cannot let the Princess go without tea." "Yes I can," said Annalise. He thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them off her shoulders. "Make it this once, Fräulein, and I will hire a woman of the village to make it in future. And see, you must not leave the Princess's service, a service of such great honour to yourself, because I chanced to be perhaps a little--hasty. I will give you two hundred marks to console you for the slight though undoubted difference in the mode of living, and I will, as I said, hire a woman to come each day and cook. Will it not be well so?" "No," said Annalise. "No?" Annalise put her hands on her hips, and swaying lightly from side to side began to sing softly. Fritzing gazed at this fresh development in her manners in silent astonishment. "_Jedermann macht mir die Cour, c'est l'amour, c'est l'amour_," sang Annalise, her head one side, her eyes on the ceiling. "_Liebes Kind_, are your promises of no value? Did you not promise to keep your mouth shut, and not betray the Princess's confidence? Did she not seek you out from all the others for the honour of keeping her secrets? And you will, after one week, divulge them to a stranger? You will leave her service? You will return to Kunitz? Is it well so?" "_C'est l'amour, c'est l'amour_," sang Annalise, swaying. "Is it well so, Fräulein?" repeated Fritzing, strangling a furious desire to slap her. "Did you speak?" inquired Annalise, pausing in her song. "I am speaking all the time. I asked if it were well to betray the secrets of your royal mistress." "I have been starved," said Annalise. "You have had the same fare as ourselves." "I have been called names." "Have I not expressed--regret?" "I have been treated as dirt." "Well, well, I have apologized." "If you had behaved to me as a maid of a royal lady should be behaved to, I would have faithfully done my part and kept silence. Now give me my money and I will go." "I will give you your money--certainly, _liebes Kind_. It is what I am most desirous of doing. But only on condition that you stay. If you go, you go without it. If you stay, I will do as I said about the cook and will--" Fritzing paused--"I will endeavour to refrain from calling you anything hasty." "Two hundred marks," said Annalise gazing at the ceiling, "is nothing." "Nothing?" cried Fritzing. "You know very well that it is, for you, a great sum." "It is nothing. I require a thousand." "A thousand? What, fifty English sovereigns? Nay, then, but there is no reasoning with you," cried Fritzing in tones of real despair. She caught the conviction in them and hesitated. "Eight hundred, then," she said. "Impossible. And besides it would be a sin. I will give you twenty." "Twenty? Twenty marks?" Annalise stared at him a moment then resumed her swaying and her song--"_Jedermann macht mir die Cour_"--sang Annalise with redoubled conviction. "No, no, not marks--twenty pounds," said Fritzing, interrupting what was to him a most maddening music. "Four hundred marks. As much as many a German girl can only earn by labouring two years you will receive for doing nothing but hold your tongue." Annalise closed her lips tightly and shook her head. "My tongue cannot be held for that," she said, beginning to sway again and hum. Adjectives foamed on Fritzing's own, but he kept them back. "_Mädchen_," he said with the gentleness of a pastor in a confirmation class, "do you not remember that the love of money is the root of all evil? I do not recognize you. Since when have you become thus greedy for it?" "Give me eight hundred and I will stop." "I will give you six hundred," said Fritzing, fighting for each of his last precious pounds. "Eight." "Six." "I said eight," said Annalise, stopping and looking at him with lifted eye-brows and exactly imitating the distinctness with which the Princess had just said "I said tea." "Six is an enormous sum. Why, what would you do with it?" "That is my affair. Perhaps buy food," she said with a malicious side-glance. "I tell you there shall be a cook." "A cook," said Annalise counting on her fingers,--"and a good cook, observe--not a cook like the Frau Pearce--a cook, then, no more rude names, and eight hundred marks. Then I stop. I suffer. I am silent." "It cannot be done. I cannot give you eight." "_C'est l'amour, c'est l'amour_.... The Princess waits for her tea. I will prepare it for her this once. I am good, you see, at heart. But I must have eight hundred marks. _Cest l'amo-o-o-o-o-our_." "I will give you seven," said Fritzing, doing rapid sums in his head. Seven hundred was something under thirty-five pounds. He would still have five pounds left for housekeeping. How long that would last he admitted to himself that probably only heaven knew, but he hoped that with economy it might be made to carry them over a fortnight; and surely by the end of a fortnight he would have hit on a way of getting fresh supplies from Germany? "I will give you seven hundred. That is the utter-most. I can give no more till I have written home for money. I have only a little more than that here altogether. See, I treat you like a reasonable being--I set the truth plainly before you. More than seven hundred I could not give if I would." "Good," said Annalise, breaking off her music suddenly. "I will take that now and guarantee to be silent for fourteen days. At the end of that time the Herr Geheimrath will have plenty more money and will, if he still desires my services and my silence, give me the three hundred still due to me on the thousand I demand. If the Herr Geheimrath prefers not to, then I depart to my native country. While the fortnight lasts I will suffer all there is to suffer in silence. Is the Herr Geheimrath agreed?" "Shameless one!" mentally shrieked Fritzing, "Wait and see what will happen to thee when my turn comes!" But aloud he only agreed. "It is well, Fräulein," he said. "Take in the Princess's tea, and then come to my sitting-room and I will give you the money. The fire burns in the kitchen. Utensils, I believe, are ready to hand. It should not prove a task too difficult." "Perhaps the Herr Geheimrath will show me where the tea and milk is? And also the sugar, and the bread and butter if any?" suggested Annalise in a small meek voice as she tripped before him into the kitchen. What could he do but follow? Her foot was well on his neck; and it occurred to him as he rummaged miserably among canisters that if the creature should take it into her head to marry him he might conceivably have to let her do it. As it was it was he and not Annalise who took the kettle out to the pump to fill it, and her face while he was doing it would have rejoiced her parents or other persons to whom she was presumably dear, it was wide with so enormous a satisfaction. Thus terrible is it to be in the power of an Annalise. XV The first evening in Creeper Cottage was unpleasant. There was a blazing wood fire, the curtains were drawn, the lamp shone rosily through its red shade, and when Priscilla stood up her hair dusted the oak beams of the ceiling, it was so low. The background, you see, was perfectly satisfactory; exactly what a cottage background should be on an autumn night when outside a wet mist is hanging like a grey curtain across the window panes; and Tussie arriving at nine o'clock to help consecrate the new life with Shakespeare felt, as he opened the door and walked out of the darkness into the rosy, cosy little room, that he need not after all worry himself with doubts as to the divine girl's being comfortable. Never did place appear more comfortable. It did not occur to him that a lamp with a red shade and the blaze of a wood fire will make any place appear comfortable so long as they go on shining, and he looked up at Priscilla--I am afraid he had to look up at her when they were both standing--with the broadest smile of genuine pleasure. "It _does_ look jolly," he said heartily. His pleasure was doomed to an immediate wiping out. Priscilla smiled, but with a reservation behind her smile that his sensitive spirit felt at once. She was alone, and there was no sign whatever either of her uncle or of preparations for the reading of Shakespeare. "Is anything not quite right?" Tussie asked, his face falling at once to an anxious pucker. Priscilla looked at him and smiled again, but this time the smile was real, in her eyes as well as on her lips, dancing in them together with the flickering firelight. "It's rather funny," she said. "It has never happened to me before. What do you think? I'm hungry." "Hungry?" "Hungry." Tussie stared, arrested in the unwinding of his comforter. "Really hungry. _Dreadfully_ hungry. So hungry that I hate Shakespeare." "But--" "I know. You're going to say why not eat? It does seem simple. But you've no idea how difficult it really is. I'm afraid my uncle and I have rather heaps to learn. We forgot to get a cook." "A cook? But I thought--I understood that curtseying maid of yours was going to do all that?" "So did I. So did he. But she won't." Priscilla flushed, for since Tussie left after tea she had had grievous surprises, of a kind that made her first indignant and then inclined to wince. Fritzing had not been able to hide from her that Annalise had rebelled and refused to cook, and Priscilla had not been able to follow her immediate impulse and dismiss her. It was at this point, when she realized this, that the wincing began. She felt perfectly sick at the thought, flashed upon her for the first time, that she was in the power of a servant. "Do you mean to say," said Tussie in a voice hollow with consternation, "that you've had no dinner?" "Dinner? In a cottage? Why of course there was no dinner. There never will be any dinner--at night, at least. But the tragic thing is there was no supper. We didn't think of it till we began to get hungry. Annalise began first. She got hungry at six o'clock, and said something to Fritz--my uncle about it, but he wasn't hungry himself then and so he snubbed her. Now he is hungry himself, and he's gone out to see if he can't find a cook. It's very stupid. There's nothing in the house. Annalise ate the bread and things she found. She's upstairs now, crying." And Priscilla's lips twitched as she looked at Tussie's concerned face, and she began to laugh. He seized his hat. "I'll go and get you something," he said, dashing at the door. "I can't think what, at this time of the night. The only shop shuts at seven." "I'll make them open it." "They go to bed at nine." "I'll get them out of bed if I have to shie stones at their windows all night." "Don't go without your coat--you'll catch a most frightful cold." He put his arm through the door to take it, and vanished in the fog. He did not put on the coat in his agitation, but kept it over his arm. His comforter stayed in Priscilla's parlour, on the chair where he had flung it. He was in evening dress, and his throat was sore already with the cold that was coming on and that he had caught, as he expected, running races on the Sunday at Priscilla's children's party. Priscilla went back to her seat by the fire, and thought very hard about things like bread. It would of course be impossible that she should have reached this state of famine only because one meal had been missed; but she had eaten nothing all day,--disliked the Baker's Farm breakfast too much even to look at it, forgotten the Baker's Farm dinner because she was just moving into her cottage, and at tea had been too greatly upset by the unexpected appearance of her father on the wall to care to eat the bread and butter Annalise brought in. Now she was in that state when you tremble and feel cold. She had told Annalise, about half-past seven, to bring her the bread left from tea, but Annalise had eaten it. At half-past eight she had told Annalise to bring her the sugar, for she had read somewhere that if you eat enough sugar it takes away the desire even of the hungriest for other food, but Annalise, who had eaten the sugar as well, said that the Herr Geheimrath must have eaten it. It certainly was not there, and neither was the Herr Geheimrath to defend himself; since half-past seven he had been out looking for a cook, his mind pervaded by the idea that if only he could get a cook food would follow in her wake as naturally as flowers follow after rain. Priscilla fretting in her chair that he should stay away so long saw very clearly that no cook could help them. What is the use of a cook in a house where there is nothing to cook? If only Fritzing would come back quickly with a great many loaves of bread! The door was opened a little way and somebody's knuckles knocked. She thought it was Tussie, quick and clever as ever, and in a voice full of welcome told him to come in; upon which in stepped Robin Morrison very briskly, delighted by the warmth of the invitation. "Why now this _is_ nice," said Robin, all smiles. Priscilla did not move and did not offer to shake hands, so he stood on the hearthrug and spread out his own to the blaze, looking down at her with bright, audacious eyes. He thought he had not yet seen her so beautiful. There was an extraordinary depth and mystery in her look, he thought, as it rested for a moment on his face, and she had never yet dropped her eyelashes as she now did when her eyes met his. We know she was very hungry, and there was no strength in her at all. Not only did her eyelashes drop, but her head as well, and her hands hung helplessly, like drooping white flowers, one over each arm of the chair. "I came in to ask Mr. Neumann-Schultz if there's anything I can do for you," said Robin. "Did you? He lives next door." "I know. I knocked there first, but he didn't answer so I thought he must be here." Priscilla said nothing. At any other time she would have snubbed Robin and got rid of him. Now she merely sat and drooped. "Has he gone out?" "Yes." Her voice was very low, hardly more than a whisper. Those who know the faintness of hunger at this stage will also know the pathos that steals into the voice of the sufferer when he is unwillingly made to speak; it becomes plaintive, melodious with yearning, the yearning for food. But if you do not know this, if you have yourself just come from dinner, if you are half in love and want the other person to be quite in love, if you are full of faith in your own fascinations, you are apt to fall into Robin's error and mistake the nature of the yearning. Tussie in Robin's place would have doubted the evidence of his senses, but then Tussie was very modest. Robin doubted nothing. He saw, he heard, and he thrilled; and underneath his thrilling, which was real enough to make him flush to the roots of his hair, far down underneath it was the swift contemptuous comment, "They're all alike." Priscilla shut her eyes. She was listening for the first sound of Tussie's or Fritzing's footfall, the glad sound heralding the approach of something to eat, and wishing Robin would go away. He was kind at times and obliging, but on the whole a nuisance. It was a great pity there were so many people in the world who were nuisances and did not know it. Somebody ought to tell them,--their mothers, or other useful persons of that sort. She vaguely decided that the next time she met Robin and was strengthened properly by food she would say a few things to him from which recovery would take a long while. "Are you--not well?" Robin asked, after a silence during which his eyes never left her and hers were shut; and even to himself his voice sounded deeper, more intense than usual. "Oh yes," murmured Priscilla with a little sigh. "Are you--happy?" Happy? Can anybody who is supperless, dinnerless, breakfastless, be happy, Priscilla wondered? But the question struck her as funny, and the vibrating tones in which it was asked struck her as rather funny too, and she opened her eyes for a moment to look up at Robin with a smile of amusement--a smile that she could not guess was turned by the hunger within her into something wistful and tremulous. "Yes," said Priscilla in that strange pathetic voice, "I--think so." And after a brief glance at him down went her weary eyelids again. The next thing that happened was that Robin, who was trembling, kissed her hand. This she let him do with perfect placidity. Every German woman is used to having her hand kissed. It is kissed on meeting, it is kissed on parting, it is kissed at a great many odd times in between; she holds it up mechanically when she comes across a male acquaintance; she is never surprised at the ceremony; the only thing that surprises her is if it is left out. Priscilla then simply thought Robin was going. "What a mercy," she said to herself, glancing at him a moment through her eyelashes. But Robin was not used to hand-kissing and saw things in a very different light. He felt she made no attempt to draw her hand away, he heard her murmuring something inarticulate--it was merely Good-bye--he was hurled along to his doom; and stooping over her the unfortunate young man kissed her hair. Priscilla opened her eyes suddenly and very wide. I don't know what folly he would have perpetrated next, or what sillinesses were on the tip of his tongue, or what meaning he still chose to read in her look, but an instant afterwards he was brought down for ever from the giddy heights of his illusions: Priscilla boxed his ears. I am sorry to have to record it. It is always sweeter if a woman does not box ears. The action is shrewish, benighted, mediæval, nay, barbarous; and this box was a very hard one indeed, extraordinarily hard for so little a hand and so fasting a girl. But we know she had twice already been on the verge of doing it; and the pent-up vigour of what the policeman had not got and what the mother in the train had not got was added I imagine to what Robin got. Anyhow it was efficacious. There was an exclamation--I think of surprise, for surely a young man would not have minded the pain?--and he put his hand up quickly to his face. Priscilla got up just as quickly out of her chair and rang the handbell furiously, her eyes on his, her face ablaze. Annalise must have thrown herself down the ladder, for they hardly seemed to have been standing there an instant face to face, their eyes on a level, he scarlet, she white, both deadly silent, before the maid was in the room. "This person has insulted me," said Priscilla, turning to her and pointing at Robin. "He never comes here again. Don't let me find you forgetting that," she added, frowning at the girl; for she remembered they had been seen talking eagerly together at the children's treat. "I never"--began Robin. "Will you go?" Annalise opened the door for him. He went out, and she shut it behind him. Then she walked sedately across the room again, looking sideways at the Princess, who took no notice of her but stood motionless by the table gazing straight before her, her lips compressed, her face set in a kind of frozen white rage, and having got into the bathroom Annalise began to run. She ran out at the back door, in again at Fritzing's back door, out at his front door into the street, and caught up Robin as he was turning down the lane to the vicarage. "What have you done?" she asked him breathlessly, in German. "Done?" Robin threw back his head and laughed quite loud. "Sh--sh," said Annalise, glancing back fearfully over her shoulder. "Done?" said Robin, subduing his bitter mirth. "What do you suppose I've done? I've done what any man would have in my place--encouraged, almost asked to do it. I kissed your young lady, _liebes Fräulein_, and she pretended not to like it. Now isn't that what a sensible girl like you would call absurd?" But Annalise started back from the hand he held out to her in genuine horror. "What?" she cried, "What?" "What? What?" mocked Robin. "Well then, what? Are you all such prudes in Germany? Even you pretending, you little hypocrite?" "Oh," cried Annalise hysterically, pushing him away with both her hands, "what have you done? _Elender Junge_, what have you done?" "I think you must all be mad," said Robin angrily. "You can't persuade me that nobody ever kisses anybody over in Germany." "Oh yes they do--oh yes they do," cried Annalise, wringing her hands, "but neither there nor anywhere else--in England, anywhere in the world--do the sons of pastors--the sons of pastors--" She seemed to struggle for breath, and twisted and untwisted her apron round her hands in a storm of agitation while Robin, utterly astonished, stared at her--"Neither there nor anywhere else do they--the sons of pastors--kiss--kiss royal princesses." It was now Robin's turn to say "What?" XVI He went up to Cambridge the next morning. Term had not begun, but he went; a Robin with all the briskness gone out of him, and if still with something of the bird left only of a bird that is moulting. His father was mildly surprised, but applauded the apparent desire for solitary study. His mother was violently surprised, and tried hard to get at his true reasons. She saw with the piercing eye of a relation--that eye from which hardly anything can ever be hidden--that something had happened and that the something was sobering and unpleasant. She could not imagine what it was, for she did not know he had been to Creeper Cottage the night before and all the afternoon and at dinner he had talked and behaved as usual. Now he did not talk at all, and his behaviour was limited to a hasty packing of portmanteaus. Determined to question him she called him into the study just before he started, and shut the door. "I must go mater," he said, pulling out his watch; he had carefully avoided her since breakfast though she had laid many traps for him. "Robin, I want to tell you that I think you splendid." "Splendid? What on earth for? You were telling me a very different sort of thing a day or two ago." "I am sorry now for what I said on Sunday." "I don't think a mother ought ever to say she's sorry," said Robin gloomily. "Not if she is?" "She oughtn't to say so." "Well dear let us be friends. Don't go away angry with me. I do appreciate you so much for going. You are my own dear boy." And she put her hands on his shoulders. He took out his watch again. "I say, I must be off." "Don't suppose a mother doesn't see and understand." "Oh I don't suppose anything. Good-bye mater." "I think it so splendid of you to go, to turn your back on temptation, to unwind yourself from that wretched girl's coils." "Coils?" "My Robin"--she stroked his cheek, the same cheek, as it happened, Priscilla had smitten--"my Robin must not throw himself away. I am ambitious where you are concerned, my darling. It would have broken my heart for you to have married a nobody--perhaps a worse than nobody." Robin, who was staring at her with an indescribable expression on his face, took her hands off his shoulders. "Look here mater," he said--and he was seized by a desire to laugh terrifically--"there is nothing in the world quite so amusing as the way people will talk wisely of things they don't in the faintest degree understand. They seem to feel wise in proportion to their ignorance. I expect you think that's a funny speech for me to make. I can tell you I don't think it half as funny as yours was. Good-bye. I shall miss my train you know if you keep me, and then I'd be exposed again to those--what was the word? ah, yes--coils. Coils!" He burst into loud laughter. "Good-bye mater." She was staring at him blankly. He hastily brushed her forehead with his moustache and hurried to the door, his face full of strange mirth. "I say," he said, putting in his head again, "there's just one thing I'd like to say." She made an eager step towards him. "Do say it my darling--say all that is in your heart." "Oh it's not much--it's only God help poor Tuss." And that was the last of him. She heard him chuckling all down the passage; but long before his fly had reached Ullerton he had left off doing that and was moulting again. It rained that day in Somersetshire, a steady, hopeless rain that soaked many a leaf off the trees before its time and made the year look suddenly quite old. From the windows of Creeper Cottage you could see the water running in rivulets down the hill into the deserted village, and wreaths of mist hanging about the downs beyond. The dripping tombstone that blocked Priscilla's window grew danker and blacker as the day went by. The fires in the cottage burnt badly, for the wood had somehow got wet. The oilcloth and the wall-papers looked very dismal in the grey daylight. Rain came in underneath the two front doors and made puddles that nobody wiped away. Priscilla had got up very late, after a night spent staring into the darkness, and then had sent for Fritzing and told him what Robin had done. The unhappy man's horror will be easily imagined. She was in bed the night before when he came in, quite cured of her hunger and only wanting to be alone with her wrath. Fritzing had found no one in the parlour but Tussie clasping an immense biscuit-tin in his arms, with a face so tragic that Fritzing thought something terrible must have happened. Tussie had returned joyfully, laden with biscuits and sardines, to find the girl standing straight and speechless by the table, her face rigid, her eyes ablaze. She had not so much as glanced at the biscuits; she had not said a single word; her look rested on him a moment as though she did not see him and then she went into the next room and upstairs to bed. He knew she went upstairs to bed for in Creeper Cottage you could hear everything. Fritzing coming in a few minutes later without the cook he had hoped to find, was glad enough of Tussie's sardines and biscuits--they were ginger biscuits--and while he ate them, abstractedly and together, Tussie looked on and wondered in spite of his wretchedness what the combination could possibly taste like. Then, after a late breakfast on the Wednesday morning, Priscilla sent for Fritzing and told him what Robin had done. The burdened man, so full already of anxieties and worries, was shattered by the blow. "I have always held duelling in extreme contempt," he said when at last he could speak, "but now I shall certainly fight." "Fight? You? Fritzi, I've only told you because I--I feel so unprotected here and you must keep him off if he ever tries to come again. But you shall not fight. What, first he is to insult me and then hurt or kill my Fritzi? Besides, nobody ever fights duels in England." "That remains to be seen. I shall now go to his house and insult him steadily for half an hour. At the expiration of that time he will probably be himself anxious to fight. We might go to France--" "Oh Fritzi don't be so dreadful. Don't go to him--leave him alone--nobody must ever know--" "I shall now go and insult him," repeated Fritzing with an inflexibility that silenced her. And she saw him a minute later pass her window under his umbrella, splashing indifferently through all the puddles, battle and destruction in his face. Robin, however, was at Ullerton by the time Fritzing got to the vicarage. He waved the servant aside when she told him he had gone, and insisted on penetrating into the presence of the young man's father. He waved Mrs. Morrison aside too when she tried to substitute herself for the vicar, and did at last by his stony persistency get into the good man's presence. Not until the vicar himself told him that Robin had gone would Fritzing believe it. "The villain has fled," he told Priscilla, coming back drenched in body but unquenchable in spirit. "Your chastisement, ma'am, was very effectual." "If he's gone, then don't let us think about him any more." "Nay, ma'am, I now set out for Cambridge. If I may not meet him fairly in duel and have my chance of honourably removing him from a world that has had enough of him, I would fain in my turn box his ears." But Priscilla caught him by both arms. "Why, Fritzi," she cried, "he might remove you and not you him--and from a world that hasn't had nearly enough of you. Fritzi, you cannot leave me. I won't let you go. I wish I had never told you. Don't let us talk of it ever again. It is hateful to me. I--I can't bear it." And she looked into his face with something very like tears in her eyes. Of course Fritzing stayed. How could he go away even for one hour, even in search of a cook, when such dreadful things happened? He was bowed down by the burden of his responsibilities. He went into his sitting-room and spent the morning striding up and down it between the street door and the door into the kitchen,--a stride and a half one way, and a stride and a half back back again,--doing what all evildoers have to do sooner or later, cudgelling his brains for a way out of life's complications: and every now and then the terribleness of what had happened to his Princess, his guarded Princess, his unapproachable one, came over him with a fresh wave of horror and he groaned aloud. In the kitchen sat the Shuttleworth kitchenmaid, a most accomplished young person, listening to the groans and wondering what next. Tussie had sent her, with fearful threats of what sort of character she would get if she refused to go. She had at once given notice, but had been forced all the same to go, being driven over in a dog-cart in the early morning rain by a groom who made laboured pleasantries at her expense. She could cook very well, almost as well as that great personage the Shuttleworth cook, but she could only cook if there were things to be cooked; and what she found at Creeper Cottage was the rest of the ginger biscuits and sardines. Well, I will not linger over that. Priscilla did get breakfast somehow, the girl, after trying vainly to strike sparks of helpfulness out of Annalise, going to the store and ordering what was necessary. Then she washed up, while Annalise tripped in and out for the express purpose, so it seemed, of turning up her nose; then she sat and waited and wondered what next. For a long time she supposed somebody would send for her to come and talk about luncheon; but nobody did. She heard the ceaseless stridings in the next room, and every now and then the groans. The rain on the kitchen window did not patter more ceaselessly than the footsteps strode up and down, and the groans got very much on to the girl's nerves. At last she decided that no person who was groaning like that would ever want to order luncheon, and she had better go to the young lady. She went out accordingly and knocked at Priscilla's door. Priscilla was in her chair by the fire, lost in troublous thought. She looked vaguely at the kitchenmaid for a moment, and then asked her to go away. "I'm busy," explained Priscilla, whose hands were folded in her lap. "Please miss, what do you wish for luncheon?" "Who are you?" "I'm the--assistant cook at the 'All, miss. Lady Shuttleworth's assistant cook. Sir Augustus desired me to cook for you to-day." "Then please do it." "Yes miss. What do you wish for luncheon?" "Nothing." "Yes miss. And the gentleman--don't he want nothing neither?" "He'll probably tell you when he does." "Yes miss. It's as well to know a little beforehand, ain't it, miss. There's nothing in the--a-hem--'ouse, and I suppose I'd have to buy something." "Please do." "Yes miss. Perhaps if you'd tell me what the gentleman likes I could go out and get it." "But I don't know what he likes. And wouldn't you get wet? Send somebody." "Yes miss. Who?" Priscilla gazed at her a moment. "Ah yes--" she said, "I forgot. I'm afraid there isn't anybody. I think you had better ask my uncle what he wants, and then if you would--I'm very sorry you should have such bad weather--but if you don't mind, would you go and buy the things?" "Yes miss." The girl went away, and Priscilla began for the first time to consider the probability of her having in the near future to think of and order three meals every day of her life; and not only three meals, but she dimly perceived there would be a multitude of other dreary things to think of and order,--their linen, for instance, must be washed, and how did one set about that? And would not Fritzing's buttons presently come off and have to be sewn on again? His socks, when they went into holes, could be thrown out of the window and new ones bought, but even Priscilla saw that you could not throw a whole coat out of a window because its buttons had come off. There would, then, have to be some mending done for Fritzing, and Annalise would certainly not be the one to do it. Was the simple life a sordid life as well? Did it only look simple from outside and far away? And was it, close, mere drudging? A fear came over her that her soul, her precious soul, for whose sake she had dared everything, instead of being able to spread its wings in the light of a glorious clear life was going to be choked out of existence by weeds just as completely as at Kunitz. The Shuttleworth kitchenmaid meanwhile, who was not hindered at every turn by a regard for her soul, made her way to Fritzing as she had been told and inquired of him what she should cook for his dinner. No man likes to be interrupted in his groanings; and Fritzing, who was not hungry and was startled by the sudden appearance of a stranger in his room asking him intimate questions, a person of whose presence in the cottage he had been unaware, flew at her. "Woman, what have I to do with you?" he cried, stopping in his walk and confronting her with surprising fierceness. "Is it seemly to burst in on a man like this? Have you no decency? No respect for another's privacy? Begone, I command you--begone! Begone!" And he made the same movements with his hands that persons do when they shoo away fowls or other animals in flocks. This was too much for the Shuttleworth kitchenmaid. The obligations, she considered, were all on the side of Creeper Cottage, and she retreated in amazement and anger to the kitchen, put on her hat and mackintosh, and at once departed, regardless of the rain and the consequences, through two miles of dripping lanes to Symford Hall. What would have happened to her there if she had been discovered by Tussie I do not know, but I imagine it would have been something bad. She was saved, however, by his being in bed, clutched by the throat by a violent cold; and there he lay helpless, burning and shivering and throbbing, the pains of his body increased a hundredfold by the distraction of his mind about Priscilla. Why, Tussie asked himself over and over again, had she looked so strange the night before? Why had she gone starving to bed? What was she doing to-day? Was the kitchenmaid taking proper care of her? Was she keeping warm and dry this shocking weather? Had she slept comfortably the first night in her little home? Poor Tussie. It is a grievous thing to love any one too much; a grievous, wasteful, paralyzing thing; a tumbling of the universe out of focus, a bringing of the whole world down to the mean level of one desire, a shutting out of wider, more beautiful feelings, a wrapping of one's self in a thick garment of selfishness, outside which all the dear, tender, modest, everyday affections and friendships, the wholesome, ordinary loves, the precious loves of use and wont, are left to shiver and grow cold. Tussie's mother sat outside growing very cold indeed. Her heart was stricken within her. She, most orderly of women, did not in the least mind, so occupied was she with deeper cares, that her household was in rebellion, her cook who had been with her practically all her life leaving because she had been commanded by Tussie, before he had to fall back on the kitchenmaid, to proceed forthwith to Creeper Cottage and stay there indefinitely; her kitchenmaid, also a valued functionary, leaving; Bryce, Tussie's servant who took such care of him and was so clever in sickness, gone suddenly in his indignation at having to go at all,--all these things no longer mattered. Nor did it matter that the coming of age festivities were thrown into hopeless confusion by Tussie's illness, that the guests must all be telegraphed to and put off, that the whole village would be aghast at such a disappointment, that all her plans and preparations had been wasted. As the first day and night of illness dragged slowly past she grew to be nothing but one great ache of yearning over her sick boy, a most soul-rending yearning to do what she knew was for ever impossible, to put her arms so close round him, so close, so carefully, so tenderly, that nothing, no evil, no pain, could get through that clasp of love to hurt him any more. "Why don't you take better care of your only son?" said the doctor grimly after he had seen Tussie that evening, who by that time was in a very pitiable condition. Lady Shuttleworth stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless. "It's absurd, you know, to let him get into this state. I've often warned you. He can't be allowed to play ducks and drakes with himself like other young men. He's got no strength to fall back upon. I consider you are directly responsible for this illness. Why do you let him go out at night this time of year? Why do you let him over-exert himself? I suppose," said the doctor, who had brought Tussie into the world and was as brutal as he was clever, besides being at that moment extremely angry, "I suppose you want to lose him, eh?" How could she explain to him what she knew to be true, that the one person responsible for Tussie's illness was Priscilla? She therefore only stared, wide-eyed and speechless; and indeed her heart was very nearly broken. XVII About three o'clock that afternoon Priscilla saw quite clearly what she had dimly perceived in the morning, that if there was to be domestic peace in Creeper Cottage she must bestir herself. She did not like bestirring herself; at least, not in such directions. She would go out and help the poor, talk to them, cheer them, nurse their babies even and stir their porridge, but she had not up to this point realized her own needs, and how urgent they could be and how importunate. It was hunger that cleared her vision. The first time she was hungry she had been amused. Now when it happened again she was both surprised and indignant. "Can one's wretched body _never_ keep quiet?" she thought impatiently, when the first twinges dragged her relentlessly out of her dejected dreaming by the fire. She remembered the cold tremblings of the night before, and felt that that state would certainly be reached again quite soon if she did not stop it at once. She rang for Annalise. "Tell the cook I will have some luncheon after all," she said. "The cook is gone," said Annalise, whose eyes were more aggressively swollen than they had yet been. "Gone where?" "Gone away. Gone for ever." "But why?" asked Priscilla, really dismayed. "The Herr Geheimrath insulted her. I heard him doing it. No woman of decency can permit such a tone. She at once left. There has been no dinner to-day. There will be, I greatly fear, n--o--o--supp--pper." And Annalise gave a loud sob and covered her face with her apron. Then Priscilla saw that if life was to roll along at all it was her shoulder that would have to be put to the wheel. Fritzing's shoulder was evidently not a popular one among the lower classes. The vision of her own doing anything with wheels was sufficiently amazing, but she did not stop to gaze upon it. "Annalise," she said, getting up quickly and giving herself a little shake, "fetch me my hat and coat. I'm going out." Annalise let her apron drop far enough to enable her to point to the deluge going on out of doors. "Not in this weather?" she faltered, images of garments soaked in mud and needing much drying and brushing troubling her. "Get me the things," said Priscilla. "Your Grand Ducal Highness will be wet through." "Get me the things. And don't cry quite so much. Crying really is the most shocking waste of time." Annalise withdrew, and Priscilla went round to Fritzing. It was the first time she had been round to him. He was sitting at his table, his head in his hands, staring at the furnisher's bill, and he started to see her coming in unexpectedly through the kitchen, and shut the bill hastily in a drawer. "Fritzi, have you had anything to eat to-day?" "Certainly. I had an excellent breakfast." "Nothing since?" "I have not yet felt the need." "You know the cook Lady Shuttleworth sent has gone again?" "What, that woman who burst in upon me was Lady Shuttleworth's cook?" "Yes. And you frightened her so she ran home." "Ma'am, she overstepped the limits of my patience." "Dear Fritzi, I often wonder where exactly the limits of your patience are. With me they have withdrawn into infinite space--I've never been able to reach them. But every one else seems to have a knack--well, somebody must cook. You tell me Annalise won't. Perhaps she really can't. Anyhow I cannot mention it to her, because it would be too horrible to have her flatly refusing to do something I told her to do and yet not be able to send her away. But somebody must cook, and I'm going out to get the somebody. Hush"--she put up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak--"I know it's raining. I know I'll get wet. Don't let us waste time protesting. I'm going." Fritzing was conscience-stricken. "Ma'am," he said, "you must forgive me for unwittingly bringing this bother upon you. Had I had time for reflection I would not have been so sharp. But the woman burst upon me. I knew not who she was. Sooner than offend her I would have cut out my tongue, could I have foreseen you would yourself go in search in the rain of a substitute. Permit me to seek another." "No, no--you have no luck with cooks," said Priscilla smiling. "I'm going. Why I feel more cheerful already--just getting out of that chair makes me feel better." "Were you not cheerful before?" inquired Fritzing anxiously. "Not very," admitted Priscilla. "But then neither were you. Don't suppose I didn't see you with your head in your hands when I came in. Cheerful people never seize their heads in that way. Now Fritzi I know what's worrying you--it's that absurd affair last night. I've left off thinking about it. I'm going to be very happy again, and so must you be. We won't let one mad young man turn all our beautiful life sour, will we?" He bent down and kissed her hand. "Permit me to accompany you at least," he begged. "I cannot endure--" But she shook her head; and as she presently walked through the rain holding Fritzing's umbrella,--none had been bought to replace hers, broken on the journey--getting muddier and more draggled every minute, she felt that now indeed she had got down to elementary conditions, climbed right down out of the clouds to the place where life lies unvarnished and uncomfortable, where Necessity spends her time forcing you to do all the things you don't like, where the whole world seems hungry and muddy and wet. It was an extraordinary experience for her, this slopping through the mud with soaking shoes, no prospect of a meal, and a heart that insisted on sinking in spite of her attempts to persuade herself that the situation was amusing. It did not amuse her. It might have amused somebody else,--the Grand Duke, for instance, if he could have watched her now (from, say, a Gothic window, himself dry and fed and taken care of), being punished so naturally and inevitably by the weapons Providence never allows to rust, those weapons that save parents and guardians so much personal exertion if only they will let things take their course, those sharp, swift consequences that attend the actions of the impetuous. I might, indeed, if this were a sermon and there were a congregation unable to get away, expatiate on the habit these weapons have of smiting with equal fury the just and the unjust; how you only need to be a little foolish, quite a little foolish, under conditions that seem to force it upon you, and down they come, sure and relentless, and you are smitten with a thoroughness that leaves you lame for years; how motives are nothing, circumstances are nothing; how the motives may have been aflame with goodness, the circumstances such that any other course was impossible; how all these things don't matter in the least,--you are and shall be smitten. But this is not a sermon. I have no congregation. And why should I preach to a reader who meanwhile has skipped? It comforted Priscilla to find that almost the whole village wanted to come and cook for her, or as the women put it "do" for her. Their cooking powers were strictly limited, and they proposed to make up for this by doing for her very completely in other ways; they would scrub, sweep, clean windows, wash,--anything and everything they would do. Would they also sew buttons on her uncle's clothes? Priscilla asked anxiously. And they were ready to sew buttons all over Fritzing if buttons would make him happy. This eagerness was very gratifying, but it was embarrassing as well. The extremely aged and the extremely young were the only ones that refrained from offering their services. Some of the girls were excluded as too weedy; some of the mothers because their babies were too new; some of the wives because their husbands were too exacting; but when Priscilla counted up the names she had written down she found there were twenty-five. For a moment she was staggered. Then she rose to the occasion and got out of the difficulty with what she thought great skill, arranging, as it was impossible to disappoint twenty-four of these, that they should take it in turn, each coming for one day until all had had a day and then beginning again with the first one. It seemed a brilliant plan. Life at Creeper Cottage promised to be very varied. She gathered them together in the village shop to talk it over. She asked them if they thought ten shillings a day and food would be enough. She asked it hesitatingly, afraid lest she were making them an impossibly frugal offer. She was relieved at the cry of assent; but it was followed after a moment by murmurs from the married women, when they had had time to reflect, that it was unfair to pay the raw young ones at the same rate as themselves. Priscilla however turned a deaf ear to their murmurings. "The girls may not," she said, raising her hand to impose silence, "be able to get through as much as you do in a day, but they'll be just as tired when evening comes. Certainly I shall give them the same wages." She made them draw lots as to who should begin, and took the winner home with her then and there; she too, though the day was far spent, was to have her ten shillings. "What, have you forgotten your New Testaments?" Priscilla cried, when more murmurs greeted this announcement. "Don't you remember the people who came at the eleventh hour to labour in the vineyard and got just the same as the others? Why should I try to improve on parables?" And there was something about Priscilla, an air, an authority, that twisted the women of Symford into any shape of agreement she chose. The twenty-four went their several ways. The twenty-fifth ran home to put on a clean apron, and got back to the shop in time to carry the eggs and butter and bread Priscilla had bought. "I forgot to bring any money," said Priscilla when the postmistress--it was she who kept the village shop--told her how much it came to. "Does it matter?" "Oh don't mention it, Miss Neumann-Schultz," was the pleasant answer of that genteel and trustful lady; and she suggested that Priscilla should take with her a well-recommended leg of mutton she had that day for sale as well. Priscilla shuddered at the sight of it and determined never to eat legs of mutton again. The bacon, too, piled up on the counter, revolted her. The only things that looked as decent raw as when they were cooked were eggs; and on eggs she decided she and Fritzing would in future live. She broke off a piece of the crust of the bread Mrs. Vickerton was wrapping up and ate it, putting great pressure on herself to do it carelessly, with a becoming indifference. "It's good bread," said Mrs. Vickerton, doing up her parcel. "Where in the world do you get it from?" asked Priscilla enthusiastically. "The man must be a genius." "The carrier brings it every day," said Mrs. Vickerton, pleased and touched by such appreciation. "It's a Minehead baker's." "He ought to be given an order, if ever man ought." "An order? For you regular, Miss Neumann-Schultz?" "No, no,--the sort you pin on your breast," said Priscilla. "Ho," smiled Mrs. Vickerton vaguely, who did not follow; she was so genteel that she could never have enough of aspirates. And Priscilla, giving the parcel to her breathless new help, hurried back to Creeper Cottage. Now this help, or char-girl--you could not call her a charwoman she was manifestly still so very young--was that Emma who had been obliged to tell the vicar's wife about Priscilla's children's treat and who did not punctually return books. I will not go so far as to say that not to return books punctually is sinful, though deep down in my soul I think it is, but anyhow it is a symptom of moral slackness. Emma was quite good so long as she was left alone. She could walk quite straight so long as there were no stones in the way and nobody to pull her aside. If there were stones, she instantly stumbled; if somebody pulled, she instantly went. She was weak, amiable, well-intentioned. She had a widowed father who was unpleasant and who sometimes beat her on Saturday nights, and on Sunday mornings sometimes, if the fumes of the Cock and Hens still hung about him, threw things at her before she went to church. A widowed father in Emma's class is an ill being to live with. The vicar did his best to comfort her. Mrs. Morrison talked of the commandments and of honouring one's father and mother and of how the less there was to honour the greater the glory of doing it; and Emma was so amiable that she actually did manage to honour him six days out of the seven. At the same time she could not help thinking it would be nice to go away to a place where he wasn't. They were extremely poor; almost the poorest family in the village, and the vision of possessing ten shillings of her very own was a dizzy one. She had a sweetheart, and she had sent him word by a younger sister of the good fortune that had befallen her and begged him to come up to Creeper Cottage that evening and help her carry the precious wages safely home; and at nine o'clock when her work was done she presented herself all blushes and smiles before Priscilla and shyly asked her for them. Priscilla was alone in her parlour reading. She referred her, as her habit was, to Fritzing; but Fritzing had gone out for a little air, the rain having cleared off, and when the girl told her so Priscilla bade her come round in the morning and fetch the money. Emma's face fell so woefully at this--was not her John at that moment all expectant round the corner?--that Priscilla smiled and got up to see if she could find some money herself. In the first drawer she opened in Fritzing's sitting-room was a pocket-book, and in this pocket-book Fritzing's last five-pound note. There was nothing else except the furnisher's bill. She pushed that on one side without looking at it; what did bills matter? Bills never yet had mattered to Priscilla. She pushed it on one side and searched for silver, but found none. "Perhaps you can change this?" she said, holding out the note. "The shop's shut now, miss," said Laura, gazing with round eyes at the mighty sum. "Well then take it, and bring me the change in the morning." Emma took it with trembling fingers--she had not in her life touched so much money--and ran out into the darkness to where her John was waiting. Symford never saw either of them again. Priscilla never saw her change. Emma went to perdition. Priscilla went back to her chair by the fire. She was under the distinct and comfortable impression that she had been the means of making the girl happy. "How easy it is, making people happy," thought Priscilla placidly, the sweetest smile on her charming mouth. XVIII Bad luck, it will be seen, dogged the footsteps of Priscilla. Never indeed for a single hour after she entered Creeper Cottage did the gloomy lady cease from her attentions. The place was pervaded by her thick and evil atmosphere. Fritzing could not go out for an airing without something of far-reaching consequence happening while he was away. It was of course Bad Luck that made the one girl in Symford who was easily swayed by passing winds of temptation draw the lot that put the five-pound note into her hands; if she had come to the cottage just one day later, or if the rain had gone on just half an hour longer and kept Fritzing indoors, she would, I have no doubt whatever, be still in Symford practising every feeble virtue either on her father or on her John, by this time probably her very own John. As it was she was a thief, a lost soul, a banished face for ever from the ways of grace. Thus are we all the sport of circumstance. Thus was all Symford the sport of Priscilla. Fritzing knew nothing of his loss. He had not told Priscilla a word of his money difficulties, his idea being to keep every cloud from her life as long and as completely as possible. Besides, how idle to talk of these things to some one who could in no way help him with counsel or suggestions. He had put the money in his drawer, and the thought that it was still unchanged and safe comforted him a little in the watches of the sleepless nights. Nothing particular happened on the Thursday morning, except that the second of the twenty-five kept on breaking things, and Priscilla who was helping Fritzing arrange the books he had ordered from London remarked at the fifth terrific smash, a smash so terrific as to cause Creeper Cottage to tremble all over, that more crockery had better be bought. "Yes," said Fritzing, glancing swiftly at her with almost a guilty glance. He felt very keenly his want of resourcefulness in this matter of getting the money over from Germany, but he clung to the hope that a few more wakeful nights would clear his brain and show him the way; and meanwhile there was always the five-pound note in the drawer. "And Fritzi, I shall have to get some clothes soon," Priscilla went on, dusting the books as he handed them to her. "Clothes, ma'am?" repeated Fritzing, straightening himself to stare at her. "Those things you bought for me in Gerstein--they're delicious, they're curiosities, but they're not clothes. I mean always to keep them. I'll have them put in a glass case, and they shall always be near me when we're happy again." "Happy again, ma'am?" "Settled again, I mean," quickly amended Priscilla. She dusted in silence for a little, and began to put the books she had dusted in the shelves. "I'd better write to Paris," she said presently. Fritzing jumped. "Paris, ma'am?" "They've got my measurements. This dress can't stand much more. It's the one I've worn all the time. The soaking it got yesterday was very bad for it. You don't see such things, but if you did you'd probably get a tremendous shock." "Ma'am, if you write to Paris you must give your own name, which of course is impossible. They will send nothing to an unknown customer in England called Neumann-Schultz." "Oh but we'd send the money with the order. That's quite easy, isn't it?" "Perfectly easy," said Fritzing in an oddly exasperated voice; at once adding, still more snappily, "Might I request your Grand Ducal Highness to have the goodness not to put my Æschylus--a most valuable edition--head downwards on the shelf? It is a manner of treating books often to be observed in housemaids and similar ignorants. But you, ma'am, have been trained by me I trust in other and more reverent ways of handling what is left to us of the mighty spirits of the past." "I'm sorry," said Priscilla, hastily turning the Æschylus right side up again; and by launching forth into a long and extremely bitter dissertation on the various ways persons of no intellectual conscience have of ill-treating books, he got rid of some of his agitation and fixed her attention for the time on questions less fraught with complications than clothes from Paris. About half-past two they were still sitting over the eggs and bread and butter that Priscilla ordered three times a day and that Fritzing ate with unquestioning obedience, when the Shuttleworth victoria stopped in front of the cottage and Lady Shuttleworth got out. Fritzing, polite man, hastened to meet her, pushing aside the footman and offering his arm. She looked at him vaguely, and asked if his niece were at home. "Certainly," said Fritzing, leading her into Priscilla's parlour. "Shall I inquire if she will receive you?" "Do," said Lady Shuttleworth, taking no apparent notice of the odd wording of this question. "Tussie isn't well," she said the moment Priscilla appeared, fixing her eyes on her face but looking as though she hardly saw her, as though she saw past her, through her, to something beyond, while she said a lesson learned by rote. "Isn't he? Oh I'm sorry," said Priscilla. "He caught cold last Sunday at your treat. He oughtn't to have run those races with the boys. He can't--stand--much." Priscilla looked at her questioningly. The old lady's face was quite set and calm, but there had been a queer catch in her voice at the last words. "Why does he do such things, then?" asked Priscilla, feeling vaguely distressed. "Ah yes, my dear--why? That is a question for you to answer, is it not?" "For me?" "On Tuesday night," continued Lady Shuttleworth, "he was ill when he left home to come here. He would come. It was a terrible night for a delicate boy to go out. And he didn't stay here, I understand. He went out to buy something after closing time, and stood a long while trying to wake the people up." "Yes," said Priscilla, feeling guilty, "I--that was my fault. He went for me." "Yes my dear. Since then he has been ill. I've come to ask you if you'll drive back with me and see if--if you cannot persuade him that you are happy. He seems to be much--troubled." "Troubled?" "He seems to be afraid you are not happy. You know," she added with a little quavering smile, "Tussie is very kind. He is very unselfish. He takes everybody's burdens on his shoulders. He seems to be quite haunted by the idea that your life here is unendurably uncomfortable, and it worries him dreadfully that he can't get to you to set things straight. I think if he were to see you, and you were very cheerful, and--and smiled, my dear, it might help to get him over this." "Get him over this?" echoed Priscilla. "Is he so ill?" Lady Shuttleworth looked at her and said nothing. "Of course I'll come," said Priscilla, hastily ringing the bell. "But you must not look unhappy," said Lady Shuttleworth, laying her hand on the girl's arm, "that would make matters ten times worse. You must promise to be as gay as possible." "Yes, yes--I'll be gay," promised Priscilla, while her heart became as lead within her at the thought that she was the cause of poor Tussie's sufferings. But was she really, she asked herself during the drive? What had she done but accept help eagerly offered? Surely it was very innocent to do that? It was what she had been doing all her life, and people had been delighted when she let them be kind to her, and certainly had not got ill immediately afterwards. Were you never to let anybody do anything for you lest while they were doing it they should get wet feet and things, and then their colds would be upon your head? She was very sorry Tussie should be ill, dreadfully sorry. He was so kind and good that it was impossible not to like him. She did like him. She liked him quite as well as most young men and much better than many. "I'm afraid you are very unhappy," she said suddenly to Lady Shuttleworth, struck by the look on her face as she leaned back, silent, in her corner. "I do feel rather at my wits' end," said Lady Shuttleworth. "For instance, I'm wondering whether what I'm doing now isn't a great mistake." "What you are doing now?" "Taking you to see Tussie." "Oh but I promise to be cheerful. I'll tell him how comfortable we are. He'll see I look well taken care of." "But for all that I'm afraid he may--he may--" "Why, we're going to be tremendously taken care of. Even he will see that. Only think--I've engaged twenty-five cooks." "Twenty-five cooks?" echoed Lady Shuttleworth, staring in spite of her sorrows. "But isn't my kitchenmaid--?" "Oh she left us almost at once. She couldn't stand my uncle. He is rather difficult to stand at first. You have to know him quite a long while before you can begin to like him. And I don't think kitchenmaids ever would begin." "But my dear, twenty-five cooks?" And Priscilla explained how and why she had come by them; and though Lady Shuttleworth, remembering the order till now prevailing in the village and the lowness of the wages, could not help thinking that here was a girl more potent for mischief than any girl she had ever met, yet a feeble gleam of amusement did, as she listened, slant across the inky blackness of her soul. Tussie was sitting up in bed with a great many pillows behind him, finding immense difficulty in breathing, when his mother, her bonnet off and every trace of having been out removed, came in and said Miss Neumann-Schultz was downstairs. "Downstairs? Here? In this house?" gasped Tussie, his eyes round with wonder and joy. "Yes. She--called. Would you like her to come up and see you?" "Oh mother!" Lady Shuttleworth hurried out. How could she bear this, she thought, stumbling a little as though she did not see very well. She went downstairs with the sound of that Oh mother throbbing in her ears. Tussie's temperature, high already, went up by leaps during the few minutes of waiting. He gave feverish directions to the nurse about a comfortable chair being put exactly in the right place, about his pillows being smoothed, his medicine bottles hidden, and was very anxious that the flannel garment he was made to wear when ill, a garment his mother called a nightingale--not after the bird but the lady--and that was the bluest flannel garment ever seen, should be arranged neatly over his narrow chest. The nurse looked disapproving. She did not like her patients to be happy. Perhaps she was right. It is always better, I believe, to be cautious and careful, to husband your strength, to be deadly prudent and deadly dull. As you would poison, so should you avoid doing what the poet calls living too much in your large hours. The truly prudent never have large hours; nor should you, if you want to be comfortable. And you get your reward, I am told, in living longer; in having, that is, a few more of those years that cluster round the end, during which you are fed and carried and washed by persons who generally grumble. Who wants to be a flame, doomed to be blown out by the same gust of wind that has first fanned it to its very brightest? If you are not a flame you cannot, of course, be blown out. Gusts no longer shake you. Tempests pass you by untouched. And if besides you have the additional advantage of being extremely smug, extremely thick-skinned, you shall go on living till ninety, and not during the whole of that time be stirred by so much as a single draught. Priscilla came up determined to be so cheerful that she began to smile almost before she got to the door. "I've come to tell you how splendidly we're getting on at the cottage," she said taking Tussie's lean hot hand, the shell of her smile remaining but the heart and substance gone out of it, he looked so pitiful and strange. "Really? Really?" choked Tussie, putting the other lean hot hand over hers and burning all the coolness out of it. The nurse looked still more disapproving. She had not heard Sir Augustus had a _fiancée_, and even if he had this was no time for philandering. She too had noticed the voice in which he had said Oh mother, and she saw by his eyes that his temperature had gone up. Who was this shabby young lady? She felt sure that no one so shabby could be his _fiancée_, and she could only conclude that Lady Shuttleworth must be mad. "Nurse, I'm going to stay here a little," said Lady Shuttleworth. "I'll call you when I want you." "I think, madam, Sir Augustus ought not--" began the nurse. "No, no, he shall not. Go and have forty winks, nurse." And the nurse had to go; people generally did when Lady Shuttleworth sent them. "Sit down--no don't--stay a moment like this," said Tussie, his breath coming in little jerks,--"unless you are tired? Did you walk?" "I'm afraid you are very ill," said Priscilla, leaving her hand in his and looking down at him with a face that all her efforts could not induce to smile. "Oh I'll be all right soon. How good of you to come. You've not been hungry since?" "No, no," said Priscilla, stroking his hands with her free hand and giving them soothing pats as one would to a sick child. "Really not? I've thought of that ever since. I've never got your face that night out of my head. What had happened? While I was away--what had happened?" "Nothing--nothing had happened," said Priscilla hastily. "I was tired. I had a mood. I get them, you know. I get angry easily. Then I like to be alone till I'm sorry." "But what had made you angry? Had I--?" "No, never. You have never been anything but good and kind. You've been our protecting spirit since we came here." Tussie laughed shrilly, and immediately was seized by a coughing fit. Lady Shuttleworth stood at the foot of the bed watching him with a face from which happiness seemed to have fled for ever. Priscilla grew more and more wretched, caught, obliged to stand there, distractedly stroking his hands in her utter inability to think of anything else to do. "A nice protecting spirit," gasped Tussie derisively, when he could speak. "Look at me here, tied down to this bed for heaven knows how long, and not able to do a thing for you." "But there's nothing now to do. We're quite comfortable. We are really. Do, do believe it." "Are you only comfortable, or are you happy as well?" "Oh, we're _very_ happy," said Priscilla with all the emphasis she could get into her voice; and again she tried, quite unsuccessfully, to wrench her mouth into a smile. "Then, if you're happy, why do you look so miserable?" He was gazing up into her face with eyes whose piercing brightness would have frightened the nurse. There was no shyness now about Tussie. There never is about persons whose temperature is 102. "Miserable?" repeated Priscilla. She tried to smile; looked helplessly at Lady Shuttleworth; looked down again at Tussie; and stammering "Because you are so ill and it's all my fault," to her horror, to her boundless indignation at herself, two tears, big and not to be hidden, rolled down her face and dropped on to Tussie's and her clasped hands. Tussie struggled to sit up straight. "Look, mother, look--" he cried, gasping, "my beautiful one--my dear and lovely one--my darling--she's crying--I've made her cry--now never tell me I'm not a brute again--see, see what I've done!" "Oh"--murmured Priscilla, in great distress and amazement. Was the poor dear delirious? And she tried to get her hands away. But Tussie would not let them go. He held them in a clutch that seemed like hot iron in both his, and dragging himself nearer to them covered them with wild kisses. Lady Shuttleworth was appalled. "Tussie," she said in a very even voice, "you must let Miss Neumann-Schultz go now. You must be quiet again now. Let her go, dear. Perhaps she'll--come again." "Oh mother, leave me alone," cried Tussie, lying right across his pillows, his face on Priscilla's hands. "What do you know of these things? This is my darling--this is my wife--dream of my spirit--star of my soul--" "Never in this world!" cried Lady Shuttleworth, coming round to the head of the bed as quickly as her shaking limbs would take her. "Yes, yes, come here if you like, mother--come close--listen while I tell her how I love her. I don't care who hears. Why should I? If I weren't ill I'd care. I'd be tongue-tied--I'd have gone on being tongue-tied for ever. Oh I bless being ill, I bless being ill--I can say anything, anything--" "Tussie, don't say it," entreated his mother. "The less you say now the more grateful you'll be later on. Let her go." "Listen to her!" cried Tussie, interrupting his kissing of her hands to look up at Priscilla and smile with a sort of pitying wonder, "Let you go? Does one let one's life go? One's hope of salvation go? One's little precious minute of perfect happiness go? When I'm well again I shall be just as dull and stupid as ever, just such a shy fool, not able to speak--" "But it's a gracious state"--stammered poor Priscilla. "Loving you? Loving you?" "No, no--not being able to speak. It's always best--" "It isn't. It's best to be true to one's self, to show honestly what one feels, as I am now--as I am now--" And he fell to kissing her hands again. "Tussie, this isn't being honest," said Lady Shuttleworth sternly, "it's being feverish." "Listen to her! Was ever a man interrupted like this in the act of asking a girl to marry him?" "Tussie!" cried Lady Shuttleworth. "Ethel, will you marry me? Because I love you so? It's an absurd reason--the most magnificently absurd reason, but I know there's no other why you should--" Priscilla was shaken and stricken as she had never yet been; shaken with pity, stricken with remorse. She looked down at him in dismay while he kissed her hands with desperate, overwhelming love. What was she to do? Lady Shuttleworth tried to draw her away. What was she to do? If Tussie was overwhelmed with love, she was overwhelmed with pity. "Ethel--Ethel--" gasped Tussie, kissing her hands, looking up at her, kissing them again. Pity overcame her, engulfed her. She bent her head down to his and laid her cheek an instant on the absurd flannel nightingale, tenderly, apologetically. "Ethel--Ethel," choked Tussie, "will you marry me?" "Dear Tussie," she whispered in a shaky whisper, "I promise to answer you when you are well. Not yet. Not now. Get quite well, and then if you still want an answer I promise to give you one. Now let me go." "Ethel," implored Tussie, looking at her with a wild entreaty in his eyes, "will you kiss me? Just once--to help me to live--" And in her desire to comfort him she stooped down again and did kiss him, soberly, almost gingerly, on the forehead. He let her hands slide away from between his and lay back on his pillows in a state for the moment of absolute beatitude. He shut his eyes, and did not move while she crept softly out of the room. "What have you done?" asked Lady Shuttleworth trembling, when they were safely in the passage and the door shut behind them. "I can't think--I can't think," groaned Priscilla, wringing her hands. And, leaning against the balusters, then and there in that most public situation she began very bitterly to cry. XIX Priscilla went home dazed. All her suitors hitherto had approached her ceremoniously, timidly, through the Grand Duke; and we know they had not approached very near. But here was one, timid enough in health, who was positively reckless under circumstances that made most people meek. He had proposed to her arrayed in a blue flannel nightingale, and Priscilla felt that headlong self-effacement could go no further. "He must have a great soul," she said to herself over and over again during the drive home, "a great, _great_ soul." And it seemed of little use wiping her tears away, so many fresh ones immediately took their place. She ached over Tussie and Tussie's mother. What had she done? She felt she had done wrong; yet how, except by just existing? and she did feel she couldn't help doing that. Certainly she had made two kind hearts extremely miserable,--one was miserable now, and the other didn't yet know how miserable it was going to be. She ought to have known, she ought to have thought, she ought to have foreseen. She of all persons in the world ought to have been careful with young men who believed her to be of their own class. Contrition and woe took possession of Priscilla's soul. She knew it was true that she could not help existing, but she knew besides, far back in a remote and seldom investigated corner of her mind, a corner on which she did not care to turn the light of careful criticism, that she ought not to be existing in Symford. It was because she was there, out of her proper sphere, in a place she had no business to be in at all, that these strange and heart-wringing scenes with young men occurred. And Fritzing would notice her red eyes and ask what had happened; and here within two days was a second story to be told of a young man unintentionally hurried to his doom. Would Fritzing be angry? She never knew beforehand. Would he, only remembering she was grand ducal, regard it as an insult and want to fight Tussie? The vision of poor Tussie, weak, fevered, embedded in pillows, swathed in flannel, receiving bloodthirsty messages of defiance from Fritzing upset her into more tears. Fritzing, she felt at that moment, was a trial. He burdened her with his gigantic efforts to keep her from burdens. He burdened her with his inflated notions of how burdenless she ought to be. He was admirable, unselfish, devoted; but she felt it was possible to be too admirable, too unselfish, too devoted. In a word Priscilla's mind was in a state of upheaval, and the only ray of light she saw anywhere--and never was ray more watery--was that Tussie, for the moment at least, was content. The attitude of his mother, on the other hand, was distressing and disturbing. There had been no more My dears and other kind ways. She had watched her crying on the stairs in stony silence, had gone down with her to the door in stony silence, and just at the last had said in an unmistakably stony voice, "All this is very cruel." Priscilla was overwhelmed by the difficulties of life. The world was too much with her, she felt, a very great deal too much. She sent the Shuttleworth carriage away at the entrance to the village and went in to sit with Mrs. Jones a little, so that her eyes might lose their redness before she faced Fritzing; and Mrs. Jones was so glad to see her, so full of praises of her unselfish goodness in coming in, that once again Priscilla was forced to be ashamed of herself and of everything she did. "I'm not unselfish, and I'm not good," she said, smoothing the old lady's coverlet. Mrs. Jones chuckled faintly. "Pretty dear," was her only comment. "I don't think I'm pretty and I know I'm not a dear," said Priscilla, quite vexed. "Ain't you then, deary," murmured Mrs. Jones soothingly. Priscilla saw it was no use arguing, and taking up the Bible that always lay on the table by the bed began to read aloud. She read and read till both were quieted,--Mrs. Jones into an evidently sweet sleep, she herself into peace. Then she left off and sat for some time watching the old lady, the open Bible in-her lap, her soul filled with calm words and consolations, wondering what it could be like being so near death. Must it not be beautiful, thought Priscilla, to slip away so quietly in that sunny room, with no sound to break the peace but the ticking of the clock that marked off the last minutes, and outside the occasional footstep of a passer-by still hurrying on life's business? Wonderful to have done with everything, to have it all behind one, settled, lived through, endured. The troublous joys as well as the pains, all finished; the griefs and the stinging happinesses, all alike lived down; and now evening, and sleep. In the few days Priscilla had known her the old lady had drawn visibly nearer death. Lying there on the pillow, so little and light that she hardly pressed it down at all, she looked very near it indeed. And how kind Death was, rubbing away the traces of what must have been a sordid existence, set about years back with the usual coarse pleasures and selfish hopes,--how kind Death was, letting all there was of spirit shine out so sweetly at the end. There was an enlarged photograph of Mrs. Jones and her husband over the fireplace, a photograph taken for their silver wedding; she must have been about forty-five; how kind Death was, thought Priscilla, looking from the picture to the figure on the bed. She sighed a little, and got up. Life lay before her, an endless ladder up each of whose steep rungs she would have to clamber; in every sort of weather she would have to clamber, getting more battered, more blistered with every rung.... She looked wistfully at the figure on the bed, and sighed a little. Then she crept out, and softly shut the door. She walked home lost in thought. As she was going up the hill to her cottage Fritzing suddenly emerged from it and indulged in movements so strange and complicated that they looked like nothing less than a desperate dancing on the doorstep. Priscilla walked faster, staring in astonishment. He made strange gestures, his face was pale, his hair rubbed up into a kind of infuriated mop. "Why, what in the world--" began the amazed Priscilla, as soon as she was near enough. "Ma'am, I've been robbed," shouted Fritzing; and all Symford might have heard if it had happened to be listening. "Robbed?" repeated Priscilla. "What of?" "Of all my money, ma'am. Of all I had--of all we had--to live on." "Nonsense, Fritzi," said Priscilla; but she did turn a little paler. "Don't let us stand out here," she added; and she got him in and shut the street door. He would have left it open and would have shouted his woes through it as through a trumpet down the street, oblivious of all things under heaven but his misfortune. He tore open the drawer of the writing-table. "In this drawer--in the pocket-book you see in this drawer--in this now empty pocket-book, did I leave it. It was there yesterday. It was there last night. Now it is gone. Miscreants from without have visited us. Or perhaps, viler still, miscreants from within. A miscreant, I do believe, capable of anything--Annalise--" "Fritzi, I took a five-pound note out of that last night, if that's what you miss." "You, ma'am?" "To pay the girl who worked here her wages. You weren't here. I couldn't find anything smaller." "_Gott sei Dank! Gott sei Dank_!" cried Fritzing, going back to German in his joy. "Oh ma'am, if you had told me earlier you would have spared me great anguish. Have you the change?" "Didn't she bring it?" "Bring it, ma'am?" "I gave it to her last night to change. She was to bring it round this morning. Didn't she?" Fritzing stared aghast. Then he disappeared into the kitchen. In a moment he was back again. "She has not been here," he said, in a voice packed once more with torment. "Perhaps she has forgotten." "Ma'am, how came you--" "Now you're going to scold me." "No, no--but how is it possible that you should have trusted--" "Fritzi, you _are_ going to scold me, and I'm so tired. What else has been taken? You said all your money--" He snatched up his hat. "Nothing else, ma'am, nothing else. I will go and seek the girl." And he clapped it down over his eyes as he always did in moments of great mental stress. "What a fuss," thought Priscilla wearily. Aloud she said, "The girl here to-day will tell you where she lives. Of course she has forgotten, or not been able to change it yet." And she left him, and went out to get into her own half of the house. Yes, Fritzi really was a trial. Why such a fuss and such big words about five pounds? If it were lost and the girl afraid to come and say so, it didn't matter much; anyhow nothing like so much as having one's peace upset. How foolish to be so agitated and talk of having been robbed of everything. Fritzing's mind, she feared, that large, enlightened mind on whose breadth and serenity she had gazed admiringly ever since she could remember gazing at all, was shrinking to dimensions that would presently exactly match the dimensions of Creeper Cottage. She went upstairs disheartened and tired, and dropping down full length on her sofa desired Annalise to wash her face. "Your Grand Ducal Highness has been weeping," said Annalise, whisking the sponge in and out of corners with a skill surprising in one who had only practised the process during the last ten days. Priscilla opened her eyes to stare at her in frankest surprise, for never yet had Annalise dared make a remark unrequested. Annalise, by beginning to wash them, forced her to shut them again. Priscilla then opened her mouth to tell her what she thought of her. Immediately Annalise's swift sponge stopped it up. "Your Grand Ducal Highness," said Annalise, washing Priscilla's mouth with a thoroughness and an amount of water suggestive of its not having been washed for months, "told me only yesterday that weeping was a terrible--_schreckliche_--waste of time. Therefore, since your Grand Ducal Highness knows that and yet herself weeps, it is easy to see that there exists a reason for weeping which makes weeping inevitable." "Will you--" began Priscilla, only to be stopped instantly by the ready sponge. "Your Grand Ducal Highness is unhappy. 'Tis not to be wondered at. Trust a faithful servant, one whose life-blood is at your Grand Ducal Highness's disposal, and tell her if it is not then true that the Herr Geheimrath has decoyed you from your home and your Grossherzoglicher Herr Papa?" "Will you--" Again the pouncing sponge. "My heart bleeds--indeed it bleeds--to think of the Herr Papa's sufferings, his fears, his anxieties. It is a picture on which I cannot calmly look. Day and night--for at night I lie sleepless on my bed--I am inquiring of myself what it can be, the spell that the Herr Geheimrath has cast over your Grand Ducal--" "Will you--" Again the pouncing sponge; but this time Priscilla caught the girl's hand, and holding it at arm's length sat up. "Are you mad?" she asked, looking at Annalise as though she saw her for the first time. Annalise dropped the sponge and clasped her hands. "Not mad," she said, "only very, very devoted." "No. Mad. Give me a towel." Priscilla was so angry that she did not dare say more. If she had said a part even of what she wanted to say all would have been over between herself and Annalise; so she dried her face in silence, declining to allow it to be touched. "You can go," she said, glancing at the door, her face pale with suppressed wrath but also, it must be confessed, very clean; and when she was alone she dropped once again on to the sofa and buried her head in the cushion. How dared Annalise? How dared she? How dared she? Priscilla asked herself over and over again, wincing, furious. Why had she not thought of this, known that she would be in the power of any servant they chose to bring? Surely there was no limit, positively none, to what the girl might do or say? How was she going to bear her about her, endure the sight and sound of that veiled impertinence? She buried her head very deep in the cushion, vainly striving to blot out the world and Annalise in its feathers, but even there there was no peace, for suddenly a great noise of doors going and legs striding penetrated through its stuffiness and she heard Fritzing's voice very loud and near--all sounds in Creeper Cottage were loud and near--ordering Annalise to ask her Grand Ducal Highness to descend. "I won't," thought Priscilla, burying her head deeper. "That poor Emma has lost the note and he's going to fuss. I won't descend." Then came Annalise's tap at her door. Priscilla did not answer. Annalise tapped again. Priscilla did not answer, but turning her head face upwards composed herself to an appearance of sleep. Annalise tapped a third time. "The Herr Geheimrath wishes to speak to your Grand Ducal Highness," she called through the door; and after a pause opened it and peeped in. "Her Grand Ducal Highness sleeps," she informed Fritzing down the stairs, her nose at the angle in the air it always took when she spoke to him. "Then wake her! Wake her!" cried Fritzing. "Is it possible something has happened?" thought Annalise joyfully, her eyes gleaming as she willingly flew back to Priscilla's door,--anything, anything, she thought, sooner than the life she was leading. Priscilla heard Fritzing's order and sat up at once, surprised at such an unprecedented indifference to her comfort. Her heart began to beat faster; a swift fear that Kunitz was at her heels seized her; she jumped up and ran out. Fritzing was standing at the foot of the stairs. "Come down, ma'am," he said; "I must speak to you at once." "What's the matter?" asked Priscilla, getting down the steep little stairs as quickly as was possible without tumbling. "Hateful English tongue," thought Annalise, to whom the habit the Princess and Fritzing had got into of talking English together was a constant annoyance and disappointment. Fritzing preceded Priscilla into her parlour, and when she was in he shut the door behind her. Then he leaned his hands on the table to steady himself and confronted her with a twitching face. Priscilla looked at him appalled. Was the Grand Duke round the corner? Lingering, perhaps, among the very tombs just outside her window? "What is it?" she asked faintly. "Ma'am, the five pounds has disappeared for ever." "Really Fritzi, you are too absurd about that wretched five pounds," cried Priscilla, blazing into anger. "But it was all we had." "All we--?" "Ma'am, it was positively our last penny." "I--don't understand." He made her understand. With paper and pencil, with the bills and his own calculations, he made her understand. His hands shook, but he went through with it item by item, through everything they had spent from the moment they left Kunitz. They were in such a corner, so tightly jammed, that all efforts to hide it and pretend there was no corner seemed to him folly. He now saw that such efforts always had been folly, and that he ought to have seen to it that her mind on this important point was from the first perfectly clear; then nothing would have happened. "You have had the misfortune, ma'am, to choose a fool for your protector in this adventure," he said bitterly, pushing the papers from him as though he loathed the sight of them. Priscilla sat dumfoundered. She was looking quite straight for the first time at certain pitiless aspects of life. For the first time she was face to face with the sternness, the hardness, the relentlessness of everything that has to do with money so soon as one has not got any. It seemed almost incredible to her that she who had given so lavishly to anybody and everybody, who had been so glad to give, who had thought of money when she thought of it at all as a thing to be passed on, as a thing that soiled one unless it was passed on, but that, passed on, became strangely glorified and powerful for good--it seemed incredible that she should be in need of it herself, and unable to think of a single person who would give her some. And what a little she needed: just to tide them over the next week or two till they had got theirs from home; yet even that little, the merest nothing compared to what she had flung about in the village, was as unattainable as though it had been a fortune. "Can we--can we not borrow?" she said at last. "Yes ma'am, we can and we must. I will proceed this evening to Symford Hall and borrow of Augustus." "No," said Priscilla; so suddenly and so energetically that Fritzing started. "No, ma'am?" he repeated, astonished. "Why, he is the very person. In fact he is our only hope. He must and shall help us." "No," repeated Priscilla, still more energetically. "Pray ma'am," said Fritzing, shrugging his shoulders, "are these women's whims--I never comprehended them rightly and doubt if I ever shall--are they to be allowed to lead us even in dangerous crises? To lead us to certain shipwreck, ma'am? The alternatives in this case are three. Permit me to point them out. Either we return to Kunitz--" "Oh," shivered Priscilla, shrinking as from a blow. "Or, after a brief period of starvation and other violent discomfort, we are cast into gaol for debt--" "Oh?" shivered Priscilla, in tones of terrified inquiry. "Or, I borrow of Augustus." "No," said Priscilla, just as energetically as before. "Augustus is wealthy. Augustus is willing. Ma'am, I would stake my soul that he is willing." "You shall not borrow of him," said Priscilla. "He--he's too ill." "Well then, ma'am," said Fritzing with a gesture of extreme exasperation, "since you cannot be allowed to be cast into gaol there remains but Kunitz. Like the dogs of the Scriptures we will return--" "Why not borrow of the vicar?" interrupted Priscilla. "Surely he would be glad to help any one in difficulties?" "Of the vicar? What, of the father of the young man who insulted your Grand Ducal Highness and whom I propose to kill in duel my first leisure moment? Ma'am, there are depths of infamy to which even a desperate man will not descend." Priscilla dug holes in the tablecloth with the point of the pencil. "I can't conceive," she said, "why you gave Annalise all that money. So _much_." "Why, ma'am, she refused, unless I did, to prepare your Grand Ducal Highness's tea." "Oh Fritzi!" Priscilla looked up at him, shaking her head and smiling through all her troubles. Was ever so much love and so much folly united in one wise old man? Was ever, for that matter, so expensive a tea? "I admit I permitted the immediate, the passing, moment to blot out the future from my clearer vision on that occasion." "On that occasion? Oh Fritzi. What about all the other occasions? When you gave me all I asked for--for the poor people, for my party. You must have suffered tortures of anxiety. And all by yourself. Oh Fritzi. It was dear of you--perfectly, wonderfully, dear. But you ought to have been different with me from the beginning--treated me exactly as you would have treated a real niece--" "Ma'am," cried Fritzing, jumping up, "this is waste of time. Our case is very urgent. Money must be obtained. You must allow me to judge in this matter, however ill I have acquitted myself up to now. I shall start at once for Symford Hall and obtain a loan of Augustus." Priscilla pushed back her chair and got up too. "My dear Fritzi, please leave that unfortunate young man out of the question," she said, flushing. "How can you worry a person who is ill in bed with such things?" "His mother is not ill in bed and will do quite as well. I am certainly going." "You are not going. I won't have you ask his mother. I--forbid you to do anything of the sort. Oh Fritzi," she added in despair, for he had picked up the hat and stick he had flung down on coming in and was evidently not going to take the least notice of her commands--"oh Fritzi, you can't ask Tussie for money. It would kill him to know we were in difficulties." "Kill him, ma'am? Why should it kill him?" shouted Fritzing, exasperated by such a picture of softness. "It wouldn't only kill him--it would be simply too dreadful besides," said Priscilla, greatly distressed. "Why, he asked me this afternoon--wasn't going to tell you, but you force me to--he asked me this very afternoon to marry him, and the dreadful part is that I'm afraid he thinks--he hopes--that I'm going to." XX The only inhabitant of Creeper Cottage who slept that night was Annalise. Priscilla spent it walking up and down her bedroom, and Fritzing on the other side of the wall spent it walking up and down his. They could hear each other doing it; it was a melancholy sound. Once Priscilla was seized with laughter--a not very genial mirth, but still laughter--and had to fling herself on her bed and bury her face in the pillows lest Fritzing should hear so blood-curdling a noise. It was when their steps had fallen steadily together for several turns and the church clock, just as she was noticing this, had struck three. Not for this, to tramp up and down their rooms all night, not for this had they left Kunitz. The thought of all they had dreamed life in Creeper Cottage was going to be, of all they had never doubted it was going to be, of peaceful nights passed in wholesome slumber, of days laden with fruitful works, of evenings with the poets, came into her head and made this tormented marching suddenly seem intensely droll. She laughed into her pillow till the tears rolled down her face, and the pains she had to take to keep all sounds from reaching Fritzing only made her laugh more. It was a windy night, and the wind sighed round the cottage and rattled the casements and rose every now and then to a howl very dreary to hear. While Priscilla was laughing a great gust shook the house, and involuntarily she raised her head to listen. It died away, and her head dropped back on to her arms again, but the laughter was gone. She lay solemn enough, listening to Fritzing's creakings, and thought of the past day and of the days to come till her soul grew cold. Surely she was a sort of poisonous weed, fatal to every one about her? Fritzing, Tussie, the poor girl Emma--oh, it could not be true about Emma. She had lost the money, and was trying to gather courage to come and say so; or she had simply not been able to change it yet. Fritzing had jumped to the conclusion, because nothing had been heard of her all day at home, that she had run away with it. Priscilla twisted herself about uneasily. It was not the loss of the five pounds that made her twist, bad though that loss was in their utter poverty; it was the thought that if Emma had really run away she, by her careless folly, had driven the girl to ruin. And then Tussie. How dreadful that was. At three in the morning, with the wailing wind rising and falling and the room black with the inky blackness of a moonless October night, the Tussie complication seemed to be gigantic, of a quite appalling size, threatening to choke her, to crush all the spring and youth out of her. If Tussie got well she was going to break his heart; if Tussie died it would be her fault. No one but herself was responsible for his illness, her own selfish, hateful self. Yes, she was a poisonous weed; a baleful, fatal thing, not fit for great undertakings, not fit for a noble life, too foolish to depart successfully from the lines laid down for her by other people; wickedly careless; shamefully shortsighted; spoiling, ruining, everything she touched. Priscilla writhed. Nobody likes being forced to recognize that they are poisonous weeds. Even to be a plain weed is grievous to one's vanity, but to be a weed and poisonous as well is a very desperate thing to be. She passed a dreadful night. It was the worst she could remember. And the evening too--how bad it had been; though contrary to her expectations Fritzing showed no desire to fight Tussie. He was not so unreasonable as she had supposed; and besides, he was too completely beaten down by the ever-increasing weight and number of his responsibilities to do anything in regard to that unfortunate youth but be sorry for him. More than once that evening he looked at Priscilla in silent wonder at the amount of trouble one young woman could give. How necessary, he thought, and how wise was that plan at which he used in his ignorance to rail, of setting an elderly female like the Disthal to control the actions and dog the footsteps of the Priscillas of this world. He hated the Disthal and all women like her, women with mountainous bodies and minimal brains--bodies self-indulged into shapelessness, brains neglected into disappearance; but the nobler and simpler and the more generous the girl the more did she need some such mixture of fleshliness and cunning constantly with her. It seemed absurd, and it seemed all wrong; yet surely it was so. He pondered over it long in dejected musings, the fighting tendency gone out of him completely for the time, so dark was his spirit with the shadows of the future. They had borrowed the wages--it was a dreadful moment--for that day's cook from Annalise. For their food they decided to run up a bill at the store; but every day each fresh cook would have to be paid, and every day her wages would have to be lent by Annalise. Annalise lent superbly; with an air as of giving freely, with joy. All she required was the Princess's signature to a memorandum drawn up by herself by which she was promised the money back, doubled, within three months. Priscilla read this, flushed to her hair, signed, and ordered her out of the room. Annalise, who was beginning to enjoy herself, went upstairs singing. In the parlour Priscilla broke the pen she had signed with into quite small pieces and flung them on to the fire,--a useless demonstration, but then she was a quick-tempered young lady. In the attic Annalise sat down and wrote a letter breathing lofty sentiments to the Countess Disthal in Kunitz, telling her she could no longer keep silence in the face of a royal parent's anxieties and she was willing to reveal the address of the Princess Priscilla and so staunch the bleeding of a noble heart if the Grand Duke would forward her or forward to her parents on her behalf the sum of twenty thousand marks. Gladly would she render this service, which was at the same time her duty, for nothing, if she had not the future to consider and an infirm father. Meanwhile she gave the Symford post-office as an address, assuring the Countess that it was at least fifty miles from the Princess's present hiding-place, the address of which would only be sent on the conditions named. Then, immensely proud of her cleverness, she trotted down to the post-office, bought stamps, and put the letter herself in the box. That evening she sang in the kitchen, she sang in the bath-room, she sang in the attic and on the stairs to the attic. What she sang, persistently, over and over again, and loudest outside Fritzing's door, was a German song about how beautiful it is at evening when the bells ring one to rest, and the refrain at the end of each verse was ding-dong twice repeated. Priscilla rang her own bell, unable to endure it, but Annalise did not consider this to be one of those that are beautiful and did not answer it till it had been rung three times. "Do not sing," said Priscilla, when she appeared. "Your Grand Ducal Highness objects?" Priscilla turned red. "I'll give no reasons," she said icily. "Do not sing." "Yet it is a sign of a light heart. Your Grand Ducal Highness did not like to see me weep--she should the more like to hear me rejoice." "You can go." "My heart to-night is light, because I am the means of being of use to your Grand Ducal Highness, of showing my devotion, of being of service." "Do me the service of being quiet." Annalise curtseyed and withdrew, and spent the rest of the evening bursting into spasmodic and immediately interrupted song,--breaking off after a few bars with a cough of remembrance and apology. When this happened Fritzing and Priscilla looked at each other with grave and meditative eyes; they knew how completely they were in her power. Fritzing wrote that night to the friend in London who had engaged the rooms for him at Baker's Farm, and asked him to lend him fifty pounds for a week,--preferably three hundred (this would cover the furnisher's bill), but if he could lend neither five would do. The friend, a teacher of German, could as easily have lent the three hundred as the five, so poor was he, so fit an object for a loan himself; but long before his letter explaining this in words eloquent of regret (for he was a loyal friend) reached Fritzing, many things had happened to that bewildered man to whom so many things had happened already, and caused him to forget both his friend and his request. This, then, was how the afternoon and evening of Thursday were passed; and on Friday morning, quite unstrung by their sleepless night, Priscilla and Fritzing were proposing to go up together on to the moor, there to seek width and freshness, be blown upon by moist winds, and forget for a little the crushing narrowness and perplexities of Creeper Cottage, when Mrs. Morrison walked in. She opened the door first and then, when half of her was inside, knocked with her knuckles, which were the only things to knock with on Priscilla's simple door. Priscilla was standing by the fire dressed to go out, waiting for Fritzing, and she stared at this apparition in great and unconcealed surprise. What business, said Priscilla's look more plainly than any words, what business had people to walk into other people's cottages in such a manner? She stood quite still, and scrutinized Mrs. Morrison with the questioning expression she used to find so effective in Kunitz days when confronted by a person inclined to forget which, exactly, was his proper place. But Mrs. Morrison knew nothing of Kunitz, and the look lost half its potency without its impressive background. Besides, the lady was not one to notice things so slight as looks; to keep her in her proper place you would have needed sledge-hammers. She came in without thinking it necessary to wait to be asked to, nodded something that might perhaps have represented a greeting and of which Priscilla took no notice, and her face was the face of somebody who is angry. "How wearing for the vicar," thought Priscilla, "to have a wife who is angry at ten o'clock in the morning." "I've come in the interests--" began Mrs. Morrison, whose voice was quite as angry as her face. "I'm just going out," said Priscilla. "--Of religion and morality." "Are they distinct?" asked Priscilla, drawing on her gloves. "You can imagine that nothing would make me pay you a visit but the strongest sense of the duty I owe to my position in the parish." "Why should I imagine it?" "Of course I expect impertinence." "I'm afraid you've come here to be rude." "I shall not be daunted by anything you may say from doing my duty." "Will you please do it, then, and get it over?" "The duties of a clergyman's wife are often very disagreeable." "Probably you've got hold of a perfectly wrong idea of what yours really are." "It is a new experience for me to be told so by a girl of your age." "I am not telling you. I only suggest." "I was prepared for rudeness." "Then why did you come?" "How long are you going to stay in this parish?" "You don't expect me to answer that?" "You've not been in it a fortnight, and you have done more harm than most people in a lifetime." "I'm afraid you exaggerate." "You have taught it to drink." "I gave a dying old woman what she most longed for." "You've taught it to break the Sabbath." "I made a great many little children very happy." "You have ruined the habits of thrift we have been at such pains to teach and encourage for twenty-five years." "I helped the poor when they asked me to." "And now what I want to know is, what has become of the Hancock girl?" "Pray who, exactly, is the Hancock girl?" "That unfortunate creature who worked here for you on Wednesday." Priscilla's face changed. "Emma?" she asked. "Emma. At this hour the day before yesterday she was as good a girl as any in the village. She was good, and dutiful, and honest. Now what is she and where is she?" "Has she--isn't she in her home?" "She never went home." "Then she did lose the money?" "Lose it? She has stolen it. Do you not see you have deliberately made a thief out of an honest girl?" Priscilla gazed in dismay at the avenging vicar's wife. It was true then, and she had the fatal gift of spoiling all she touched. "And worse than that--you have brought a good girl to ruin. He'll never marry her now." "He?" "Do you not know the person she was engaged to has gone with her?" "I don't know anything." "They walked from here to Ullerton and went to London. Her father came round to us yesterday after your uncle had been to him making inquiries, and it is all as clear as day. Till your uncle told him, he did not know about the money, and had been too--not well enough that day to notice Emma's not having come home. Your uncle's visit sobered him. We telegraphed to the police. They've been traced to London. That's all. Except," and she glared at Priscilla with all the wrath of a prophet whose denunciations have been justified, "except that one more life is ruined." "I'm very sorry--very, very sorry," said Priscilla, so earnestly, so abjectly even, that her eyes filled with tears. "I see now how thoughtless it was of me." "Thoughtless!" "It was inexcusably thoughtless." "Thoughtless!" cried Mrs. Morrison again. "If you like, it was criminally thoughtless." "Thoughtless!" cried Mrs. Morrison a third time. "But it wasn't more than thoughtless. I'd give anything to be able to set it right. I am most truly grieved. But isn't it a little hard to make me responsible?" Mrs. Morrison stared at her as one who eyes some strange new monster. "How amazingly selfish you are," she said at last, in tones almost of awe. "Selfish?" faltered Priscilla, who began to wonder what she was not. "In the face of such total ruin, such utter shipwreck, to be thinking of what is hard on you. You! Why, here you are with a safe skin, free from the bitter anxieties and temptations poor people have to fight with, with so much time unoccupied that you fill it up with mischief, with more money than you know what to do with"--Priscilla pressed her hands together--"sheltered, free from every care"--Priscilla opened her lips but shut them again--"and there is that miserable Emma, hopeless, branded, for ever an outcast because of you,--only because of you, and you think of yourself and talk of its being hard." Priscilla looked at Mrs. Morrison, opened her mouth to say something, shut it, opened it again, and remarked very lamely that the heart alone knows its own bitterness. "Psha," said Mrs. Morrison, greatly incensed at having the Scriptures, her own speciality, quoted at her. "I'd like to know what bitterness yours has known, unless it's the bitterness of a bad conscience. Now I've come here to-day"--she raised her voice to a note of warning--"to give you a chance. To make you think, by pointing out the path you are treading. You are young, and it is my duty to let no young person go downhill without one warning word. You have brought much evil on our village--why you, a stranger, should be bent on making us all unhappy I can't imagine. You hypocritically try to pretend that what plain people call evil is really good. But your last action, forcing Emma Hancock to be a thief and worse, even you cannot possibly defend. You have much on your conscience--far, far more than I should care to have on mine. How wicked to give all that money to Mrs. Jones. Don't you see you are tempting people who know she is defenceless to steal it from her? Perhaps even murder her? I saved her from that--you did not reckon with me, you see. Take my advice--leave Symford, and go back to where you came from"--Priscilla started--"and get something to do that will keep you fully occupied. If you don't, you'll be laying up a wretched, perhaps a degraded future for yourself. Don't suppose,"--her voice grew very loud--"don't suppose we are fools here and are not all of us aware of the way you have tried to lure young men on"--Priscilla started again--"in the hope, of course, of getting one of them to marry you. But your intentions have been frustrated luckily, in the one case by Providence flinging your victim on a bed of sickness and in the other by your having altogether mistaken the sort of young fellow you were dealing with." Mrs. Morrison paused for breath. This last part of her speech had been made with an ever accumulating rage. Priscilla stood looking at her, her eyebrows drawn down very level over her eyes. "My son is much too steady and conscientious, besides being too much accustomed to first-rate society, to stoop to anything so vulgar--" "As myself?" inquired Priscilla. "As a love-affair with the first stray girl he picks up." "Do you mean me?" "He saw through your intentions, laughed at them, and calmly returned to his studies at Cambridge." "I boxed his ears." "What?" "I boxed his ears." "You?" "I boxed his ears. That's why he went. He didn't go calmly. It wasn't his studies." "How dare you box--oh, this is too horrible--and you stand there and tell me so to my face?" "I'm afraid I must. The tone of your remarks positively demands it. Your son's conduct positively demanded that I should box his ears. So I did." "Of all the shameless--" "I'm afraid you're becoming like him--altogether impossible." "You first lure him on, and then--oh, it is shameful!" "Have you finished what you came for?" "You are the most brazen--" "Hush. Do be careful. Suppose my uncle were to hear you? If you've finished won't you go?" "Go? I shall not go till I have said my say. I shall send the vicar to you about Robin--such conduct is so--so infamous that I can't--I can't--I can't--" "I'm sorry if it has distressed you." "Distressed me? You are the most--" "Really I think we've done, haven't we?" said Priscilla hurriedly, dreadfully afraid lest Fritzing should come in and hear her being called names. "To think that you dared--to think that my--my noble boy--" "He wasn't very noble. Mothers don't ever really know their sons, I think." "Shameless girl!" cried Mrs. Morrison, so loud, so completely beside herself, that Priscilla hastily rang her bell, certain that Fritzing must hear and would plunge in to her rescue; and of all things she had learned to dread Fritzing's plunging to her rescue. "Open the door for this lady," she said to Annalise, who appeared with a marvellous promptitude; and as Mrs. Morrison still stood her ground and refused to see either Annalise or the door Priscilla ended the interview by walking out herself, with great dignity, into the bathroom. XXI And now I have come to a part of my story that I would much rather not write. Always my inclination if left alone is to sit in the sun and sing of things like crocuses, of nothing less fresh and clean than crocuses. The engaging sprightliness of crocuses; their dear little smell, not to be smelled except by the privileged few; their luminous transparency--I am thinking of the white and the purple; their kind way of not keeping hearts sick for Spring waiting longer than they can just bear; how pleasant to sit with a friend in the sun, a friend who like myself likes to babble of green fields, and talk together about all things flowery. But Priscilla's story has taken such a hold on me, it seemed when first I heard it to be so full of lessons, that I feel bound to set it down from beginning to end for the use and warning of all persons, princesses and others, who think that by searching, by going far afield, they will find happiness, and do not see that it is lying all the while at their feet. They do not see it because it is so close. It is so close that there is a danger of its being trodden on or kicked away. And it is shy, and waits to be picked up. Priscilla, we know, went very far afield in search of hers, and having undertaken to tell of what befell her I must not now, only because I would rather, suppress any portion of the story. Besides, it is a portion vital to the catastrophe. In Minehead, then, there lived at this time a murderer. He had not been found out yet and he was not a murderer by profession, for he was a bricklayer; but in his heart he was, and that is just as bad. He had had a varied career into the details of which I do not propose to go, had come three or four years before to live in the West of England because it was so far from all the other places he had lived in, had got work in Minehead, settled there respectably, married, and was a friend of that carrier who brought the bread and other parcels every day to the Symford store. At this time he was in money difficulties and his wife, of whom he was fond, was in an expensive state of health. The accounts of Priscilla's generosity and wealth had reached Minehead as I said some time ago, and had got even into the local papers. The carrier was the chief transmitter of news, for he saw Mrs. Vickerton every day and she was a woman who loved to talk; but those of the Shuttleworth servants who were often in Minehead on divers errands ratified and added to all he said, and embellished the tale besides with what was to them the most interesting part, the unmistakable signs their Augustus showed of intending to marry the young woman. This did not interest the murderer. Sir Augustus and the lady he meant to marry were outside his sphere altogether; too well protected, too powerful. What he liked to hear about was the money Priscilla had scattered among the cottagers, how much each woman had got, whether it had been spent or not, whether she had a husband, or grown-up children; and best of all he liked to hear about the money Mrs. Jones had got. All the village, and therefore Mrs. Vickerton and the carrier, knew of it, knew even the exact spot beneath the bolster where it was kept, knew it was kept there for safety from the depredations of the vicar's wife, knew the vicar's wife had taken away Priscilla's first present. The carrier knew too of Mrs. Jones's age, her weakness, her nearness to death. He remarked that such a sum wasn't of much use to an old woman certain to die in a few days, and that it might just as well not be hers at all for all the spending it got. The murderer, whose reputation in Minehead was so immaculate that not a single fly had ever dared blow on it, said kindly that no doubt just to have it in her possession was cheering and that one should not grudge the old their little bits of comfort; and he walked over to Symford that night, and getting there about one o'clock murdered Mrs. Jones. I will not enter into details. I believe it was quite simple. He was back by six next morning with the five pounds in his pocket, and his wife that day had meat for dinner. That is all I shall say about the murderer, except that he was never found out; and nothing shall induce me to dwell upon the murder. But what about the effect it had on Priscilla? Well, it absolutely crushed her. The day before, after Mrs. Morrison's visit, she had been wretched enough, spending most of it walking very fast, as driven spirits do, with Fritzing for miles across the bleak and blowy moor, by turns contrite and rebellious, one moment ready to admit she was a miserable sinner, the next indignantly repudiating Mrs. Morrison's and her own conscience's accusations, her soul much beaten and bent by winds of misgiving but still on its feet, still defiant, still sheltering itself when it could behind plain common sense which whispered at intervals that all that had happened was only bad luck. They walked miles that day; often in silence, sometimes in gusty talk--talk gusty with the swift changes of Priscilla's mood scudding across the leaden background of Fritzing's steadier despair--and they got back tired, hungry, their clothes splashed with mud, their minds no nearer light than when they started. She had, I say, been wretched enough; but what was this wretchedness to that which followed? In her ignorance she thought it the worst day she had ever had, the most tormented; and when she went to bed she sought comfort in its very badness by telling herself that it was over and could never come again. It could not. But Time is prolific of surprises; and on Saturday morning Symford woke with a shudder to the murder of Mrs. Jones. Now such a thing as this had not happened in that part of Somersetshire within the memory of living man, and though Symford shuddered it was also proud and pleased. The mixed feeling of horror, pleasure, and pride was a thrilling one. It felt itself at once raised to a position of lurid conspicuousness in the county, its name would be in every mouth, the papers, perhaps even the London papers, would talk about it. At all times, in spite of the care and guidance it had had from the clergy and gentry, the account of a murder gave Symford more pure pleasure than any other form of entertainment; and now here was one, not at second-hand, not to be viewed through the cooling medium of print and pictures, but in its midst, before its eyes, at its very doors. Mrs. Jones went up strangely in its estimation. The general feeling was that it was an honour to have known her. Nobody worked that day. The school was deserted. Dinners were not cooked. Babies shrieked uncomforted. All Symford was gathered in groups outside Mrs. Jones's cottage, and as the day wore on and the news spread, visitors from the neighbouring villages, from Minehead and from Ullerton, arrived with sandwiches and swelled them. Priscilla saw these groups from her windows. The fatal cottage was at the foot of the hill in full view both of her bedroom and her parlour. Only by sitting in the bathroom would she be able to get away from it. When the news was brought her, breathlessly, pallidly, by Annalise in the early morning with her hot water, she refused to believe it. Annalise knew no English and must have got hold of a horrible wrong tale. The old lady was dead no doubt, had died quietly in her sleep as had been expected, but what folly was all this about a murder? Yet she sat up in bed and felt rather cold as she looked at Annalise, for Annalise was very pallid. And then at last she had to believe it. Annalise had had it told her from beginning to end, with the help of signs, by the charwoman. She had learned more English in those few crimson minutes than in the whole of the time she had been in England. The charwoman had begun her demonstration by slowly drawing her finger across her throat from one ear to the other, and Annalise repeated the action for Priscilla's clearer comprehension. How Priscilla got up that day and dressed she never knew. Once at least during the process she stumbled back on to the bed and lay with her face on her arms, shaken by a most desperate weeping. That fatal charity; those fatal five-pound notes. Annalise, panic-stricken lest she who possessed so many should be the next victim, poured out the tale of the missing money, of the plain motive for the murder, with a convincingness, a naked truth, that stabbed Priscilla to the heart with each clinching word. "They say the old woman must have cried out--must have been awakened, or the man would have taken the money without--" "Oh don't--oh leave me--" moaned Priscilla. She did not go downstairs that day. Every time Annalise tried to come in she sent her away. When she was talked to of food, she felt sick. Once she began to pace about the room, but the sight of those eager black knots of people down the street, of policemen and other important and official-looking persons going in and out of the cottage, drove her back to her bed and its sheltering, world-deadening pillow. Indeed the waters of life had gone over her head and swallowed her up in hopeless blackness. She acknowledged herself wrong. She gave in utterly. Every word Mrs. Morrison--a dreadful woman, yet dreadful as she was still a thousand times better than herself--every word she had said, every one of those bitter words at which she had been so indignant the morning before, was true, was justified. That day Priscilla tore the last shreds of self-satisfaction from her soul and sat staring at it with horrified eyes as at a thing wholly repulsive, dangerous, blighting. What was to become of her, and of poor Fritzing, dragged down by her to an equal misery? About one o'clock she heard Mrs. Morrison's voice below, in altercation apparently with him. At this time she was crying again; bitter, burning tears; those scorching tears that follow in the wake of destroyed illusions, that drop, hot and withering, on to the fragments of what was once the guiding glory of an ideal. She was brought so low, was so humbled, so uncertain of herself, that she felt it would bring her peace if she might go down to Mrs. Morrison and acknowledge all her vileness; tell her how wrong she had been, ask her forgiveness for her rudeness, beg her for pity, for help, for counsel. She needed some kind older woman,--oh she needed some kind older woman to hold out cool hands of wisdom and show her the way. But then she would have to make a complete confession of everything she had done, and how would Mrs. Morrison or any other decent woman look upon her flight from her father's home? Would they not turn away shuddering from what she now saw was a hideous selfishness and ingratitude? The altercation going on below rose rapidly in heat. Just at the end it grew so heated that even through the pillow Priscilla could hear its flaming conclusion. "Man, I tell you your niece is to all intents and purposes a murderess, a double murderess," cried Mrs. Morrison. "Not only has she the woman's murder to answer for, but the ruined soul of the murderer as well." Upon which there was a loud shout of "Hence! Hence!" and a great slamming of the street door. For some time after this Priscilla heard fevered walking about in her parlour and sounds as of many and muffled imprecations; then, when they had grown a little more intermittent, careful footsteps came up her stairs, footsteps so careful, so determined not to disturb, that the stairs cracked and wheezed more than they had ever yet been known to do. Arrived at the top they paused outside her door, and Priscilla, checking her sobs, could hear how Fritzing stood there wrestling with his body's determination to breathe too loud. He stood there listening for what seemed to her an eternity. She almost screamed at last as the minutes passed and she knew he was still there, motionless, listening. After a long while he went away again with the same anxious care to make no noise, and she, with a movement of utter abandonment to woe, turned over and cried herself sick. Till evening she lay there alone, and then the steps came up again, accompanied this time by the tinkle of china and spoons. Priscilla was sitting at the window looking on to the churchyard, staring into the dark with its swaying branches and few faint stars, and when she heard him outside the door listening again in anxious silence she got up and opened it. Fritzing held a plate of food in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. The expression on his face was absurdly like that of a mother yearning over a sick child. "_Mein liebes Kind_--_mein liebes Kind_," he stammered when she came out, so woebegone, so crushed, so utterly unlike any Priscilla of any one of her moods that he had ever seen before. Her eyes were red, her eyelids heavy with tears, her face was pinched and narrower, the corners of her mouth had a most piteous droop, her very hair, pushed back off her forehead, seemed sad, and hung in spiritless masses about her neck and ears. "_Mein liebes Kind_," stammered poor Fritzing; and his hand shook so that he upset some of the milk. Priscilla leaned against the door-post. She was feeling sick and giddy. "How dreadful this is," she murmured, looking at him with weary, woeful eyes. "No, no--all will be well," said Fritzing, striving to be brisk. "Drink some milk, ma'am." "Oh, I have been wicked." "Wicked?" Fritzing hastily put the plate and glass down on the floor, and catching up the hand hanging limply by her side passionately kissed it. "You are the noblest woman on earth," he said. "Oh," said Priscilla, turning away her head and shutting her eyes for very weariness of such futile phrases. "Ma'am, you are. I would swear it. But you are also a child, and so you are ready at the first reverse to suppose you have done with happiness for ever. Who knows," said Fritzing with a great show of bright belief in his own prophecy, the while his heart was a stone, "who knows but what you are now on the very threshold of it?" "Oh," murmured Priscilla, too beaten to do anything but droop her head. "It is insisting on the commonplace to remind you, ma'am, that the darkest hour comes before dawn. Yet it is a well-known natural phenomenon." Priscilla leaned her head against the door-post. She stood there motionless, her hands hanging by her side, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, the very picture of one who has given up. "Drink some milk, ma'am. At least endeavour to." She took no heed of him. "For God's sake, ma'am, do not approach these slight misadventures in so tragic a spirit. You have done nothing wrong whatever. I know you accuse yourself. It is madness to do so. I, who have so often scolded you, who have never spared the lash of my tongue when in past years I saw fair reason to apply it, I tell you now with the same reliable candour that your actions in this village and the motives that prompted them have been in each single case of a stainless nobility." She took no heed of him. He stooped down and picked up the glass. "Drink some milk, ma'am. A few mouthfuls, perhaps even one, will help to clear the muddied vision of your mind. I cannot understand," he went on, half despairing, half exasperated, "what reasons you can possibly have for refusing to drink some milk. It is a feat most easily accomplished." She did not move. "Do you perchance imagine that a starved and badly treated body can ever harbour that most precious gift of the gods, a clear, sane mind?" She did not move. He looked at her in silence for a moment, then put down the glass. "This is all my fault," he said slowly. "The whole responsibility for this unhappiness is on my shoulders, and I frankly confess it is a burden so grievous that I know not how to bear it." He paused, but she took no notice. "Ma'am, I have loved you." She took no notice. "And the property of love, I have observed, is often to mangle and kill the soul of its object." She might have been asleep. "Ma'am, I have brought you to a sorry pass. I was old, and you were young. I experienced, you ignorant. I deliberate, you impulsive. I a man, you a woman. Instead of restraining you, guiding you, shielding you from yourself, I was most vile, and fired you with desires for freedom that under the peculiar circumstances were wicked, set a ball rolling that I might have foreseen could never afterwards be stopped, put thoughts into your head that never without me would have entered it, embarked you on an enterprise in which the happiness of your whole life was doomed to shipwreck." She stirred a little, and sighed a faint protest. "This is very terrible to me--of a crushing, killing weight. Let it not also have to be said that I mangled your very soul, dimmed your reason, impaired the sweet sanity, the nice adjustment of what I know was once a fair and balanced mind." She raised her head slowly and looked at him. "What?" she said. "Do you think--do you think I'm going mad?" "I think it very likely, ma'am," said Fritzing with conviction. A startled expression crept into her eyes. "So much morbid introspection," he went on, "followed by hours of weeping and fasting, if indulged in long enough will certainly have that result. A person who fasts a sufficient length of time invariably parts piecemeal with valuable portions of his wits." She stretched out her hand. He mistook the action and bent down and kissed it. "No," said Priscilla, "I want the milk." He snatched it up and gave it to her, watching her drink with all the relief, the thankfulness of a mother whose child's sickness takes a turn for the better. When she had finished she gave him back the glass. "Fritzi," she said, looking at him with eyes wide open now and dark with anxious questioning, "we won't reproach ourselves then if we can help it--" "Certainly not, ma'am--a most futile thing to do." "I'll try to believe what you say about me, if you promise to believe what I say about you." "Ma'am, I'll believe anything if only you will be reasonable." "You've been everything to me--that's what I want to say. Always, ever since I can remember." "And you, ma'am? What have you not been to me?" "And there's nothing, nothing you can blame yourself for." "Ma'am--" "You've been too good, too unselfish, and I've dragged you down." "Ma'am--" "Well, we won't begin again. But tell me one thing--and tell me the truth--oh Fritzi tell me the truth as you value your soul--do you anywhere see the least light on our future? Do you anywhere see even a bit, a smallest bit of hope?" He took her hand again and kissed it; then lifted his head and looked at her very solemnly. "No, ma'am," he said with the decision of an unshakable conviction, "upon my immortal soul I do not see a shred." XXII Let the reader now picture Priscilla coming downstairs the next morning, a golden Sunday morning full of Sabbath calm, and a Priscilla leaden-eyed and leaden-souled, her shabby garments worn out to a symbol of her worn out zeals, her face the face of one who has forgotten peace, her eyes the eyes of one at strife with the future, of one for ever asking "What next?" and shrinking with a shuddering "Oh please not that," from the bald reply. Out of doors Nature wore her mildest, most beneficent aspect. She very evidently cared nothing for the squalid tragedies of human fate. Her hills were bathed in gentle light. Her sunshine lay warm along the cottage fronts. In the gardens her hopeful bees, cheated into thoughts of summer, droned round the pale mauves and purples of what was left of starworts. The grass in the churchyard sparkled with the fairy film of gossamers. Sparrows chirped. Robins whistled. And humanity gave the last touch to the picture by ringing the church bells melodiously to prayer. Without doubt it was a day of blessing, supposing any one could be found willing to be blest. Let the reader, then, imagine this outward serenity, this divine calmness, this fair and light-flooded world, and within the musty walls of Creeper Cottage Priscilla coming down to breakfast, despair in her eyes and heart. They breakfasted late; so late that it was done to the accompaniment, strangely purified and beautified by the intervening church walls and graveyard, of Mrs. Morrison's organ playing and the chanting of the village choir. Their door stood wide open, for the street was empty. Everybody was in church. The service was, as Mrs. Morrison afterwards remarked, unusually well attended. The voluntaries she played that day were Dead Marches, and the vicar preached a conscience-shattering sermon upon the text "Lord, who is it?" He thought that Mrs. Jones's murderer must be one of his parishioners. It was a painful thought, but it had to be faced. He had lived so long shut out from gossip, so deaf to the ever-clicking tongue of rumour, that he had forgotten how far even small scraps can travel, and that the news of Mrs. Jones's bolster being a hiding-place for her money should have spread beyond the village never occurred to him. He was moved on this occasion as much as a man who has long ago given up being moved can be, for he had had a really dreadful two days with Mrs. Morrison, dating from the moment she came in with the news of the boxing of their only son's ears. He had, as the reader will have gathered, nothing of it having been recorded, refused to visit and reprimand Priscilla for this. He had found excuses for her. He had sided with her against his son. He had been as wholly, maddeningly obstinate as the extremely good sometimes are. Then came Mrs. Jones's murder. He was greatly shaken, but still refused to call upon Priscilla in connection with it, and pooh-poohed the notion of her being responsible for the crime as definitely as an aged saint of habitually grave speech can be expected to pooh-pooh at all. He said she was not responsible. He said, when his wife with all the emphasis apparently inseparable from the conversation of those who feel strongly, told him that he owed it to himself, to his parish, to his country, to go and accuse her, that he owed no man anything but to love one another. There was nothing to be done with the vicar. Still these scenes had not left him scathless, and it was a vicar moved to the utmost limits of his capacity in that direction who went into the pulpit that day repeating the question "Who is it?" so insistently, so appealingly, with such searching glances along the rows of faces in the pews, that the congregation, shuffling and uncomfortable, looked furtively at each other with an ever growing suspicion and dislike. The vicar as he went on waxing warmer, more insistent, observed at least a dozen persons with guilt on every feature. It darted out like a toad from the hiding-place of some private ooze at the bottom of each soul into one face after the other; and there was a certain youth who grew so visibly in guilt, who had so many beads of an obviously guilty perspiration on his forehead, and eyes so guiltily starting from their sockets, that only by a violent effort of self-control could the vicar stop himself from pointing at him and shouting out then and there "Thou art the man!" Meanwhile the real murderer had hired a waggonette and was taking his wife for a pleasant country drive. It was to pacify Fritzing that Priscilla came down to breakfast. Left to herself she would by preference never have breakfasted again. She even drank more milk to please him; but though it might please him, no amount of milk could wash out the utter blackness of her spirit. He, seeing her droop behind the jug, seeing her gazing drearily at nothing in particular, jumped up and took a book from the shelves and without more ado began to read aloud. "It is better, ma'am," he explained briefly, glancing at her over his spectacles, "than that you should give yourself over to gloom." Priscilla turned vague eyes on to him. "How can I help gloom?" she asked. "Yes, yes, that may be. But nobody should be gloomy at breakfast. The entire day is very apt, in consequence, to be curdled." "It will be curdled anyhow," said Priscilla, her head sinking on to her chest. "Ma'am, listen to this." And with a piece of bread and butter in one hand, from which he took occasional hurried bites, and the other raised in appropriate varying gesticulation, Fritzing read portions of the Persae of Æschylus to her, first in Greek for the joy of his own ear and then translating it into English for the edification of hers. He, at least, was off after the first line, sailing golden seas remote and glorious, places where words were lovely and deeds heroic, places most beautiful and brave, most admirably, most restfully unlike Creeper Cottage. He rolled out the sentences, turning them on his tongue, savouring them, reluctant to let them go. She sat looking at him, wondering how he could possibly even for an instant forget the actual and the present. "'Xerxes went forth, Xerxes perished, Xerxes mismanaged all things in the depths of the sea--'" declaimed Fritzing. "He must have been like us," murmured Priscilla. "'O for Darius the scatheless, the protector! No woman ever mourned for deed of his--'" "What a nice man," sighed Priscilla. "'O for Darius!'" "Ma'am, if you interrupt how can I read? And it is a most beautiful passage." "But we do want a Darius badly," moaned Priscilla. "'The ships went forth, the grey-faced ships, like to each other as bird is to bird, the ships and all they carried perished, the ships perished by the hand of the Greeks. The king, 'tis said, escapes, but hardly, by the plains of Thrace and the toilsome ways, and behind him he leaves his first-fruits--sailors unburied on the shores of Salamis. Then grieve, sting yourselves to grief, make heaven echo, howl like dogs for the horror, for they are battered together by the terrible waters, they are shredded to pieces by the voiceless children of the Pure. The house has no master--'" "Fritzi, I wish you'd leave off," implored Priscilla. "It's quite as gloomy as anything I was thinking." "But ma'am the difference is that it is also beautiful, whereas the gloom at present enveloping us is mere squalor. 'The voiceless children of the Pure--' how is that, ma'am, for beauty?" "I don't even know what it means," sighed Priscilla. "Ma'am, it is an extremely beautiful manner of alluding to fish." "I don't care," said Priscilla. "Ma'am, is it possible that the blight of passing and outward circumstance has penetrated to and settled upon what should always be of a sublime inaccessibility, your soul?" "I don't care about the fish," repeated Priscilla listlessly. Then with a sudden movement she pushed back her chair and jumped up. "Oh," she cried, beating her hands together, "don't talk to me of fish when I can't see an inch--oh not a single inch into the future!" Fritzing looked at her, his finger on the page. Half of him was still at the bottom of classic seas with the battered and shredded sailors. How much rather would he have stayed there, have gone on reading Æschylus a little, have taken her with him for a brief space of serenity into that moist refuge from the harassed present, have forgotten at least for one morning the necessity, the dreariness of being forced to face things, to talk over, to decide. Besides, what could he decide? The unhappy man had no idea. Nor had Priscilla. To stay in Symford seemed impossible, but to leave it seemed still more so. And sooner than go back disgraced to Kunitz and fling herself at paternal feet which would in all probability immediately spurn her, Priscilla felt she would die. But how could she stay in Symford, surrounded by angry neighbours, next door to Tussie, with Robin coming back for vacations, with Mrs. Morrison hating her, with Lady Shuttleworth hating her, with Emma's father hating her, with the blood of Mrs. Jones on her head? Could one live peacefully in such an accursed place? Yet how could they go away? Even if they were able to compose their nerves sufficiently to make new plans they could not go because they were in debt. "Fritzi," cried Priscilla with more passion than she had ever put into speech before, "life's too much for me--I tell you life's too much for me!" And with a gesture of her arms as though she would sweep it all back, keep it from surging over her, from choking her, she ran out into the street to get into her own room and be alone, pulling the door to behind her for fear he should follow and want to explain and comfort, leaving him with his Æschylus in which, happening to glance sighing, he, enviable man, at once became again absorbed, and running blindly, headlong, as he runs who is surrounded and accompanied by a swarm of deadly insects which he vainly tries to out-distance, she ran straight into somebody coming from the opposite direction, ran full tilt, was almost knocked off her feet, and looking up with the impatient anguish of him who is asked to endure his last straw her lips fell apart in an utter and boundless amazement; for the person she had run against was that Prince--the last of the series, distinguished from the rest by his having quenched the Grand Duke's irrelevant effervescence by the simple expedient of saying Bosh--who had so earnestly desired to marry her. XXIII "Hullo," said the Prince, who spoke admirable English. Priscilla could only stare. His instinct was to repeat the exclamation which he felt represented his feelings very exactly, for her appearance--clothes, expression, everything--astonished him, but he doubted whether it would well bear repeating. "Is this where you are staying?" he inquired instead. "Yes," said Priscilla. "May I come in?" "Yes," said Priscilla. He followed her into her parlour. He looked at her critically as she walked slowly before him, from head to foot he looked at her critically; at every inch of the shabby serge gown, at the little head with its badly arranged hair, at the little heel that caught in an unmended bit of braid, at the little shoe with its bow of frayed ribbon, and he smiled broadly behind his moustache. But when she turned round he was perfectly solemn. "I suppose," said the Prince, putting his hands in his pockets and gazing about the room with an appearance of cheerful interest, "this is what one calls a snug little place." Priscilla stood silent. She felt as though she had been shaken abruptly out of sleep. Her face even now after the soul-rending time she had been having, in spite of the shadows beneath the eyes, the droop at the corners of the mouth, in spite, too, it must be said of the flagrantly cottage fashion in which Annalise had done her hair, seemed to the Prince so extremely beautiful, so absolutely the face of his dearest, best desires, so limpid, apart from all grace of colouring and happy circumstance of feature, with the light of a sweet and noble nature, so manifestly the outward expression of an indwelling lovely soul, that his eyes, after one glance round the room, fixed themselves upon it and never were able to leave it again. For a minute or two she stood silent, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to shake off the feeling that she was being called back to life out of a dream. It had not been a dream, she kept telling herself--bad though it was it had not been a dream but the reality; and this man dropped suddenly in to the middle of it from another world, he was the dream, part of the dream she had rebelled against and run away from a fortnight before. Then she looked at him, and she knew she was putting off her soul with nonsense. Never was anybody less like a dream than the Prince; never was anybody more squarely, more certainly real. And he was of her own kind, of her own world. He and she were equals. They could talk together plainly, baldly, a talk ungarnished and unretarded by deferences on the one side and on the other a kindness apt to become excessive in its anxiety not to appear to condescend. The feeling that once more after what seemed an eternity she was with an equal was of a singular refreshment. During those few moments in which they stood silent, facing each other, in spite of her efforts to keep it out, in spite of really conscientious efforts, a great calm came in and spread over her spirit. Yet she had no reason to feel calm she thought, struggling. Was there not rather cause for an infinity of shame? What had he come for? He of all people. The scandalously jilted, the affronted, the run away from. Was it because she had been looking so long at Fritzing that this man seemed so nicely groomed? Or at Tussie, that he seemed so well put together? Or at Robin, that he seemed so modest? Was it because people's eyes--Mrs. Morrison's, Lady Shuttleworth's--had been so angry lately whenever they rested on her that his seemed so very kind? No; she did remember thinking them that, even being struck by them, when she saw him first in Kunitz. A dull red crept into her face when she remembered that day and what followed. "It isn't very snug," she said at last, trying to hide by a careful coldness of speech all the strange things she was feeling. "When it rains there are puddles by the door. The door, you see, opens into the street." "I see," said the Prince. There was a silence. "I don't suppose you really do," said Priscilla, full of strange feelings. "My dear cousin?" "I don't know if you've come to laugh at me?" "Do I look as if I had?" "I dare say you think--because you've not been through it yourself--that it--it's rather ridiculous." "My dear cousin," protested the Prince. Her lips quivered. She had gone through much, and she had lived for two days only on milk. "Do you wipe the puddles up, or does old Fritzing?" "You see you _have_ come to laugh." "I hope you'll believe that I've not. Must I be gloomy?" "How do you know Fritzing's here?" "Why everybody knows that." "Everybody?" There was an astonished pause. "How do you know we're here--here, in Creeper Cottage?" "Creeper Cottage is it? I didn't know it had a name. Do you have so many earwigs?" "How did you know we were in Symford?" "Why everybody knows that." Priscilla was silent. Again she felt she was being awakened from a dream. "I've met quite a lot of interesting people since I saw you last," he said. "At least, they interested me because they all knew you." "Knew me?" "Knew you and that old scound--the excellent Fritzing. There's an extremely pleasant policeman, for instance, in Kunitz--" "Oh," said Priscilla, starting and turning red. She could not think of that policeman without crisping her fingers. "He and I are intimate friends. And there's a most intelligent person--really a most helpful, obliging person--who came with you from Dover to Ullerton." "With us?" "I found the conversation, too, of the ostler at the Ullerton Arms of immense interest." "But what--" "And last night I slept at Baker's Farm, and spent a very pleasant evening with Mrs. Pearce." "But why--" "She's an instructive woman. Her weakest point, I should say, is her junkets." "I wonder why you bother to talk like this--to be sarcastic." "About the junkets? Didn't you think they were bad?" "Do you suppose it's worth while to--to kick somebody who's down? And so low down? So completely got to the bottom?" "Kick? On my soul I assure you that the very last thing I want to do is to kick you." "Then why do you do it?" "I don't do it. Do you know what I've come for?" "Is my father round the corner?" "Nobody's round the corner. I've muzzled your father. I've come quite by myself. And do you know why?" "No," said Priscilla, shortly, defiantly; adding before he could speak, "I can't imagine." And adding to that, again before he could speak, "Unless it's for the fun of hunting down a defenceless quarry." "I say, that's rather picturesque," said the Prince with every appearance of being struck. Priscilla blushed. In spite of herself every word they said to each other made her feel more natural, farther away from self-torment and sordid fears, nearer to that healthy state of mind, swamped out of her lately, when petulance comes more easily than meekness. The mere presence of the Prince seemed to set things right, to raise her again in her own esteem. There was undoubtedly something wholesome about the man, something everyday and reassuring, something dependable and sane. The first smile for I don't know how long came and cheered the corners of her mouth. "I'm afraid I've grown magniloquent since--since--" "Since you ran away?" She nodded. "Fritzing, you know, is most persistently picturesque. I think it's catching. But he's wonderful," she added quickly,--"most wonderful in patience and goodness." "Oh everybody knows he's wonderful. Where is the great man?" "In the next room. Do you want him?" "Good Lord, no. You've not told me what you suppose I've come for." "I did. I told you I couldn't imagine." "It's for a most saintly, really nice reason. Guess." "I can't guess." "Oh but try." Priscilla to her extreme disgust felt herself turning very red. "I suppose to spy out the nakedness of the land," she said severely. "Now you're picturesque again. You must have been reading a tremendous lot lately. Of course you would, with that learned old fossil about. No my dear, I've come simply to see if you are happy." She looked at him, and her flush slowly died away. "Simply to convince myself that you are happy." Her eyes filling with tears she thought it more expedient to fix them on the table-cloth. She did fix them on it, and the golden fringe of eyelashes that he very rightly thought so beautiful lay in long dusky curves on her serious face. "It's extraordinarily nice of you if--if it's true," she said. "But it is true. And if you are, if you tell me you are and I'm able to believe it, I bow myself out, dear cousin, and shall devote any energies I have left after doing that to going on muzzling your father. He shall not, I promise you, in any way disturb you. Haven't I kept him well in hand up to this?" She raised her eyes to his. "Was it you keeping him so quiet?" "It was, my dear. He was very restive. You've no notion of all the things he wanted to do. It wanted a pretty strong hand, and a light one too, I can tell you. But I was determined you should have your head. That woman Disthal--" Priscilla started. "You don't like her?" inquired the Prince sympathetically. "No." "I was afraid you couldn't. But I didn't know how to manage that part. She's in London." Priscilla started again. "I thought--I thought she was in bed," she said. "She was, but she got out again. Your--departure cured her." "Didn't you tell me nobody was round the corner?" "Well, you don't call London round the corner? I wouldn't let her come any nearer to you. She's waiting there quite quietly." "What is she waiting for?" asked Priscilla quickly. "Come now, she's your lady in waiting you know. It seems natural enough she should wait, don't it?" "No," said Priscilla, knitting her eyebrows. "Don't frown. She had to come too. She's brought some of your women and a whole lot"--he glanced at the blue serge suit and put his hand up to his moustache--"a whole lot of clothes." "Clothes?" A wave of colour flooded her face. She could not help it at the moment any more than a starving man can help looking eager when food is set before him. "Oh," she said, "I hope they're the ones I was expecting from Paris?" "I should think it very likely. There seem to be a great many. I never saw so many boxes for one little cousin." Priscilla made a sudden movement with her hands. "You can't think," she said, "how tired I am of this dress." "Yes I can," the Prince assured her. "I've worn it every day." "You must have." "Every single day since the day I--I--" "The day you ran away from me." She blushed. "I didn't run away from you. At least, not exactly. You were only the last straw." "A nice thing for a man to be." "I ran because--because--oh, it's a long story, and I'm afraid a very foolish one." A gleam came into the Prince's eyes. He took a step nearer her, but immediately thinking better of it took it back again. "Perhaps," he said pleasantly, "only the beginning was foolish, and you'll settle down after a bit and get quite fond of Creeper Cottage." She looked at him startled. "You see my dear it was rather tremendous what you did. You must have been most fearfully sick of things at Kunitz. I can well understand it. You couldn't be expected to like me all at once. And if I had to have that Disthal woman at my heels wherever I went I'd shoot myself. What you've done is much braver really than shooting one's self. But the question is do you like it as much as you thought you would?" Priscilla gave him a swift look, and said nothing. "If you don't, there's the Disthal waiting for you with all those charming frocks, and all you've got to do is to put them on and go home." "But I can't go home. How can I? I am disgraced. My father would never let me in." "Oh I'd arrange all that. I don't think you'd find him angry if you followed my advice very carefully. On the other hand, if you like this and want to stay on there's nothing more to be said. I'll say good-bye, and promise you shall be left in peace. You shall be left to be happy entirely in your own way." Priscilla was silent. "You don't--look happy," he said, scrutinizing her face. She was silent. "You've got very thin. How did you manage that in such a little while?" "We've muddled things rather," she said with an ashamed sort of smile. "On the days when I was hungry there wasn't anything to eat, and then when there were things I wasn't hungry." The Prince looked puzzled. "Didn't that old scamp--I mean didn't the excellent Fritzing bring enough money?" "He thought he did, but it wasn't enough." "Is it all gone?" "We're in debt." Again he put his hand up to his moustache. "Well I'll see to all that, of course," he said gravely. "And when that has been set right you're sure you'll like staying on here?" She summoned all her courage, and looked at him for an instant straight in the face. "No," she said. "No?" "No." There was another silence. He was standing on the hearthrug, she on the other side of the table; but the room was so small that by putting out his hand he could have touched her. A queer expression was in his eyes as he looked at her, an expression entirely at variance with his calm and good-natured talk, the exceedingly anxious expression of a man who knows his whole happiness is quivering in the balance. She did not see it, for she preferred to look at the table-cloth. "Dreadful things have happened here," she said in a low voice. "What sort?" "Horrid sorts. Appalling sorts." "Tell me." "I couldn't bear to." "But I think I know." She looked at him astonished. "Mrs. Pearce--" "She told you?" "What she knew she told me. Perhaps there's something she doesn't know." Priscilla remembered Robin, and blushed. "Yes, she told me about that," said the Prince nodding. "About what?" asked Priscilla, startled. "About the squire intending to marry you." "Oh," said Priscilla. "It seems hard on him, don't it? Has it struck you that such things are likely to occur pretty often to Miss Maria-Theresa Ethel Neumann-Schultz?" "I'm afraid you really have come only to laugh," said Priscilla, her lips quivering. "I swear it's only to see if you are happy." "Well, see then." And throwing back her head with a great defiance she looked at him while her eyes filled with tears; and though they presently brimmed over, and began to drop down pitifully one by one, she would not flinch but went on looking. "I see," said the Prince quietly. "And I'm convinced. Of course, then, I shall suggest your leaving this." "I want to." "And putting yourself in the care of the Disthal." Priscilla winced. "Only her temporary care. Quite temporary. And letting her take you back to Kunitz." Priscilla winced again. "Only temporarily," said the Prince. "But my father would never--" "Yes my dear, he will. He'll be delighted to see you. He'll rejoice." "Rejoice?" "I assure you he will. You've only got to do what I tell you." "Shall you--come too?" "If you'll let me." "But then--but then--" "Then what, my dear?" She looked at him, and her face changed slowly from white to red and red to white again. Fritzing's words crossed her mind--"If you marry him you will be undoubtedly eternally lost," and her very soul cried out that they were folly. Why should she be eternally lost? What cobwebs were these, cobwebs of an old brain preoccupied with shadows, dusty things to be swept away at the first touch of Nature's vigorous broom? Indeed she thought it far more likely that she would be eternally found. But she was ashamed of herself, ashamed of all she had done, ashamed of the disgraceful way she had treated this man, terribly disillusioned, terribly out of conceit with herself, and she stood there changing colour, hanging her head, humbled, penitent, every shred of the dignity she had been trained to gone, simply somebody who has been very silly and is very sorry. The Prince put out his hand. She pretended not to see it. The Prince came round the table. "You know," he said, "our engagement hasn't been broken off yet?" Her instinct was to edge away, but she would not stoop to edging. "Was it ever made?" she asked, not able to induce her voice to rise above a whisper. "Practically." There was another silence. "Why, then--" began Priscilla, for the silence had come to be more throbbing, more intolerably expressive than any speech. "Yes?" encouraged the Prince, coming very close. She turned her head slowly. "Why, then--" said Priscilla again, her face breaking into a smile, half touched, half mischievous, wholly adorable. "I think so too," said the Prince; and he shut her mouth with a kiss. * * * * * "And now," said the Prince some time afterwards, "let us go to that old sinner Fritzing." Priscilla hung back, reluctant to deal this final blow to the heart that had endured so many. "He'll be terribly shocked," she said. But the Prince declared it had to be done; and hand in hand they went out into the street, and opening Fritzing's door stood before him. He was still absorbed in his Æschylus, had been sitting absorbed in the deeds of the dead and departed, of the long dead Xerxes, the long dead Darius, the very fish, voiceless but voracious, long since as dead as the most shredded of the sailors,--he had been sitting absorbed in these various corpses all the while that in the next room, on the other side of a few inches of plaster and paper, so close you would have thought his heart must have burned within him, so close you would have thought he must be scorched, the living present had been pulsing and glowing, beating against the bright bars of the future, stirring up into alertness a whole row of little red-headed souls till then asleep, souls with golden eyelashes, souls eager to come and be princes and princesses of--I had almost revealed the mighty nation's name. A shadow fell across his book, and looking up he saw the two standing before him hand in hand. Priscilla caught her breath: what white anguish was going to flash into his face when he grasped the situation? Judge then of her amazement, her hesitation whether to be pleased or vexed, to laugh or cry, when, grasping it, he leaped to his feet and in tones of a most limitless, a most unutterable relief, shouted three times running "_Gott sei Dank_!" CONCLUSION So that was the end of Priscilla's fortnight,--according to the way you look at it glorious or inglorious. I shall not say which I think it was; whether it is better to marry a prince, become in course of time a queen, be at the head of a great nation, be surfeited with honour, wealth, power and magnificence till the day when Death with calm, indifferent fingers strips everything away and leaves you at last to the meek simplicity of a shroud; or whether toilsome paths, stern resistances, buffetings bravely taken, battles fought inch by inch, an ideal desperately clung to even though in clinging you are slain, is not rather the part to be chosen of him whose soul would sit attired with stars. Anyhow the goddess laughed, the goddess who had left Priscilla in the lurch, when she heard the end of the adventure; and her unpleasant sister, having nothing more to do in Creeper Cottage, gathered up her rags and grinned too as she left it. At least her claws had lacerated much over-tender flesh during her stay; and though the Prince had interrupted the operation and forced her for the moment to inactivity, she was not dissatisfied with what had been accomplished. Priscilla, it will readily be imagined, made no farewell calls. She disappeared from Symford as suddenly as she had appeared; and Mrs. Morrison, coming into Creeper Cottage on Monday afternoon to unload her conscience yet more, found only a pleasant gentleman, a stranger of mellifluous manners, writing out cheques. She had ten minutes talk with him, and went home very sad and wise. Indeed from that day, her spirit being the spirit of the true snob, the hectorer of the humble, the devout groveller in the courtyards of the great, she was a much-changed woman. Even her hair felt it, and settled down unchecked to greyness. She no longer cared to put on a pink tulle bow in the afternoons, which may or may not be a sign of grace. She ceased to suppose that she was pretty. When the accounts of Priscilla's wedding filled all the papers she became so ill that she had to go to bed and be nursed. Sometimes to the vicar's mild surprise she hesitated before expressing an opinion. Once at least she of her own accord said she had been wrong. And although she never told any one of the conversation with the gentleman writing cheques, when Robin came home for Christmas and looked at her he knew at once what she knew. As for Lady Shuttleworth, she got a letter from Priscilla; quite a long one, enclosing a little one for Tussie to be given him if and when his mother thought expedient. Lady Shuttleworth was not surprised by what she read. She had suspected it from the moment Priscilla rose up the day she called on her at Baker's Farm and dismissed her. Till her marriage with the late Sir Augustus she had been lady-in-waiting to one of the English princesses, and she could not be mistaken on such points. She knew the sort of thing too well. But she never forgave Priscilla. How could she? Was the day of Tussie's coming of age, that dreadful day when he was nearest death, a day a mother could ever forget? It had all been most wanton, most cruel. We know she was full of the milk of human kindness: on the subject of Priscilla it was unmixed gall. As for Tussie,--well, you cannot have omelettes without breaking eggs, and Tussie on this occasion was the eggs. It is a painful part to play. He found it exquisitely painful, and vainly sought comfort in the consolation that it had been Priscilla's omelette. The consolation proved empty, and for a long while he suffered every sort of torment known to the sensitive. But he got over it. People do. They will get over anything if you give them time, and he being young had plenty of it. He lived it down as one lives down every sorrow and every joy; and when in the fulness of time, after a series of years in which he went about listlessly in a soft felt hat and an unsatisfactory collar, he married, it was to Priscilla's capital that he went for his honeymoon. She, hearing he was there, sent for them both and was kind. As for Annalise, she never got her twenty thousand marks. On the contrary, the vindictive Grand Duke caused her to be prosecuted for blackmailing, and she would undoubtedly have languished in prison if Priscilla had not interfered and sent her back to her parents. Like Mrs. Morrison, she is chastened. She does not turn up her nose so much. She does not sing. Indeed her songs ceased from the moment she caught sight through a crack in the kitchen door of the Prince's broad shoulders filling up Fritzing's sitting-room. From that moment Annalise swooned from one depth of respect and awe to the other. She became breathlessly willing, meek to vanishing point. But Priscilla could not forget all she had made her suffer; and the Prince, who had thought of everything, suddenly producing her head woman from some recess in Baker's Farm, where she too had spent the night, Annalise was superseded, her further bitter fate being to be left behind at Creeper Cottage in the charge of the gentleman with the cheque-book--who as it chanced was a faddist in food and would allow nothing more comforting than dried fruits and nuts to darken the doors--till he should have leisure to pack her up and send her home. As for Emma, she was hunted out by that detective who travelled down into Somersetshire with the fugitives and who had already been so useful to the Prince; and Priscilla, desperately anxious to make amends wherever she could, took her into her own household, watching over her herself, seeing to it that no word of what she had done was ever blown about among the crowd of idle tongues, and she ended, I believe, by marrying a lacquey,--one of those splendid persons with white silk calves who were so precious in the sight of Annalise. Indeed I am not sure that it was not the very lacquey Annalise had loved most and had intended to marry herself. In this story at least, the claims of poetic justice shall be strictly attended to; and Annalise had sniffed outrageously at Emma. As for the Countess Disthal, she married the doctor and was sorry ever afterwards; but her sorrow was as nothing compared with his. As for Fritzing, he is _Hofbibliothekar_ of the Prince's father's court library; a court more brilliant than and a library vastly inferior to the one he had fled from at Kunitz. He keeps much in his rooms, and communes almost exclusively with the dead. He finds the dead alone truly satisfactory. Priscilla loves him still and will always love him, but she is very busy and has little time to think. She does not let him give her children lessons; instead he plays with them, and grows old and patient apace. And now having finished my story, there is nothing left for me to do but stand aside and watch Priscilla and her husband walking hand-in-hand farther and farther away from me up a path which I suppose is the path of glory, into something apparently golden and rosy, something very glowing and full of promise, that turns out on closer scrutiny to be their future. It certainly seems radiant enough to the superficial observer. Even I, who have looked into her soul and known its hungers, am a little dazzled. Let it not however be imagined that a person who has been truthful so long as myself is going to lapse into easy lies at the last, and pretend that she was uninterruptedly satisfied and happy for the rest of her days. She was not; but then who is? 
34583	----	Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/germanpioneersta01spie [Illustration: "You are not my maid-servant, Catherine," he said gently. (P. 57.)] THE GERMAN PIONEERS A TALE OF THE MOHAWK BY FREDERICK SPIELHAGEN. _TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY_ The REV. LEVI STERNBERG. D. D. CHICAGO: Donohue, Henneberry & Co. 1891. * * * * * Copyright, 1891 BY DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO. * * * * * THE GERMAN PIONEERS CHAPTER I On a certain forenoon in the month of April, 1758, there was unusual activity in the harbor of New York. In spite of the disagreeable weather--which had now already lasted two days, with dense fogs and drizzling rain, and even then, from low, gray clouds, was drenching the multitude--there stood upon the quay dense groups of people looking at a large Dutch three-master, which had already lain a couple of days in the roadstead, and now was swinging at anchor in the troubled water nearer shore. "The gentlemen would have done better to have remained at home," said a little man, referring to two broad-shouldered farmers, who stood near. "I will eat my tailor's goose and not be called Samuel Squenz if, out of the skin-covered skeletons which have thus far passed here on their way to the state-house to take the oath of allegiance to our king--whom may God bless--they can select a single ordinary farmhand." "Have you seen them?" asked another, who had just joined the group. "Have I seen them!" replied Samuel Squenz. "We have all seen them. I tell you, neighbor, had they come out of the grave after lying there four months they could not have more bones and less flesh. Surely four months in the grave and four months on that Hollander amounts to about the same thing." "The poor devils!" said the other. "Ah, what poor devils?" called out a man, distinguished from those around him by his larger wig, more careful dress, rotund body, red, flabby cheeks, and German accent. "Poor devils! What brings them here? What are we to do with the starved ragamuffins, of whom one half could not pay full fare? Now according to our wise laws a wage-sale must be openly made, as was yesterday advertised both in the 'Gazette' and in the 'Journal.'" "They bring us nothing into the country except the dirty rags they have on and ship-fever, from which may God protect us," called out Samuel Squenz. "I kept nose and mouth shut as the vermin crept past us." "It is a sin," said neighbor Flint. "It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill. "Therefore I have always said," continued the man, with the red, hanging cheeks, "that we should do as they do in Philadelphia, where for the last thirty years they have levied a poll-tax of forty shillings on every imported Dutchman, just as they do on a nigger. But here a man may preach and preach, but it is to deaf ears. I will not stay out in the rain on account of these ragamuffins. Good day, gentlemen." The big man touched his three-cornered hat, but, instead of leaving the place, went with heavy strides to the edge of the quay and looked at the ship, which had by this time raised its anchor and was being slowly driven on by the tide. "It is a sin," said neighbor Flint. "It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill. "That is--for Mr. Pitcher to speak so," cried one who now came up and had heard the last words of him who was just leaving. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Brown?" asked Samuel Squenz, respectfully lifting his cap. "Isn't it a shame, now," said Mr. Brown, a small, old, lean man, who spoke with much animation, and while speaking gesticulated violently with his lean little arms. "Isn't it a shame for one to speak so contemptuously about his own countrymen? Is not this Mr. Pitcher just as good, or as bad as the poor devils there on the ship? Did not his parents, in 1710, while Robert Hunter was governor, come to New York with the great immigration, from the Palatinate? They were good, respectable people, whom I knew well, who had a hard time of it, and who honestly and honorably worked up to their subsequent better condition. They do not deserve that this, their son, whom I have seen running about the streets barefoot, should so utterly forget them and slander their memory as to change his name from the German, Krug, into the English, Pitcher. Pitcher indeed! The old Krug was, I think, made out of better clay than this young English Pitcher, who reviles these immigrants and thereby creeps under the same cover with the Dutch who sell people for a term of years, and deal in human flesh as you do, neighbor Flint, with beef, and you, neighbor Bill, with cheese and butter." The old man thrust his bamboo cane angrily into the moist ground. "It is a sin," said neighbor Flint. "It is a shame," said neighbor Bill. "With your permission, neighbors," said Samuel Squenz, "I will not praise Mr. Pitcher, though he gives me work. One must, however, honor his father, though he was a miserable Dutchman. Nor will I have anything to do with those who deal in human flesh, or sell people for a term of years. May the Lord forgive Mr. Pitcher if he meddles with such a business. But I cannot blame those to whom this immigration is an open grief, and who declare it to be injurious to the commonwealth. These vagabonds take the bread from our mouths, and stuff it into their unwashed mouths, while they are too stupid or too lazy to earn a shilling." "Do you see that man near the edge of the quay close to Mr. Pitcher?" said Mr. Brown. "The young farmer?" "The same. How do you like him?" "He is a noble looking fellow, though I cannot approve of the cut of his coat." "Now this young man is also German, called Lambert Sternberg. He lives on Canada Creek, and I have just, in my office, counted out one hundred pounds into his hands, and have given him a commission for another hundred pounds if he delivers to my correspondents in Albany this fall by October, on my account, the tar and rosin agreed upon." "Is it possible," said Samuel Squenz. "Yes, yes, there are exceptions." "Not at all an exception," earnestly replied Mr. Brown. "Lambert Sternberg's brother is a fur-hunter and has, for six years, been in a mutually advantageous partnership with my neighbor Squirrel. So likewise there live on Canada Creek, on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie dozens, yes, hundreds of excellent people, who have in their veins as pure German blood as you and I have English blood. By diligent labor they have placed themselves in comfortable circumstances; and it would have gone still better with them had not the Government, instead of aiding and protecting them, thrown obstacles in their way. This time the young man was obliged to take his long journey to New York to maintain his and his neighbors' rights to the pine trees growing on their own ground--a right as clear as the sun--and yet, God only knows what the issue would have been, had I not intervened and showed the Governor that the purchaser of land, first from the Indians, then from the government, should not be forced to buy it again for the third time from the first swindler who crowds himself in and manages to get some show of title." Mr. Brown spoke with great earnestness. Most of his hearers, whose eyes wandered back and forth between the speaker and the farmer at the edge of the quay, seemed to be convinced. However Samuel Squenz would not keep quiet, but cried out with a grieved voice: "What do you thus show, Mr. Brown, except that these scamps swallow up the land to which we, and our children, and our children's children, are entitled? And one must not speak of injury done to the commonwealth! I would like to know what else it should be called?" "A strengthening," cried Mr. Brown; "a strengthening and an establishing of the commonwealth. That would be the right word. Is it not a blessing for us all that outside, on the farthest border, these poor Germans have settled, and, if God permit, will settle still farther, and, by their position, are in constant conflict with the French, and whom we have to thank that you, and I, and all of us here in New York, can peacefully prosecute our business. When last fall Captain Belletre, with his French and Indians, fell upon the valley of the Mohawk, who hindered that he did not reach Albany, and God knows how much further? We did not, for two years ago we allowed Fort Oswego to be taken; and General Abercrombie, who commands at Albany, had done nothing to protect the threatened points until October when Belletre came. I ask again, who hindered? The Germans, who fought as well as they could under the lead of their watchful captain, Nicolas Herkimer, though they lost forty killed and one hundred and two prisoners, not to speak of the $50,000 damage done by the thieving, burning murderers. That is an injury to the commonwealth, Mr. Squenz, of which you may take occasion to think, Mr. Squenz, and therewith I commend you to God." The choleric old gentleman had spoken in such a passion that, in spite of the rain, he took off, not only his hat, but also his wig, and was now wiping his bald head with his handkerchief as he left the group and shuffled over to the young countryman, who still stood in the same place on the quay looking at the ship. Now, however, as the old man patted him on the shoulder, he turned about with the appearance of one who has just been awakened out of a dream. It could not have been a pleasant dream. On the fine, dark-complexioned face there was a trace of deep grief, and the large, blue, kind, German eyes looked very sad. "Ah, Mr. Brown," said the young man, "I supposed you had long since gone home." "While I stood but ten steps behind you and spent my breath in defending you! But so it is with you Germans. To strike home when it comes to the worst--that you can do; but to speak for yourselves--to maintain your rights against the simpletons who look at you over the shoulder and who shrug the shoulder over you--that you leave for others." "What has happened, Mr. Brown?" said the young man. "What has happened! The old story. I have again rushed into the fire for you sleepy fellows--I, an old fool. Do you think--but for this morning I have already vexed myself enough on your account, and I can surely reckon on having an attack of the colic this evening. And this weather besides--the devil take the weather, and the Germans too! Come, Mr. Lambert, come." The old man moved about uneasily. "I would like to stay a little longer," said Lambert, hanging back. "You have no time to lose if you mean to go by the Albany boat. It leaves at three o'clock, and you also wanted to get your horse shod." Lambert turned from the ship, which by this time had come quite near, to his business friend, and from him again to the ship. "If you will permit me," said Lambert. "Do as you please," cried the old man. "You may look at your countrymen and spoil your appetite for dinner. Or you may buy a young blockhead who will eat the hair off your head, or a handsome maid who would not behave at home, but is naturally good enough for you--or perhaps rather two--that your brother Conrad may also be provided for. Do as you please, but let me go home. We eat at twelve, and Mrs. Brown likes her guests to be punctual. Good morning." Mr. Brown held down his hat, which the wind threatened to take off, with his bamboo cane, and hurried away at the moment when a dull sound from Broadway indicated that the immigrants were returning. CHAPTER II There entered new life into the wet and surly groups on the quay. Men stood on tiptoe and eagerly looked in the direction of Broadway, where the wretched crowd now appeared. Others pressed forward to the point where the ship was to land. It was now so near that they were already casting over the ropes. Lambert, who still stood on the outer edge, saw himself surrounded by a dense mass, and thus kept in a place he would now have gladly surrendered to anyone whose eyes and heart could better endure the sight of the utmost human wretchedness. The scene of this misery was the deck of the ship above and below, of which he now had an unobstructed view. Already, from a distance, had the confusion caused by the commingled piles of bales, casks, trunks, and baskets, between which wives and children were wandering about, filled him with sad reflections. But his heart ceased to beat and his chest to heave as, clearer and clearer, and now also very near, the crying and scolding, weeping and lamenting of the unfortunate people struck upon his ear. As his glance wandered from one pitiable object to another, he everywhere saw countenances deathly pale and disfigured by hunger and sickness, out of whose deep, sunken eyes dull despair and frenzied anxiety fearfully glared. As they thus stood in motionless groups it seemed as if they had lost all power and inclination to do anything for themselves. Their heads were stretched forward like timid sheep which the butcher's dog has driven to the door of the slaughter house. Thus they hastened and hurried and crowded between the chests and casks, and greedily gathered up their poor belongings. Elsewhere, in confused quarreling and strife, they snatched bundles from each other, and threatened each other with their fists, until the supercargo intervened and with scolding and pushing and striking, separated them. Lambert could endure the horrible sight no longer, and pressed back the crowd which now surrounded him like a wall. As he involuntarily cast a last glance over the deck it fell upon a form which he had not before noticed, and at once he stopped as though struck by lightning. Directly before him there leaned against a great pile of bales a young, tall, slender maiden. Her right arm was thrust against the bales, the hand supporting her head. Her other arm hung at her side. Her face, of which he had only a side view, was so thin and pale that the long, dark eyelashes were brought out with singular distinctness. The lustrous black hair was wound around the head in comely braids, and her dress, though poor and threadbare enough, was more tasty than that of the other women, to whom she was evidently greatly superior in refinement. As though a powerful enchantment had seized him, Lambert could not withdraw his gaze from this face. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He had not thought that anything so beautiful could be found. Nearly breathless, without knowing what he was doing--even forgetting where he was--he looked at the stranger as though she were an apparition, until, with sad shaking of the head, she let her supporting arm fall and, passing around the pile of goods against which she had leaned, she disappeared from his sight. At this moment, back on the Battery, there sounded a great shouting and drumming and fifing. The crowd pressed forward, and was again pushed back. The police who accompanied the immigrants had already had trouble with the mob all the way through the city, and now, having to pass through the compact mass on the quay to the gang-plank, were obliged to use all their authority and to swing their clubs indiscriminately. So it happened that over the living wall before him Lambert saw now and then a pale, grief-stricken countenance, as the poor immigrants passed over the narrow gangway to the deck of the ship. Here those who had just returned on board immediately began to call for their wives and children, some of whom, overcome by fatigue, did not move, while others hastened to their husbands as soon as possible. A dreadful confusion arose, which was increased by the ship's crew rushing into the crowd and making room by pushing and striking indiscriminately. It had reached its highest point when those on the quay, headed by the stout Mr. Pitcher, in a close mass pushed on from behind and blocked up the way to every one who, with his bundles and packs, desired to leave the ship. The men screamed, the women cried, the children whimpered, the captain and sailors cursed and swore. The police swung their clubs. It was a dreadful chaos, in which Lambert's anxious glances were ever peering about for the poor girl who was looking on the tumult which was roaring around her, so lonely, so forsaken, so still and patient. As he saw her form again emerge, now on the forward part of the deck, he held back no longer. Without further thought, with a mighty spring from the edge of the quay, he swung himself aboard of the ship and hastened to the point where he had last seen her. He knew not why he did this. He had no conception of what he should say to the maiden when he should reach her. It seemed as though he was drawn by unseen hands, which it was impossible for him to resist, and to whose guidance he willingly committed himself. After he had approached her, lost sight of her, feared at last that he should not again find her, he suddenly came near her. She had kneeled on the deck before a couple of children--a boy and a girl from six to eight years old--whose threadbare garments she was fixing, and was speaking; to a woman who stood near with quite a small child in her arms, and who was constantly scolding, till the husband came up and dragged the children away, scolding and cursing. His wife followed him without a word or look of thanks to her who was left behind. She slowly arose and looked sadly at those who were leaving. She followed them, tied a small piece of cloth which she had worn, about the neck of the smallest child, and then slowly returned to the place where the family had left her. Her countenance was more sad than before. Tears rolled over her pale cheeks. "Can I be of any help to you, madam?" asked Lambert. The girl raised her dark eyelashes, and looked searchingly with her large brown eyes at his kind, honorable face. "Nobody can help me," said she. "Have you no parents, no relatives, no friends?" asked Lambert. "I have nobody--nobody," replied the maiden, and turned herself partly away that she might hide the tears which now burst forth in streams from her eyes. Lambert's eyes also became moist. The trouble of the poor girl pressed heavily on his heart. "Can you not leave the ship?" he further inquired. The unhappy one, without answering, only wept the more. "Do not consider me too pressing, kind maiden, I have seen you standing so forsaken that my pity has been awakened. And now you yourself say that you are alone, that you have nobody to help you, and that nobody can help you. Perhaps I can do so if you will confide in me. I will surely do all that is in my power." While the young man thus spoke the girl wept more and more gently. She now again turned her pale face to him and said: "I thank you, kind man. I thank you with my whole heart, and may God bless you for the compassion you have felt for a poor, helpless creature. But help--that indeed you cannot. Who could help me? By whose help could I leave this ship?" Her countenance took on an unusual expression. She looked, with staring eyes, over the bulwarks into the water which rose and fell at the ship's bow. "For me there is but one means of escape," she murmured. At this moment a man, cursing, pressed through the crowd, which made room for him in all directions. He was an under-sized, broad-shouldered fellow with a red wig, a brutal countenance and a pair of green eyes which glittered maliciously. He put on quite an air, dressed in his ship uniform, and drew after him a sturdy farmer, who seemed to follow him reluctantly and who looked at the maiden with dull, staring eyes, while he in the uniform approached, and with legs spread apart, called out in poor German: "So, Miss Catherine Weise, I have soon picked up a man. He is the richest farmer within ten miles, as he says himself, and needs a capable maid-servant on his farm. He has already bid forty on my bare recommendation. That indeed is scarcely the half, but perhaps he will now give the whole amount, after he has himself seen you, and has convinced himself that I did not lie to him. What do you think, Mr. Triller? Isn't she a stunner? Are you now willing to fork over, ha?" He struck the farmer on the shoulder and broke out in uproarious laughter. "Let it be forty-five, captain," said the farmer, "and I'll take her as she stands." "Not a shilling under ninety," cried the captain, "not a shilling, even if I should have to keep her myself. No, she would gladly stay with me. Isn't it true. Miss Catherine? She is a stunner." "Don't touch her; if you don't want your skull cracked!" cried Lambert. The captain took a step back and stared at the young farmer, whom he had not before noticed, and who now stood before him with glowing eyes and balled fists. "Oho!" he exclaimed, "who are you? Do you know that I am Captain Van Broom? Do you know that I shall at once throw you into the water? What is your name? What do you want?" He took a step back, having said the last words in a far less confident tone. He did not think it prudent to have anything further to do with a man of so resolute an appearance and so evidently superior to himself in bodily strength. "My name is Lambert Sternberg, from Canada Creek," said the young man. "There live in the city of New York respectable citizens who know me well; and what I want I will soon tell you, if you will kindly step aside with me for a few moments." "As you wish; as you wish," snarled the captain. "In a moment," said Lambert. He approached the maiden, who stood trembling violently, and said to her in a low tone, "Catherine Weise, will you accept me as your protector, and permit me to do for you what, under such circumstances, an honorable man should do for a helpless maiden?" A deep blush spread over Catherine's face She fixed her dark eyes upon her questioner with a peculiar expression that made his inmost heart flutter. She tried to answer, but there came no sound from her trembling lips. "Wait here for me," said the young man. He turned to the captain and went with him to a retired part of the deck. The robust farmer had turned aside and felt no further interest in the deal, after he saw that another purchaser for the merchandise was found, and which, all things considered, was entirely too dear for him. "Now, Mr. Broom," said Lambert, as he overtook him, "I am at your service." "I'll be----if I know what you want," said the captain. "Simply this: To take that girl there, whom you call Catherine Weise, with me from the ship, and that at once." "Oho!" said the captain, "you are in a hurry. Has she told you how much she owes us?" "No," said Lambert, "but I have already heard the amount from you." "Ninety pounds! sir, ninety pounds! That isn't a small matter," cried the captain. "I suppose you will be able to show that the maiden owes you so much. You will then find me ready." The captain cast a grim side-glance at the young man like a hyena driven from his prey by a leopard. He would have liked to have the beautiful booty for himself, but was far too shrewd a business man not to avail himself of such a chance. Besides, the Messrs. Van Sluiten and Co., in Rotterdam, and Mr. Pitcher, who was probably now in the ship's office engaged with the book-keeper, had also a word to say. So he spoke in what was for him an unusually courteous tone, instead of the coarse one he had just used: "If I can show it?--yes, sir. For what do you take Captain Van Broom? With us about everything is booked twice, sir, in farthings and pence. Are you surprised that the amount is so large? I will make it clear. The girl is the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Weise, who died eight days ago, and was buried with all honor at sea. He was a preacher in the region from which most of my passengers come. On the way, I must say it of him, he put himself to a good deal of trouble for his filthy people and did for them more than his strength would bear, while they in Southampton suffered with hunger and cold; and now on the voyage provisions with us became somewhat scarce, and the water--well, one has a heart in his breast, and I yielded to the preacher when he came to borrow for his people. So it has happened that his account has run up a little higher than is usual. At the best not much was to be got from the old man, though there still remained the girl, for whom doubtless a purchaser could be found. So I have taken the risk, and have by degrees given them credit for a hundred pounds." "You before said ninety." "A hundred pounds, by----!" shrieked the captain. "Come with me into the office. There I will show you in black and white. You, there, supercargo, see to it that the thieving vagabonds do not slip from aboard. And you, Mr. Jones, do not leave the gangplank; and keep with you Jean and Jacob, and knock any one down who tries to leave the ship without a pass. Should any one ask for me, he must wait a moment. I have to speak with this gentleman. Will you follow me, Mr. Sternberg?" The captain opened the door of a low and spacious cabin which was built on the deck. A dark-complexioned man, with immense brass rings in his ears, sat at a table covered with thick books and papers, diligently writing. Near him stood Mr. Pitcher, with his red, bloated, flabby cheeks, and on his wig-covered head his three-cornered hat, looking over his shoulder. "Ah!" said the captain, "here you are, too, Mr. Pitcher. That fits charmingly. Now we can make the matter clear at once. This is Mr. Charles Pitcher, our general agent for New York. This--" "I think I already have the honor," said Mr. Pitcher, lifting his hat. "Are not you Mr. Sternberg from Canada Creek, whom I met two years ago in Albany? Have you transacted your business with Mr. Brown? I lately saw you with him on Broadway. Well, other people want to live too. Excuse me, Mr. Sternberg; excuse me. Take a seat. What brings you to us at this time, Mr. Sternberg?" "It is on account of Catherine Weise," said the captain, in whose eyes the simple countryman, with whom the rich Mr. Pitcher desired to have dealings, had assumed a quite different appearance. "I told you about her yesterday, Mr. Pitcher." Between Mr. Pitcher and the captain there now took place a short but earnest conversation, of which Lambert understood nothing, as it was carried on in Dutch. They ought to have let the girl go free, but the hateful man at the desk opened a large book and said: "Catherine Weise, folio 470 to 475, beginning September sixth of last year, in Rotterdam, brought until to day, April fifteenth, 1758, port of New York, amounting to £89, 10s.--" "Ninety-nine pounds," corrected Captain Van Broom. "Ninety-nine pounds," repeated the man with the ear-rings. "The gentleman will require a conveyance from us to which the proper signatures are attached. For this we charge one pound. Here is the form. Please give me the specifications as I write." The dark-complexioned man took a sheet of parchment and read, in a leaden, business-like voice: "_In nomine dei_: Between Lambert Sternberg, of Canada Creek, and Joanna Catherine Weise, of Zellerfeld, in the electorate of Hanover, aged twenty years, single, the following service contract--shall we say six years, Mr. Sternberg." It is the usual period--for six successive years from this date, under the following conditions mutually agreed upon: "_Pro primo_: Joanna Catherine Weise, born, etc.; agrees of her own free will, and after due consideration, to bind herself to Mr. Lambert Sternberg to go with him, or under his direction, to West Canada Creek, in the province of New York, and there, from the day on which she shall have arrived in the before-named district, for six successive years to give him true and faithful required maid-service, under no pretense to relax it, much less, without the consent of Lambert Sternberg, to forsake his service. "To this, _pro secundo_, Lambert Sternberg promises--" "It is enough," said Lambert. "How?" said he with the ear-rings. "It is enough," said Lambert. "I wish first to talk over the conditions with the maiden." "My dear sir, consider the circumstances," called out Mr. Pitcher, in a friendly, helpful tone. "When a man pays £99 he can dictate the conditions." "That may be," replied Lambert. "However, it is my privilege to deal in my own way." "As you wish--altogether as you wish," said Mr. Pitcher. "We force nobody. You also wish--" "Simply a receipt in full for Catherine Weise." "As you please," said Mr. Pitcher. While he with the ear-rings wrote out the receipt, and Lambert counted out the money on the table--it was the same that he had received an hour before from Mr. Brown--Mr. Pitcher and the captain grimaced sneeringly behind the back of the simpleton who was so easily limed, and never once looked at the famous account he was satisfying. "So," said Mr. Pitcher, "this is finished. Now we will--" "Drink to your happy journey," said the captain, as he reached for a rum-flask which stood near on the rack. "And to the _et cetera_, _et cetera_," cried Mr. Pitcher. "Good morning, Messrs.," said Lambert, gathering up the receipt, the half-finished contract and Catherine's passage-ticket, and hurrying out of the cabin as though the deck under him was afire. Brutal laughter rung behind him. He stood still a moment. His cheeks glowed. His heart beat furiously against his ribs. Every convulsed fiber of his body urged him to turn back and take vengeance on the mean scoundrels for their laughter. But he thought of the poor girl--how much more she had endured, and that he could do nothing better for her than to release her from such a hell, as soon as possible. The deck had now been somewhat cleared. The more fortunate ones, who needed not to fear the book in the hands of the man with the ear-rings, had already left the ship. Those who were obliged to stay sat and stood around in groups. Stupid indifference or uncertainty characterized their wan appearance. Curious gazers moved about among them, some of whom had come desirous of making contracts similar to the one which lay crushed in Lambert's coat-pocket. The heavy farmer, who had before made a bid on Catherine, was now speaking with another girl, who had adorned her rags with a couple of red ties, and laughed heartily at the broken German, and at the jokes of the man. They seemed to be already agreed on a bargain. Lambert hastened as fast as he could to the farther part of the deck, where he had already seen Catherine in the same place where he had left her. But as he came near her he stopped. It seemed to him that nothing had yet been accomplished--that all yet remained to be done. She now turned and saw him. A melancholy smile spread over her countenance. "Is it not true? Nobody can help me," said she. "Here is your receipt and your ticket," said Lambert. His strong, brown hands shook as he gave her the papers, and her thin white hands trembled as she took them. A burning red spread over her countenance. "Have you done this for me?" said she. Lambert did not reply, and was greatly agitated as she immediately bowed down, caught his hands and pressed them against her weeping face and lips. "Kind maiden--kind maiden! what are you doing?" stammered Lambert. "Don't weep. I was glad to do it. I am fortunate to have been able to render you this service. Were it possible I would do the same for all the other unfortunates here. But now let us away. I have but a few hours left. I must begin my homeward journey. I would be glad first to know that you are in safety. Do you know anyone in the city, or in its vicinity to whom I can take you?" Catherine shook her head. "Have you no friends among the immigrants who perhaps expect you to accompany them on their farther journey?" "I have nobody--nobody!" said the girl. "You see everyone thinks only of himself, and alas! everybody has enough of his own to look after." Lambert stood helpless. He thought for a moment about his old business friend, Mr. Brown. But, alas! Mrs. Brown was not a kind woman. To her, her husband's predilection for the Germans seemed very ridiculous. It did not very well please her to welcome strangers. He knew no other house in the city, except the inn where he had left his horse, and which in other respects was not desirable, especially as to the company which gathered there. He looked at Catherine as though advice must come from her, but her eyes had an anxious and strained expression. "Do you mean to give me over to other people?" said she. "What do you mean?" asked Lambert. "Kind sir, you have already done so much for me, and are reluctant now to tell me that you can do no more for me. I will need a long, long time with my service to pay the heavy debt. I know it well. But I would cheerfully serve you and your parents as long as I live, and even give my life for you. Now you wish to take me to others. Speak freely. I will gladly bind myself for as many years as they desire and make good your recommendation." She smiled sadly and picked up a small bundle that lay near her. "I am ready," said she. "Catherine!" said Lambert. She looked inquiringly at him. "Catherine!" said he again. His chest heaved and fell as though he was summoning up all his strength to speak calmly. "I live far from here, full twenty days' travel, on the utmost border, the farthest settler, in an impoverished region, open to the inroad of our enemies, and which last year suffered from them a dreadful visitation. But if you will go with me--" A joyful perplexity showed itself in Catherine's wan face. "How can you ask?" said she. "Well may I ask," replied Lambert, "and well must I ask. It remains with you. Your evidence of indebtedness is in your own hands and I will never again take it in mine. You are free to come and to go. And so, Catherine Weise, I ask you once more, will you as a free maiden go with me to my home, if I promise you on the honor of a man that I will care for you, help and protect you as a brother should his sister?" "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine. Breathing deeply, she laid her hand in his offered right hand. Then they hastened over the deck. Catherine nodded tearfully to one and another. She could not speak. Her heart was too full for speech. No one returned her silent farewell, except with dumb and hopeless looks which cut her to the heart. On the long and terrible journey from her home until now, according to her strength and beyond her strength, she had tried to mitigate the boundless wretchedness around her. She could do no more than leave the hapless creatures to their fate. Alas! what a fate awaited those who were here cast on a strange shore like the scattered fragments of a wreck that has been the dreadful sport of the waves. Tears of pity dimmed her eyes. Her senses forsook her. When, holding her bundle of clothing in her hand, she felt her feet standing on solid ground, she knew not how she had got off the ship. Catherine said nothing, but in her inmost heart she cried out again and again: "God be praised!" CHAPTER III The setting sun, which hung over the forest sea of Canada Creek, poured its purple beams over the travelers. They had just emerged from the woods through which they had been going the whole day by solitary, narrow Indian trails. At their feet lay the valley, filled with roseate evening mist, following the windings of the creek. Lambert stopped the strong-limbed horse which he was leading by the bridle as they were ascending the valley, and said to his companion: "This is Canada Creek, and that is our house." "Where?" asked Catherine. Leaning over the saddle and protecting her eyes from the sun with her hand she eagerly looked in the direction which the young man had indicated. "There," said he, "toward the north, where the creek appears. Do you see it?" "Now I do," said Catherine. At this moment the horse, with expanded nostrils, snorted, and suddenly leapt sideways. The unprepared rider lost her balance and would have fallen off had not her companion, by a quick spring, caught her in his arms. "It is nothing," said he, as she slid down to the ground. "Old Hans acts as if he had never before seen a snake. Are you not ashamed of yourself, old fellow? So--keep quiet, so!" He patted the frightened horse on his short, thick neck, stripped off the bridle and tied him to a sapling. "You must have been terribly frightened," said he. His voice and hands shook while he buckled on the pillion which had become displaced. "Oh, no," said Catherine. She had seated herself on the root of a tree, and looked over the valley where now, over the luxuriant meadow which followed the course of the stream, a fog began to rise. Yonder the sun was just dipping into the emerald, forest sea, and the golden flames on the trunks, boughs and tops of the great trees were gradually fading away. From above, the cloudless, greenish-blue evening sky looked down, while a flock of wild swans was flying northward up the valley. From time to time they uttered their peculiar, melancholy cry, melodiously softened by the distance. A deep, quiet stillness brooded over the primitive forest. The young man stood leaning against the shoulder of the horse. There rested on his brown face a deep, sad anxiety. Often a shadow of restlessness and fear passed over it, widely differing from the usual expression of the smooth, manly features, and obscuring the light that commonly danced in the large blue eyes. He looked now at the swans, which shone as silver stars in the distant, rosy horizon--now at the maiden who sat there, partly turned away from him. At length, drawing a deep breath a couple of times, he approached her. "Catherine," said he. She raised her handsome face. Her large brown eyes were filled with tears. "Are you sorry that you have come with me?" said the young man. Catherine shook her head. "No," said she; "how unthankful I should then be." "And yet, you are weeping." "I am not weeping," said Catherine, as she drew her hands across her eyes and tried to smile. "I was just thinking how happy my father would have been, had he, at the end of his wanderings, found this still place. Ah! just so had he wished and dreamed. Still it could not be so. How your parents will rejoice to see you again." She was about to rise. Lambert touched her shoulder. "Stay yet a moment, Catherine, I have--I must ask you something." The anxiety that had already before showed itself in his face become still greater. His brows were contracted. His eyes had a stern, severe look. Catherine looked up at him with astonishment. "Had my parents meanwhile died and you and I, Catherine, must dwell alone in yonder house--" "You must not speak so, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine. "It is our duty to trust the Lord. They are doubtless alive and well--they and your brother. Why do we lose time? The evening is passing and I am fully rested." Lambert wished to make a reply, but the words refused to pass his lips. He stared before him as if in uncertainty, and at length turned to the horse, and with a degree of violence thrust the bit between his teeth. Then he threw the rifle, which stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, on his shoulder and, leading his horse by the bridle, began to descend the rocky declivity. Silently Catherine followed, carefully looking where she could with confidence set her foot, casting many a glance at those going before. The path was very steep and the horse often slid. Lambert needed all his strength and carefulness, and it was manifest that he did not once look back, nor did he ask Catherine how she was getting along. Meanwhile Catherine's heart palpitated. It seemed as though the restlessness, the anxiety about his home that spoke in Lambert's words and looks, had also seized her. "Were they indeed dead--were they all dead--and were we two, he and I, to dwell in yonder house!" They had reached the valley. Here, along the creek, which flowed in many windings between the meadow banks, there was an easier though narrower path. The horse thrust forward his ears, neighed and stepped along quicker. Lambert had to hold him by the bridle. Catherine walked a little to one side. It did not tire the slim, vigorous girl to come along. It was not the exertion that caused her to breathe with difficulty. The silence which Lambert had not broken for a long time pressed upon her more and more. She was not accustomed to it. On the other hand--this she now for the first time thought of--he had toyed with her during the journey of weeks, he had always talked with her in a way so kind and good. Now, however, in view of his nearer responsibilities he had become silent. He did not speak of those belonging to him. Indeed she would not have known that his parents were living had he not, when she asked him whether he thought that his mother would be satisfied with her, replied that she should give herself no uneasiness on that account. Had he not even now expressed a fear that he should not find his parents alive? "The kind man," said she to herself, "did not wish to make the heart of the poor orphan heavy by telling me about his parents, and now he cannot wait for the time of meeting them." "Catherine," said he at that moment. "Lambert," replied she, coming to his side, glad that he had at last broken silence. As he said no more to her as she waited, she added, "You wished to say something?" "We shall not live there alone," indicating the block-house with his eyes, standing but a few steps from them. "No, surely not," she replied. He gave her an unusual look. "Do not be so anxious, kind Lambert, we are in God's care." "No, certainly not," replied he. He had not observed what she had last said, and only recalled her former words. But it affected her painfully when, through misapprehension, she had heard denied that which she believed, with all her heart, as her old father had believed in all need and trouble. "We are in God's care!" That was the text of his last sermon which, already himself dying, he had delivered between decks to his unhappy fellow sufferers. That was his last word as, a few hours later, he breathed out, in their arms, his pure spirit. Did not her pious childhood-faith approve itself to her in a wonderful manner? When all human help seemed impossible, did not a kind man, God-sent, come, and with a strong hand lead her out of the labyrinth, and carefully conduct her over hills and mountains, creeks and rivers, through endless forests and immeasurable prairies? Never, never, by the side of the good and strong one, had there come to her a feeling of anxiety or fear. Now, as she was nearing the end of her pilgrimage, should doubt find sly entrance? "I will protect and help you as a brother does his sister!" Had he promised too much? Why did he walk so self-absorbed, so still and dumb at her side, now that he was so near his own hearth and that of his parents? Did he, perhaps, fear that he would not be kindly received on account of the stranger he was bringing home? Why was the house there before them so still? No barking of dogs. No sign of those who at the next moment might be expected to rush into the arms of the home-comer. The solitary house on the little hillock, gently descending from it on all sides, and standing near the creek which, like a snake through the grass, was quietly winding among the rushes, was perfectly silent. Silent and still were the dark woods which here and there overlooked the valley from the heights along the shore. As she now reached the house Catherine felt as though her heart would leap forth as she observed that the lower story, built of immense logs, had no windows but narrow slits like the portholes in the walls of a fortress, and that the upper story was surrounded by a low, massive breastwork, and that the shingle roof was quite high. Lambert tied the horse to a heavy ring which was near the door, cast searching glances about the house and surroundings, murmured something that she did not understand, and finally pushed slowly against the heavy door which opened inward. He disappeared in the house, came out after a few moments and said: "There is nobody here. We are entirely alone. Will you go with me?" They were the very same words that he had addressed to her on the deck of the emigrant ship, and she again answered him as then: "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg." She grasped the hand which he had extended to her and followed him into the forsaken house. CHAPTER IV While Lambert had been engaged within there came through the door a bright light, which Catherine now saw was produced by a large pine fagot burning in a corner of the room near a great stone-hearth. The room was half kitchen and store-room, and half living-room--such as the young woman had become acquainted with in many a farm-house where she had rested during her journey. It was fitted up with various utensils hanging on the walls and ceiling, standing in corners and lying on the floor. Near the hearth there were a couple of rough pine chairs, and, against the wall, a large four-cornered table, serving both for a dressing-table and for meals. There still stood on it a couple of earthen dishes on which were the remains of a meal to which a bear's ham, which had not again been hung upon its hook, contributed the principal part. The entire arrangement was planned on the basis of the simplest necessity. There was no trace of an endeavor after grace and beauty, or the merely agreeable. This observation, that the young maiden made with her first glance about the room, fell upon her heart even more heavily than the empty house. The house would fill up when the absent ones returned, but would she be happy in the company of those who lived here, who called it their home? "I must look after my horse," said Lambert, "and after the rest of the things. You may meanwhile prepare the evening meal--you will probably find something. We will after that consider your sleeping apartment. It looks very bad here, but Conrad knows nothing about order. However, you can have a chamber upstairs. I will sleep below. I shall not go far, and will soon be back. Do not be afraid." He said all this forcibly, in snatches, while prying into the corners, so that she scarcely understood him. Then he quickly left the house, and she heard him outside untie the horse and go away with it. "Do not be afraid! Should I be so it would not be strange. How wonderful it all is! But he has been so heavenly kind to me, a poor girl; and surely his intentions are as honorable and true as ever. Where can they be? They must certainly be at some neighbor's." She had seen at a distance from the creek a couple of roofs. "Does he still expect them back? Now I will do what becomes a good maid who expects her master. What shall I begin with? Yes, that is it. So, it will soon begin to look more cheerful." She turned to the hearth and in a few minutes had made a bright fire with the dry, prepared pine wood that lay near. Then she took from the hook the kettle that hung by a chain against the wall and filled it half full of water, which she drew from a pump that stood directly beside the hearth. She sought and soon found whatever else was needed for the preparation of the evening meal. She was uncertain of the number for whom she was to provide. She finally concluded that six would be the correct number: Lambert's parents, his brother Conrad, of whom he had spoken a couple of times, Lambert himself, and perhaps there might be another member of the family, or they might bring a guest with them. When she had finished this work she began to put the room in order, but only what would come right with but little labor. "For," said she, "I have no right to do it, and they might be displeased with me." She had thus quietly labored for a quarter of an hour, and as there was for the moment nothing more to do and the water in the kettle was boiling, she went to the hearth and looked at the flaming fire, thinking that it must at least be time for Lambert to return. She heard a noise behind her. She turned half around and was greatly frightened when she saw, but a few steps from her, instead of Lambert, a stranger staring at her without moving, with a look of such wonder, as though he did not believe his own eyes. The light of the pine sticks burning with a bright flame fell full upon him. It was fortunate for Catherine that, the same moment, she saw that the giant-like man, clothed in a peculiar half-farmer, half-Indian garb, was quite young, and that his sunburned face was handsome, and that his great, wondering eyes had a merry look. And now the young giant leaned his rifle, which he had allowed to slip to the floor, against the table, gave his strong hands a ringing slap, broke out in very loud laughter, threw himself into a chair which cracked in spite of its strong construction, sprang up again and approached the maiden, who drew back somewhat, again began to laugh, though not so loud, then was silent, shook his short, brown locks and said: "Lambert has done this well; but where is the other one?" Catherine did not answer. She did not know what to think of the words of the young man though they affected her disagreeably, and her heart began to beat powerfully. The young giant looked about the room as though searching whether any one were hidden there. He then again directed his glances toward Catherine, but with a different expression in the large eyes which now shone with a deeper light. He said through his white teeth: "You are handsome, girl. I have never before seen anything so beautiful. What is your name?" "Catherine," said the young maiden, who felt that she must say something. "Catherine Weise. You are Conrad, Lambert's brother. I see it by the resemblance. Your brother Lambert has been very kind to me--very kind. We have just arrived. He has gone to put the horse in the stable. I think he will soon be here. You should have met him. Will the others also come soon?" "Who should come?" asked Conrad. "Your parents," said Catherine. She said it very faintly, fear, increasing every moment, almost strangling her. Conrad showed his white teeth. "Our parents!" cried he, "our parents! They are long since dead. You must be satisfied with us two." "I will look for Lambert," said Catherine, and tried to pass Conrad to the door. Conrad stepped in her way. "So," said he smiling provokingly, "then Lambert has brought you along for himself, the cunning fellow--and I must look further. Now, as for myself, I am the younger man and can wait a little; but one kiss, beautiful sister-in-law, that you must give me--that is the least." He stretched out his powerful hands and with giant strength insolently drew the resisting girl to him and kissed her glowing cheeks. At this moment the water, which for a long time had simmered, noisily, sissing and whizzing, poured over the edge of the kettle in a large swell into the fire which it almost extinguished. A thick, gray vapor, through which the light of the fire looked red, rose and filled the room. Catherine tore herself loose, or was torn loose, she could not tell which; but there were now two persons there struggling together, and the other might well be Lambert. She also thought she had heard Lambert call her name, and so again, as outside the evening wind fanned her cheeks glowing with anger and shame. Within, the vapor had disappeared. Conrad, having disengaged himself with a powerful effort from his assailant, fell laughing on his neck. "Lambert, dear, best Lambert!" "Let me go!" said Lambert, freeing himself from the embrace. "Let me go. Catherine!" He looked with wandering, anxious eyes about the poorly lighted room. "She has gone out," said Conrad. "I will bring her again for you." "No, no, _I_ will, I must," called Lambert, already at the door. "At least take me along--I beg you, Conrad, let me. I will afterwards explain everything to you. Catherine! For the mercy of God! She may have fallen into the creek!" "Stupid stuff!" said Conrad, who, less excited than his brother, had cast his eyes, sharp as those of a falcon, in every direction. "There she sits, there, do you see?" "I will go to her alone." "You may, so far as I am concerned. And Lambert, listen, have you not also brought me a wife?" But Lambert was already hastening with beating heart to the place where he saw Catherine sit, or lie, he could not tell which, on account of the distance and the evening twilight which now prevailed. Catherine had run straight forward from the hill on which the house stood until she saw the creek at her feet. She now ran along its edge, scarcely knowing what she wished to do, or whither to go, driven by the painful feeling that the man whom she had trusted as she did her God, had deceived her. She could not make it clear to herself. Everything had come so quickly--had passed like a shadow in the smoke and mist from the fire on the hearth. What she had conceived to be a family, consisted of two brothers fighting with each other--fighting on her account. And this was the end of her long pilgrimage, which she had begun in such a hopeful spirit--with a constantly increasing confidence--yes, at last with wonderful joyfulness. This the end! "O, my God, my God!" groaned the young girl, stopping and looking anxiously into the wilderness which in fearful silence surrounded her, the night with its gathering darkness settling down upon her. "O, my God, my God!" A bridge, consisting of an immense tree trunk, led across the creek at the place where she now was. She had already set one foot on the dangerous crossing when it suddenly became dark before her eyes. Involuntarily she turned and sank back on her knees, laying her head against the trunk of the tree. Her senses forsook her. Then, as if from a great distance, she heard her name called, "Catherine!" Again, but now quite near, "Catherine!" She opened her eyes. Near her in the grass kneeled Lambert. He had seized her powerless hands. His long, smooth, brown hair fluttered confusedly in the evening wind about his pale, anxious face. "Catherine," he said again, "can you forgive me?" She looked at him. She wished to say: "Why have you done this to me?" But her heart was too full. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. Others followed them unrestrained. She wished to withdraw her hands from those of Lambert. He, however, in his desperation, held her fast, and in a despairing voice, cried: "For God's sake, Catherine, listen to me. I meant it well. I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I could not. I thought you would not so willingly go with me if you knew the actual state of things. I endured a great fear, as you may have perceived, when we passed through Albany and Schenectady and the valley of the Mohawk, where they all know me. I always went first into the houses to beg the people not to speak to you of my situation. To-day I left the road and came on through the woods so that nobody here on the creek should meet me. It was not right; it was very foolish; it was bad in me that I did not requite your confidence with confidence on my part; but I did not know how to help myself. For God's sake, forgive me, Catherine." She had now withdrawn her hands and laid them across her breast. Lambert had risen. He brushed his hair from his face. With all the thoughts that crossed his brain, with all the feelings that filled his breast, he knew not what more he should say--what he had said. "Catherine, believe me, oh, believe me! I had not thought when I reached New York that I should not return alone to my home. I will take you back again--will take you where you will. My uncle Christian Ditmar and his wife, my aunt, are old and childless and will be glad to have you; and Conrad and I will again live as we have hitherto. Conrad has ever been to me a kind and faithful brother, and he now feels very sorry that he has so offended you. We will both watch over you--watch over you all--as we always have here where we are the farthest settlers. However, as you will, Catherine, as you will." She had now raised herself up, and, as she stood there in the light of the moon which had for some time risen above the edge of the forest, Lambert thought that the beloved maiden had never before appeared so beautiful. She had folded her hands, and, not looking at Lambert, but upward, she said softly but firmly: "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg--come what will." They walked back toward the house, side by side, the moon shining in the deep blue sky with radiant clearness. From time to time Lambert cast sly glances at the beloved one. He had yet so much to tell her--so very much--but he would not speak since she herself was silent, and he knew that she could speak more beautifully than he had ever heard any one speak before. It was also so well and he was so thankful that at last the burden was lifted from his soul, and that she had forgiven him and would entirely forgive him when she learned how much he had suffered. This Catherine had already perceived in the painful vehemence of a man otherwise so quiet and self-contained. She had felt it in the storm that had swept through her own soul. Now after the turmoil of the storm she was at peace. What had happened? Was everything that she silently hoped, lived upon, cherished, forever destroyed? Or, amid thunder-claps, did a new world bloom far more beautiful than she had ever dreamed? Thus, lost in their own peculiar thoughts, they again reached the house. "Do you come at last?" said Conrad. He was standing in the door which he now opened wide for the two. Then he gave his hand to Catherine and his brother and greeted them for the first time. "You before took me so by surprise," said he, "that I did not know where my head stood. In what a confusion everything about here lay! It had become somewhat disordered during the two months that you, Lambert, was away. You know I do not well understand housekeeping. I came home a couple of hours ago, having been upon Black River for eight days after beaver. However, instead of beaver I found Onondagas, whose manner was far from friendly--the cursed scoundrels. I went to Uncle Ditmar's who had, meanwhile, kept our cows. Bless has calved. Ditmar will keep the calf if you do not wish to raise it. Take seats here. I have meanwhile rearranged the evening meal as well as I could after my awkward interference. There is baked ham, your favorite dish, Lambert." Conrad was unusually busy while he thus spoke. He set the chairs to the table, pulled them back, that he might wipe them off with his brown hand, and then set them up again. Again and again he put wood on the fire, so that the fire crackled and the flame went roaring up the chimney. For no definite reason, except that it had to be so, he kicked his wolfhound, Pluto, while she, having just come in, kept blinking at Catherine with her large yellow eyes. He himself did not look at the strange girl, and when his glance accidentally passed over her face he became red and embarrassed, and speedily turned his eyes away again. In this way he acted during the whole meal. He talked, stood up, sat down again, tried to put things in order, but brought them into greater confusion, so that Lambert became red in the face and thanked the Lord when he saw Catherine smiling in a friendly way. She thought she could interpret Conrad's conduct in his favor. It was apparent enough that it had not made an unfavorable impression on the young and beautiful girl. It cost her no trouble now and again to return a friendly word to his talk. Lambert was astonished, and it sounded strange to him as she once laughed in the same cheerful, soft tone in which she spoke. He had not heard her laugh once during her whole journey. So he sat there full of thankful joy that everything had turned out so well after he had been very despondent and was filled with secret unrest like one who, having with difficulty escaped a great danger, does not venture to yield to the feeling of security and seems to feel the ground shaking under his feet. But as the meal was now drawing to a close another care began to press upon him with increasing weight. During the journey, in the farm-houses which they entered, which were often very small, it had happened more than once that he had passed the night in the same room with the family and his companion. Two or three nights when they could reach no human habitation they had taken their rest in the forest, and he had seen the beloved maiden by the light of the camp-fire sleeping peacefully, while he looked up through the tops of the trees and thanked God that he was permitted to watch over her slumber. But this occurred on the journey--an unusual condition, which could not and should not last. There was in the upper story a store-room partitioned off, in which one of the brothers used to sleep, while the other had his simple couch in a small recess in the lower room. The brothers had hit upon this arrangement the preceding year, when the inroads of the French necessitated redoubled watchfulness. Afterwards, though the danger was over, they had kept up the custom until Lambert's departure. Lambert had thought of each room for Catherine, but Conrad had mentioned during the meal that, on his eight-days' excursion, he had learned that the French were stirring again. Consequently renewed watchfulness was necessary, and that since Lambert must be very tired from his journey, he would undertake the watch for that night. "Then we will in turn both watch above," said Lambert after a pause. "Catherine will be satisfied for the night here below. To-morrow we will make a better arrangement for her. Is that satisfactory, Catherine?" "Quite so," replied the young woman. "I saw in the recess sweet-smelling hay, and here is the beautiful white bear-skin; do not trouble yourselves. I shall get along all right. Good night." She gave Lambert her hand and then Conrad, who looked on with surprise. He wondered at his brother, and followed him up the narrow stairway after they had bolted and barricaded the door. Catherine watched them as they ascended, drew a deep breath, passed her hand over her forehead, and began to clear away the supper table, and to wash up and put away the dishes, that she might with better courage carry forward the work of reducing things to order which she had before timidly begun. This took a long time. Often she stood benumbed in the midst of her work with her hand pressed against her forehead. Her heart was so full she could have sat down and shed a flood of tears. At the same time a firm, unchecked serenity filled her soul, such as she had experienced when quite a young thing playing at forfeits when the band of children in their colored dresses wildly pursued each other. Then awakened out of such strange dreams, she again quietly continued her work, and at last looked about the room with a self-satisfied air, since it had now assumed quite a different appearance. Having carefully put out the fire on the hearth, she sought her modest couch that she had prepared in the recess on the farther side of the large room. Through the narrow port-holes in the thick plank wall there stole in streaks of the moon's rays, spreading about her a faint twilight. It was easy to breathe in the fresh forest exhalation which blew in at the openings and played about her cheeks. The brook purled uninterruptedly. From time to time there was a rustle, first gentle, then swelling out, and then again holding back like the tones of an organ. It was the solemn music of the primitive forest. She had already noticed this music on her journey when, sleeping under the trees on gathered moss, she, with dream-veiled, half-open eyes, saw Lambert sitting at the camp-fire. She could now also hear his step as he made the round of the gallery above. Conrad's tread would be heavier. Once he stopped directly over her head. Was he looking in the distance for the blood-thirsty enemies? or was he listening to the mocking-bird's wonderful song which she had for some time noticed coming from the forest in soft, sobbing tones, as the nightingale had warbled, over in her German home, in the linden tree at the gable of the parsonage. Then again it, shrieked like a vexatious parrot, or laughed like a magpie. This sounded quite ludicrous. Then it was no more the mockingbird's twofold, demon-like singing, but two human voices, and Lambert spoke in excited, suffering tones: "Catherine, can you forgive me?" and Conrad laughed, saying: "Catherine is not at all angry," and she had to smile, and with a smile on her lips she fell asleep. Meanwhile, as Catherine had correctly supposed, Lambert, walking slowly over the floor of the gallery, kept watch, though Conrad, recurring to what he had reported, assured him that, for the present, the danger of which he had before spoken did not exist, and that he had only mentioned it that he might have good grounds for leaving. He then became very angry as Lambert replied, "I do not know what you mean," threw himself on the bed in the watch-chamber and declared that he was too tired to say another word. However he did not sleep, for as Lambert, after an hour, softly walked past the open door of the watch-chamber, he thought he heard his name spoken. He stopped and looked in. "Did you call me, Conrad?" "Yes," replied Conrad, who had raised himself on his elbow, "I wished to ask you something." "What?" "Are you then not married?" "No; why?" "Oh! I only asked; so good night." "Conrad, dear Conrad, I wish with all my heart to tell you everything." But Conrad had already sunk back on the bear skin and had fallen asleep, or pretended that he had. Lambert went sadly out. "To-morrow," said he to himself, "before we see Catherine, he shall know it, and he will help me, and all will be well." CHAPTER V Lambert, having, in the early morning, lain down by the side of Conrad, awoke late and found his brother gone. He had left the block-house at sunrise. Catherine was up and occupied about the hearth when Conrad lightly descended the stairs. He was in a great hurry, and declined the morning soup which she offered him. He would certainly be back before night. Then he took his rifle, hung about him his game bag, and, with Pluto at his heels, went up the creek with long strides. "The wild youth," said Lambert. He was quite displeased with Conrad, but that he had intentionally avoided him did not enter his mind. Conrad had acted strangely enough last evening, but then the older brother was accustomed to the unreliable, crisp and often silly humors of the younger one. "Why should Conrad give up a hunt to-day which perhaps he had prearranged with his companions? He will doubtless return by noon with a fat deer and a woodman's appetite." So said Lambert while, standing at the hearth, he partook of his morning meal. However he did not say that, on the whole, he was not so much put out by his brother's absence--that he reluctantly gave up the sweet habit of being alone with Catherine that he might talk freely with her. But this morning the pleasant conversation was wanting. Catherine was still and, as Lambert now saw, was pale, and her beaming, brown eyes were veiled. Now that the end of her journey had been reached she felt how great the strain had been; but soon, smiling, accommodated herself to the situation. "You need not feel concerned," said she. "In a couple of days--perhaps hours--all will be regained. I will not boast, but I have always been able to accomplish what others could, and often a little more, and, if you are not too strict a master, you shall be satisfied with your maid-servant." To Lambert it seemed as if the sun had suddenly been overcast. With trembling hand he put down the cup which he had not yet entirely emptied. "You are not my maid-servant, Catherine," he said gently. "Yes I am, Lambert, yes I am, though you magnanimously tore up the evidence of my indebtedness," replied the young maiden. "I owe you none the less on that account. The debt is now doubled. You know it well and yet it is proper for me to say it. I desired to be to you a good and faithful maid-servant--to you and yours. I supposed nothing else but that your parents were still alive, and I heartily rejoiced that I could serve them. You said nothing about your parents, I think, because you did not wish to make me feel sad. Now your parents, like mine, are dead, and you live here alone with your brother, so I am your maid-servant and your brother's." Lambert made a motion as though he wished to reply, but his half-raised arm fell powerless, and his opened lips again closed. He had intended to say: "I love you, Catherine. Do you not see it?" How could he now say it? Catherine continued: "I beg you, Lambert, with this understanding, to talk with your brother, if you have not already done so. You are the elder and know me better. He is young and impetuous, as it seems, and now sees me for the first time. And now, Lambert, you surely have something better to do than to stand here and talk with me. I have to clear away a little here yet, and will follow you should you not go far, if you do not object. I should like to see all, and know about every part." She turned to him and gave him her hand. "Does that please you?" she asked smiling. "Entirely, entirely," replied Lambert. Tears stood in his eyes, but the dear girl wanted it so, and that was enough. "I will first go to the barn-yard," said he, "and then into the forest. This afternoon I intended to go to Uncle Ditmar's. Perhaps you will accompany me." He went out hastily. Catherine looked at him with sad smiles. "You good, dear, best man," said she, "it is not my fault that I distress you, but I must think of us all. The madcap will probably now be satisfied." Catherine now felt herself somewhat relieved of the weight that had lain on her heart since the peculiar scene with Conrad in the morning. Involuntarily she constantly thought about how alarmed Conrad appeared when, as he came down the narrow, steep stairs, he found her already on the hearth; how he had then approached her and stared at her with his large, glistening eyes, and had said: "Are you man and wife, or are you not? If you are, then it will be best for me to send a bullet through my head; but, lie not--for God's sake, do not lie, otherwise I will indeed shoot myself, but first surely both of you." Then as Catherine drew back from the violence, he began to laugh. "Now, one does not lightly shoot such a brother dead, who is so good that he could not be better, and a girl who is so handsome, so wonderfully beautiful. So far as I am concerned I need feel no anxiety about being shot dead. This can happen to me any day. Pluto, beast, are you again staring at her? Wait! I will teach you manners." With this he hastened away. Outside Pluto howled grievously, as though she would teach Catherine that her master was not accustomed to indulge in vain threats. "Now he will be satisfied," said Catherine, yet a couple of times, while she cleared away the breakfast and made some preparations for the simple dinner. To-day she did not, like yesterday, have to gather up laboriously what she needed; everything was at her hand. Everything appeared as if familiar to her--as though she had known it from youth up. She hummed her favorite song, "Were I a wild falcon I would soar aloft," and then interrupted herself and said: "It has been childish for me to be so fearful. He loves him; that one sees clearly. He has called him the best brother, and surely, at the bottom of his heart, he is kind though his eyes have so wild a look. Before glittering eyes which are so handsome one needs not be afraid. But Lambert's eyes are still handsomer." Catherine stepped to the door. It was a most beautiful spring morning. Small white clouds passed quietly over the light blue sky. Golden stars danced in the creek. Dew-drops sparkled in the luxuriant grass of the meadow--here in emerald green, in blue and purple shades there. The woods which encircled the hill on which the house stood looked down quietly. Over a rocky height that projected steep out of the forest there hovered a great eagle with extended wings sporting in the balmy air that was breathing through the valley and whose every puff was charged with balsamic aroma. Catherine folded her hands and her eyes filled with tears. It seemed to her as if she were again standing in the small church of her home village, and that she heard her father's mild voice pronounce the benediction over the congregation: "The Lord let the light of His countenance fall upon you and give you peace." The last remains of unrest had passed away from her and, in her present mood, she went to seek Lambert, whom she supposed to be at the buildings which, as she passed around the block-house, she saw standing at some distance towards the forest. She found him working at a hedge which inclosed part of a field in which the lance-shaped, bright leaves of the Indian-corn waved in the morning wind. Young, red-blossomed apple trees, whose trunks had been carefully wound with thorns, had been planted around the fields. "This the deer did last night," said Lambert, as he approached a damaged place. "Here are the fresh tracks. Conrad knows how to keep them respectful, but during the eight days that he has been away they have again become bold." "I will help you," said Catherine, after she had looked on for a few minutes. "This is no labor for you," said Lambert, looking up. "So, once for all, you must not speak," serenely replied Catherine. "If you want a princess in your house you must at once send me away again. I own myself unfit for that." Lambert smiled with pleasure when he saw how skillfully she took hold of the matter, and how handy she was. He now noticed for the first time that the roses had again blossomed on her cheeks; and as she now, in helping him, bent over and back, the agreeable play of the lines of her slender, girlish body filled him with trembling delight. "But you also should not be unemployed," said Catherine. The young man, blushing deeply, returned to his work with redoubled zeal, so that it was soon completed. "What comes next?" asked Catherine. "I intended to go up into the woods to look after my pine trees. There will be probably more to do there than here, where my kind uncle has kept every thing so well in order. But about woodcraft he understands little or nothing; and Conrad concerns himself only with his hunting. It was fortunate that I could do the chief labor before I left home in the spring." He hung the gun, which leaned against the hedge near him, over his shoulder and looked at Catherine. Lingering he said: "Will you go with me? It is not far." "That is truly fortunate," said Catherine. "You know I am shy of long roads. Will you not rather saddle Hans?" She called the horse, grazing in an enclosure near by, in which there was also a small flock of black-wooled sheep. He pricked up his ears, came slowly, swinging his tail, and put his head over the bars. "You good Hans," said Catherine, brushing the thick forelock out of the eyes of the animal, "I gave you a good deal of trouble on the long journey." "The trouble was not so very great. Is it not so, old Hans?" said Lambert. Hans seemed to think that to such an idle question no answer was necessary and went on quietly chewing his last mouthful of grass. The young people stood and looked on and stroked the head and neck of the animal, while in the branches of a blossoming apple tree a robin-redbreast sang. Their hands touched. Lambert's large eyes assumed a determined expression and then were raised with a cordial look to the blushing face of the maiden. "Now you must also show me the barn-yard," said Catherine. "Cheerfully," said Lambert. They entered the barn-yard which like the house was inclosed with a stone-wall of the height of a man, and contained several low buildings formed of logs. First the stable in which, in the winter and in bad weather, Hans, the cows and the sheep stayed quietly together. This was now empty with the exception of a couple of half-grown pigs grunting within a partition, and a large flock of hens and turkeys which had been contentedly scratching in the straw, but now, frightened at the unwelcome intrusion, cackling and flying apart rushed out of the open door. Then they entered the work-shop, in which Lambert worked during the winter, and where, besides excellent timber and all kinds of tools, there were standing, begun and finished, tubs which would have done credit to a cooper. "In the fall these are all filled with tar and rosin," said Lambert, "and sent to Albany. It won't be long before I must stick to this, and my Uncle Ditmar, of whom I learned coopering, will help me, I suppose, and also Conrad, though he does not like mechanical labor. Still he can do anything he pleases, and does it better than one who devotes his life to it." Catherine was pleased to hear that Lambert was so proud of his younger brother, but did not speak of it. It seemed to her as if a dark shadow had passed over her heart, which had but now been as sunny as the surrounding golden, spring landscape. They left the barn-yard and, ascending by degrees, soon reached the edge of the woods, which here extended back farther from the level ground, so that, as they turned about, the valley lay like a great meadow in the woods, in the midst of which was the blockhouse on the hill. The creek was concealed by the reeds which fringed its shore. Deep peace rested in happy quietude on the earth in its morning freshness. But up in the air there appeared an unusual spectacle. The eagle which Catherine had before observed had been joined by another. They sailed directly over the house and wound their circles together swifter and ever swifter until, with loud outcries, they rushed against each other, striking with their mighty wings, whirling round each other, clasping each other, and falling like a stone. Then again they separated, sailed aloft, again rushed together, until at length one flew toward the woods followed by the other. "A hateful sight," said Catherine. "The angry beasts!" "We are accustomed to that," said Lambert. Catherine was greatly disturbed by this battle scene. Involuntarily she had again to think of Conrad. As they now turned into the woods she asked: "Do you truly love your brother?" "And he me," said Lambert. "He is yet so young," Catherine began again. "Ten years younger than I. I am thirty-two. Our mother died when he was born. Good Aunt Ditmar, our sainted mother's sister, took him home since my father and I, poor youngster, naturally did not know how to help ourselves. When he was a couple of years old he came again to us, though his aunt would gladly have kept him. But father did not stand any too well with uncle, and was jealous, fearing that his child would become entirely estranged from him. So I waited on and brought up the little orphaned rogue as best I could, and, since he grew so, I thought that any mother would be proud of the boy. Then, when I could no longer carry him, I played with him, and taught him the little I had learned, and so we have been together day and night, and an angry word has never passed between us, though he was as wild and intractable as a young bear. Father's position in respect to him was very difficult, being himself a determined man and quite passionate. Once, being at variance, father raised his hand against the eleven-year-old boy, who was as brave and proud as a man. He ran away into the woods and did not return, so that we thought that he had either committed suicide, or had been torn in pieces by the bears. Meanwhile my young gentleman stuck among the Indians at Oneida Lake and did not let anything be seen or heard of him for three years, until, a few days after father's death, he suddenly entered the block-house where I sat alone and sad. At first I did not know him, for he had grown a couple of heads taller and was dressed in Indian style. But he fell upon my neck and wept bitterly, and said: "'I heard by chance that our father was lying on his death-bed. I have been walking three days and three nights to see him again.' In the midst of his weeping he threw back his head and, with sparkling eyes, exclaimed: 'But do not think that I have forgiven him for striking me; but I am sorry that I ran away.' So he came again as he had gone, wild and proud, and at the next moment soft and kind." Lambert was silent. After a short pause he said: "I wish I had told you all this before; you would then not have been so frightened last evening." "And this morning," said Catherine to herself. Lambert continued: "They here call him the Indian, and the name fits him in more than one respect. At least no Indian would undertake to compete with him in those things in which they chiefly excel. In all their arts Conrad beats them; and then he loves the hunt, the forest and rambling ways just as the red-skins do. But his heart is true as pure gold, and in that he is not a red-skin, who are all as false as a jack-o'-lantern in the swamp. For this reason we all here on the Mohawk and on the Schoharie, old and young, love him. Wherever there are German settlers there he comes on his hunting expeditions, and is everywhere welcome. The people sleep without fear when he is there, for they know they are guarded by the best rifle in the colony." Lambert's eyes brightened as he spoke about his brother. Suddenly his face became beclouded. "Who knows," continued he, "how different it might have been last year had he been here with us? But when Belletre broke loose with his devilish Indians and his French, who are much worse devils, we were entirely unprepared. We would not believe the Indian who brought us the news. Conrad would have known what there was of it, and would soon have brought it out. But he remained above between the lakes on a hunt; so we missed his arm and rifle. Then took place the remarkable circumstance that they did not come here to Canada Creek, and that our houses escaped their ravages. This afterward caused bad blood, and one could hear whisperings about treachery, though, at the first alarm, we all hurried forward and did our share. Conrad helped us fight in his own way. He says nothing about it, but I think that many an Indian, who in the morning went hunting, was vainly waited for at his camp-fire in the evening, and has not to this day returned to his wigwam." A shudder passed over Catherine. What had the wild man said this morning? "As far as it concerns me I need not trouble myself about being shot to death." Dreadful! Had she not seen as she came up the Mohawk valley where many houses had been burned which had not been rebuilt, the entire families having been killed by the merciless enemies? And how many plain wooden crosses in green fields, along the road, in the edge of the woods, where a peaceful farmer, a helpless wife, a playful child, had been pitilessly killed. No, no! It was an honorable conflict for house and home, for body and life--the same conflict through which her good father with his whole congregation had been driven out of Germany. They knew not how to resist their shameless and disorderly oppressors except by flight over the sea into this wilderness at the furthest west. Whither shall they yet fly, since the same enemy even here begrudges them life and freedom? Here one cannot say: "Let us forsake our houses and shake the dust from our feet." Here the word is wait, fight, conquer, or die. Not in empty threatening did the farmer as he went to his peaceful labor carry his gun on his shoulder. "I wish I too knew how to handle the rifle," said Catherine. "Like my Aunt Ursul," said Lambert laughing. "She shoots as well as any one of us, Conrad naturally being excepted. Nor does she leave her rifle at home. Here we are, at the pinery." They had reached a tall forest, such as Catherine on her journey, had not hitherto seen. The powerful trunks shot up like the pillars of a dome and intertwined their mighty tops in an arch through whose dark vaults here and there red sun-rays flashed. The morning wind soughed through the wide halls, having now become stronger, and ascending, gently died at the top like the murmur of the sea. "This seems to have stood so since the first day of creation," said Catherine. "And yet its days are numbered," said Lambert. "In a couple of years there will be little more to be seen of it. I am sorry for the beautiful trees, and now, since you so admire them, I am doubly sorry. But there is no longer any remedy. See, here my labor begins." A slight depression, through which a brooklet purled on its way to the creek, separated this piece of woods from another which had already been prepared the second year for the manufacture of tar. Lambert explained to his companion that each of the large trees was divided into four quarters. "In the spring, as soon as the sap begins to rise, the north quarter, where the sun has the least power, is peeled off for two feet in order to draw off the turpentine. In the fall, before the sap begins to slacken, the southern quarter is treated in the same way. The following spring the eastern side, and in the fall the western side, is in like manner peeled. Then the upper part of the tree, filled with turpentine, is cut down and split up and roasted in an oven so prepared as to secure the tar. This I will show you later. This indeed is not a pleasing sight," said Lambert, "nor will I take you farther, where the poor naked stumps stand and decay. It cannot well be otherwise. One must live, and we here on Canada Creek have nothing else, or scarcely anything else, since our small cultivated acreage must be devoted to our most urgent necessities. So must also our live stock, though we have plenty of fertile plow-land and rich meadow-land. But what can one do when he is every instant in danger, and his crops are destroyed, and his herds are driven off? They must leave us our pine trees, and our ovens can soon be rebuilt. To replace the burnt casks and utensils we make new ones. Hence it was for us a question of life or death when, last winter, Mr. Albert Livingston wished to confine us to the valley, and claimed the woods on the hills for himself, notwithstanding that we had first bought both valley and forest from the Indians, and again after that from the Government. But all this I told you often enough on the journey, and you have listened patiently, and rejoice that the business has been arranged in our favor. God be praised--" "And your faithful care," said Catherine. "You had it hard enough on the long, tiresome journey, from which you did not return unencumbered. After you had been relieved of the old care you were laden with a new one in me, a poor, helpless girl." "Shall I deny it?" replied Lambert. "Yes, Catherine, with you there came a new care to me. You know what I mean. I feared I had done wrong to bring you here, where everybody's life is in daily, yes, hourly danger. This indeed I did not conceal from you, though I felt that you would not on this account be frightened back. But--" "Then don't distress yourself further about it," said Catherine. "Or do you think you have been deceived in me?" "No," answered Lambert. "But since we are here, it has appeared to me as though I should have set the matter forth more pressingly. So I also blame myself that I let Conrad go away this morning without first more fully ascertaining what he knows about the enemy. He is too careless to take to heart anything of that kind, I should use better judgment." "Better judgment, but not less courage," said Catherine. "If I must believe that my coming has robbed you of your cool courage, how could I forgive myself for having come here with you? No, Lambert, you must not so wrong me. I will also learn to use the rifle like Ursul. Why do you laugh?" "I cannot think of you and the good old lady together without laughing," said Lambert. "Perhaps I shall also live to be old, and, it is to be hoped, good. I shall then take it amiss if mischievous young people laugh at me." "You old!" said Lambert, shaking his head. "You old! This I can conceive as little as how this rivulet must begin if it would flow up these rocks!" They now went on between the tree-trunks down to the creek, and were walking along the edge where, in the mud of the shore, bison and deer had impressed their deep trails. The stream did not run as smoothly here as on the level ground. Its course was obstructed, now by rocks covered with moss a hundred years old, now by an immense tree-trunk which had fallen diagonally across, and whose withered branches stretched down into the brown water. A little further up it had to make its way over rocks, over which it leapt in indescribable, foam-covered cascades. From where they both stood one could see a part of the fall, like the fluttering ends of a white garment. The roar was softened by the distance and accorded remarkably well with the sound of the morning wind in the majestic tree-tops. With this exception there was an oppressive stillness in the primitive forest, which the occasional flight of a flock of pigeons overhead, the hammering of the woodpecker, the cawing of crows, the chirping of a little bird high above in the branches, and the piping of a little squirrel, seemed to make only the stiller. Soft vaporous shadows filled the woods. But in the clear space above the creek there was spread a golden twilight bewitchingly woven out of light and shadow. In this enchanting light how bright the beloved one appeared to her lover. He could not turn his eyes from her as he now sat near her feet in the moss. Her rich, dark hair which encircled her well-formed head like a crown; the beautiful, slanting brows, the long, silky eyelashes; the sweet face; the heavenly form--ah! all this, on the long journey, had made a deep impression; but now it seemed as if he had not known it before--as though he now saw for the first time that she was so beautiful, so wonderfully beautiful. Also her dark eyelashes were raised, and her glance wandered over the blue eyes which had never before seemed so deep and bright, turned back timidly, then looked again more keenly, and could no longer withdraw themselves; then out of their blue depths there came such wonderful flashes that her heart stood still, and suddenly again she felt it bounding and beating against the heart of the beloved man who held her infolded in his arms. Then they released each other. Each caught the other's hand. They sank again into each other's arms, exchanged warm kisses and promises, and laughed, and cried, and said they had loved each other from the moment in which they first saw each other, and would do so to the last. Suddenly Catherine shrunk back. "Conrad!" she cried. "O, my God! Lambert, what are we beginning?" "What has happened, my darling?" asked Lambert, while he sought again to draw the beloved one to him. "No, no," said Catherine, "this must first be arranged. O, why did I not tell you? But how could I speak of it before? Now indeed I must speak, even though it be too late." Without hesitating and in a becoming manner she told Lambert what Conrad had said in the morning, and how strange his conduct, and how threatening his appearance had been. "I seem constantly to hear his laugh," said she at last. "Great God, there he is!" She pointed with her trembling hand up the creek to the place where, between the dark underwood, the foam-streaks of the waterfall fluttered. "Where?" asked Lambert. "Conrad! I thought I saw him slipping away between the trunks of the trees." Lambert shook his head. "Then he would be there yet," said he. "It must have been a deer that wanted to go to the spring. Surely you are causelessly frightened. I can well believe that the youth finds my beautiful girl handsome, but love as I do, that he cannot. Hereafter he will be happy in seeing me happy." "But now I surely have heard a human voice," cried Catherine. "I, too, this time," said Lambert, "but it came from up the creek. Hark!" "He, holla, holla, he, ho!" it now sounded. "That is Aunt Ursul," said Lambert. "How does she come now to be here?" A dark shadow passed over his face, which however at once disappeared as Catherine impressed a hearty kiss on his lips, and said: "Quick, Lambert; let us now go to meet your aunt. See that she observes nothing. Do you hear?" "There she is already," said Lambert, half vexed, half laughing, as now a large person, whose clothes were an unusual mixture of women's and men's clothing, and who, carrying a rifle on her shoulder, pressing through the bushes, soon reached the pair. CHAPTER VI "So!" said Aunt Ursul. "There yon are, sir!" She remained standing, took her rifle from her shoulder and looked with large, round eyes on those who were approaching, like a beast of prey on a coming victim. "God bless you, aunt," said Lambert, extending his hand to his old friend in salutation. "It is long since we have seen each other." "And it might have been longer had it depended on you, sir," replied Aunt Ursul. "But one must first visit his pinery. Relatives and friends come later. It is fortunate that Aunt Ursul knows her people, or she might have had to look long for you, sir." She threw her gun with a powerful swing on her shoulder, turned short on the heel of her man's boots, and began to stride back over the road along the creek by which she had come. She had returned Lambert's salutation but slightly, and had not noticed Catherine at all. "How did you learn that I am back?" asked Lambert. "Not from you, sir," replied Aunt Ursul. "How is uncle?" "As usual." "You have taken such good care of my things--" "One must, when the men are wandering about the country." "You well know, aunt, that I did not remain so long away for release from labor, nor entirely on my own account. Nor was my journey useless. The business that took me to New York is so arranged that you and others will be satisfied." "So!" said Ursul. "And I have likewise brought with me for you a young female friend, whom you will love as she deserves, and whom you will receive kindly as you do all who need your help." "So!" said Aunt Ursul. The path was so narrow that two could not walk abreast. Ursul did not turn about, but Lambert now did so and observed that Catherine was quite pale, and that tears stood in her eyes. The sight cut him to the heart, as he had but a little before seen the beautiful face radiant with happiness. "Have good courage, my girl," said he softly. "She does not mean unkindly." Catherine tried to smile through her tears, and bowed as if she would say: "Let it pass. Since you love me I can bear anything." "Lambert!" called Ursul, who was vigorously walking on, "come here!" "Only go," stammered Catherine; "but, for God's sake, tell her nothing. I could not endure it." The young man tore himself away with a powerful effort and followed Ursul Ditmar, whom he soon overtook. "Come to my side," said Aunt Ursul; "the path is wide enough so you need no longer trot behind me." Lambert did as his aunt desired. Aunt Ursul could not bear opposition, and Lambert had from his youth honored her as a second mother. However he could not refrain from saying with mild reproach, "You are very rough with the poor girl, aunt." "So!" said the dame. "Do you think so? It is naturally very important for an old person like me to know what such a look into the world means. No, I may as well tell you what I think. You have done a foolish thing, sir, do you hear--a besotted, foolish thing in that at such a time you have burdened yourself with a woman. If, instead, you had brought half a dozen men, these we could indeed have used to better advantage." "But, Aunt Ursul, first hear me--" "I will not listen! I know the whole story as though I had been present from the beginning. Poor famished creatures, who all looked as though they had already for four weeks played the ghost. Surely! It is a sin and shame, and may the evil one pay back the greedy sharpers and Hollanders, and pour melted gold down their hungry throats! But when a gun is fired off it is well not to be in front of it. Why did you stand near and gaze when you knew that you had such a butter-heart in your breast? Now you have the burden. What will be the result? You will naturally marry the girl. And then? Then there comes every year a crying brat until there are four or five. At the fifth the poor creature dies and Aunt Ursul can then take the young brood and raise them. But I tell you, that won't do, by any means! I would not undertake it should you offer me a ton of gold for each child." Aunt Ursul had spoken so excitedly and in so loud a voice that Lambert was glad when, turning, he saw Catherine following slowly at a great distance, her head bowed down and she often plucking a wood-flower. "How can you talk in that way, aunt?" said Lambert. "To you it would indeed be pleasanter should I utter what first comes into the mouth, and say yea, and amen, to what you dumbheads have hatched out. Furthermore, I have no sympathy for you, sir. You have prepared your own soup. You must eat it yourself. Poor girl! Thrust out into the world naked and bare, so to speak, and with such eyes--just like your sainted mother's--by which all men were captivated. This is itself already a heaven-appearing misfortune. I can sing a song about it. Why do you laugh, you green woodpecker? Do you think, since now, in my fifty-seventh year, I am not as slim as an osier-switch and as smooth as an eel, I could not turn the heads of the men at seventeen? You are getting on beautifully. I tell you how foolish they were, though it isn't worth while to say it, for they are all so. But I had half a dozen on every finger, and your girl has as yet but two." "Surely I do not understand you, aunt," said Lambert, whose anxiety kept increasing as long as she kept talking in her peculiar way. "Well, then, I will speak plainly," said Ursul, after she had cast a rapid glance toward Catherine. "This morning--I was just raking up my hay--your brother came with such a leap over the gate that my first impulse was to give him one over the head, and, distracted and wild, to my horror, began to speak so incoherently, that no one besides me, who know him from childhood, could have gathered his meaning; saying that he must shoot himself dead since you could not both marry her, and other foolish talk, all showing that he is madly and blindly in love with the girl." Lambert was frightened, as he now heard from the mouth of Aunt Ursul what Catherine herself had told him a few minutes before. So the bad temper had not been blown away by the first morning wind that fanned the cheeks of the hunter, as he had hoped it would be. He had carried it at least as far as Aunt Ursul's. "Surely you have set his head right, aunt?" said Lambert. "First set right the head of that pine," said Aunt Ursul, pointing to an immense tree which had been shattered by lightning so that its top now held by the bark, hung to the trunk. "And then, sir, you did not do right in not keeping your promise to bring the young man a wife as you have done for yourself." "I promised nothing of the kind," replied Lambert earnestly. "It was impossible for me to believe that Conrad was serious when he called after me, as I was already trotting off down the valley: 'Bring back with you a wife for each of us!' I never thought of it again--especially not when heaven threw in my way a poor orphan, and I offered her, forsaken by the whole world, a refuge with me. You see, aunt, that I am indeed blameless." "Then give him the girl," said Ursul. "Sooner my life," earnestly replied Lambert. "I would like to know," said Ursul, "whether I cannot justly say that beauty is a woman's misfortune, and I suppose you will admit it. Nor is it less so for the men who are bewitched by it. What do the poor creatures gain by it? Nothing more than the turtledoves which I found covered with blood near your house. What do you gain by it? Just as much as the two eagles who, on account of those doves, tore the flesh from each other's bodies. Alas, poor women! unhappy women!" "Conrad will listen to reason," said Lambert, with trembling lips. "I do not know," replied Ursul, shaking her large head. "It often happens that men-folks become reasonable, but they usually wait until it is too late. So I fear it will also be this time. Now he has gone into the woods, and heaven knows how long he will wander about there, and that at a time when we cannot spare a single man--and him least of all." "He won't fail us when we need him," said Lambert. "He failed us last year, and did we not need him then? But so men are, and especially you young men. You make a hunting match, or get up a race, or, at a wedding, dance the soles off your feet, and do everything as it pleases you, and the rest you let go as it pleases God. We saw it last year. How I talked, and preached, urging you to watchfulness, after I saw that General Abercrombie in Albany did not bestir himself, and naturally your hands were lying in your laps. I preached to deaf ears. Afterward when the abominable French broke in and sunk, and burned, and murdered after their wicked heart's desire--yes, now every one protected his own head as best he could. But how many houses might still stand, how many wives and children could to-day yet look at the lovely sun and praise their heavenly Father, if you from the first had stood together as it became intelligent men? And now, Lambert, there stands my horse and I do not know what more to say to you; so help yourself out of the mire and me on my horse; and, as to what concerns the lady, I will come again to-morrow, or you can bring her to me. I will not bite her. Have no care. Today I won't stay longer. God protect you, Lambert. Give my compliments to the lady. What is her name?" "Catherine Weise," said Lambert. "She is an orphan. Her father, who was a preacher, and, out of love for his people, emigrated with them, she lost eight days before the ship reached New York." "Catherine," said Ursul. "Our dear Father in heaven! So I always wanted to call my daughter, should I have one. Both my sainted grandmothers had that name. Nay, things happen alike. Compliments to the girl, who seems to be a well-behaved person, and God protect you, Lambert." The Amazon arranged her clothes, which was somewhat difficult, as she sat like a man in the saddle, chirruped to her horse, gave him a hard cut over the neck, and trotted briskly away from the edge of the woods where they had stood, down the hill, over the meadow, until she reached the road which led from the creek to the other farm-houses. The young man looked at the retreating figure with sad glances and a deep sigh. He heard behind him a light step. He turned eagerly and opened his arms to the beloved one. But Catherine shook her handsome head. Her large, inquiring dark eyes, in which there were still some traces of tears, rested on his face. "For God's sake!" exclaimed Lambert, "why do you look in such a strange way, Catherine? What have we to do with others? I love you." "And I you," said Catherine, "but it must happen." "What must happen? Catherine, dear Catherine," cried Lambert. "Come," said the maiden, "let us sit down here and talk with each other quietly, very quietly." She sat down on the trunk of a half-buried pine and looked thoughtfully before her. Lambert seated himself at her side. He wished to speak, but before he could find the right word, Catherine raised her eyes and said: "See, Lambert, how much you have kindly done for me, a poor girl, and I could not do otherwise than give you back the only thing I have--my all--and love you with all the strength of my soul, with every drop of blood in my heart. I could not do otherwise, and it will be so as long as I live, and after this life throughout eternity. But, Lambert, it was not right for me that, in addition to the much and the beautiful that you have given me, I should also take your love. I felt this from the first day on, and I tried to prevent your seeing my love, though I confess it was a hard task." Catherine's voice trembled, but she held back the tears that were ready to break from her eyes, and continued: "I felt from the beginning--and I have said to myself, and promised thousands of times--that I would be a maid-servant to you and your parents and relatives, and, should you bring home a wife, I would also serve her and her children, and so help, as much as I could, to promote your happiness and that of all related to you. When I yesterday learned that you no longer have parents I fled. I wished to flee, while a voice, which I only now rightly understand, said that it would come about as it now has come, and as it should not have come. I have not listened to the voice of my conscience, and the punishment follows at its heels. Your brother is angry at you on my account. Your aunt has left you in anger on my account. What a bad girl I must be, could I calmly look on and see how unhappy I am making him for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop. For this reason it must take place. You have given me permission to go where I will--and God will guide my steps." Having uttered these words she arose, pale, having her hands folded under her bosom, and her tearless eyes having a far-off look. Immediately Lambert stood up before her, and her eyes met his, which shone with a wonderfully clear and steady light. "Catherine!" More he did not say. But it was the right word and the right tone--a cordial tone full of tender suggestion, and yet so firm, so true, that it resounded again in the heart of the maiden: "Catherine!" and filled her soul with sweet pleasure. What she had just said, in the bitter feeling of her injured pride, and in her painful conviction that she must subordinate her own happiness and the happiness of him she loved--it now seemed to her but idle breath, like the wind sweeping above through the rustling tops of the pines and below over the bending grass of the meadow. The pines stood firm, the grass rose again, and everything remained as it was before--yes, more beautiful and delightful than before. What was now her pride except a small additional offering that she brought to her beloved who would not be happy without her--who without her could not be happy? This Lambert said to her again and again; and she said to him that separation from her beloved and death would be the same for her, and that she would never again think of it, but that she could live for him and be happy with him. So they sat a long time at the edge of the primitive forest in the shadow of the venerable trees--before them the sunlit prairie with its bending flowers and grass, alone--speaking in whispers, as though the mottled butterflies which were moving about the flowers must not hear. And if a bird happened to fly past uttering his warning cry, frightened, they crowded close to each other and then laughed, happy that they were alone and might sink into each other's arms and say what they had already said a hundred times, and yet did not get tired of saying and hearing it. Then they formed plans for the future--far-reaching plans--that during the fall they would clear at least yet five acres, and that they would in any case keep the calf of which Aunt Ursul had the care, and whether it would not be best to partition off a chamber in the upper story of the house, leaving sufficient space for the store-room; and, as the stairway was very narrow and steep, they would make a new one. They must also not fail to have a suitable garden in which to raise greens and gooseberries and currants; and a honeysuckle-arbor, such as Catherine had in her father's garden, there surely must be, though Lambert was not sure that he quite understood what Catherine meant by a honeysuckle-arbor. The ascending sun suggested their return home. Lambert was disinclined to leave the woods in whose shade the complete fullness of his happiness had been revealed. But Catherine said: "No, you must not on my account neglect a single duty that rests on you. Otherwise your friends, who consider it a misfortune that you have taken up a poor girl like me, will be right. So you must yet to-day ride to your neighbors with your compliments. They would take it amiss should you not do it, and they would be right. It is your duty to inform them about your journey, which you undertook for their best interest as well as your own. They will be pleased to see you again, and that everything has turned out so well." "And where shall I leave you, in the meantime?" asked Lambert, as they now walked slowly along the creek toward the house. "Where a woman should be--at home," said Catherine. "I unwillingly leave you there," said Lambert. "I do not believe I could return before evening, however I might hasten. It is six miles to Adam Bellinger's, who lives near the mouth of the creek and who is the last of us six who prepared the petition to the governor. On the way I must stop three times, or rather four times, for I must not ride past my old Uncle Ditmar. It is impossible for me to leave you so long alone, since the French are stirring again, and I do not know how far they have come already." "Here good advice is dear," said Catherine laughing mischievously. "You can't take me along to-day, after you yesterday went far out of your way so that your neighbors should not see what a wonderful rarity you had brought with you on your return from your journey." "Nor shall it be different," said Lambert, but little pained by the gentle raillery, accompanied as it was with a kiss. "Though you do not go the whole distance, you can at least go as far as Ditmar's." Catherine arched her eyebrows: "Are you quite sure that I should be kindly received there?" she asked gently. "Quite sure," said Lambert, earnestly, "the more so as my aunt was unfriendly to you before. As far as I know her she has no stronger wish than to repair the mischief. Believe me, Catherine, a better heart than Aunt Ursul's cannot be found, though the severe fate that has befallen her has made her peculiar and unmannerly." "Tell me about it," said Catherine. "It is a dreadful history," said Lambert, "and I would rather not rehearse it; but you will think otherwise of my aunt when you meet her, and so let it be. "It is now thirteen years--it was in 'forty-four and I was nineteen--when war broke out between the English and the French, which they call King George's war. Neither the English nor the French could raise many men, so they had to rely on the Indians, each party trying by every means to win them to itself and set them against the opposite party. Now, the English had a treaty of a long standing with the Six Nations; but at this time they also began to waver and to unite with the French, who knew better how to flatter them. So many fell away, and entered into secret or open partnership with our foes. The uncertainty daily increased. Nobody had any assurance of his life. The Germans here on the Mohawk, and especially on the creek, had hitherto escaped; but the danger came nearer and nearer to us, and then it was that we went to our work with a rifle on the shoulder, and when father, with the help of a couple of blacks from Virginia--secured for the occasion--strengthened the block-house as it is now. Before, it was more open. "Nicolas Herkimer settled on the Mohawk, and several others followed his example. Most of them, however, took the matter more lightly, and said the French or Indians should only come on; they would soon show them the road, and send them home with bloody heads. About this they debated with Uncle Ditmar, and became angry at him since he was always full of courage and of bitter hatred of the French whom he had already learned to know on the other side, where they had burned his parents' house and driven them from their home. He thought that should we wait until the French came to us it would be altogether too late. It was a shame that now everybody should think only of himself. All should assemble here, and on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie; that no one should stay at home who could fire off a rifle, and that some should go to meet the French, and pay them back, in their own territory, what before and since they have done to us. Perhaps the old man was right, but nobody listened to him. Then came the year 'forty-six, when the French with their Indians swept through the valley of the Mohawk as far as Schenectady and Albany, and destroyed and robbed what they found, and killed and scalped what came in their way, and committed every conceivable horror. My uncle could stand it no longer. He went out with his four sons--my cousins--of whom the eldest was twenty-six and the youngest nineteen. Aunt Ursul would not stay at home, but went along, with her rifle on her shoulder, just as you saw her awhile ago, and they carried on war by themselves and killed many French and Indians, until they were resting on a certain day among a small clump of trees on the open prairie and, not noticing, were overrun from all sides. There my aunt saw her sons fall, one after the other, while she was loading the guns. At last old Ditmar was struck by a stray bullet and sank at her feet apparently dead. Aunt Ursul fired off the gun she had loaded once more and laid a Frenchman low, seized it by the muzzle, and swinging the butt on high she rushed out and struck about her so, that the Indians themselves, at sight of such bravery, did not kill her, but overpowered her, and tied her, and took her along as prisoner. They likewise took uncle, who gave signs of life, when an Indian had already torn his scalp half off. Perhaps they intended to spare them for a later, more painful death. But it did not go as far as that, thank God! for the troop which was taking them along was attacked by another tribe, which held with the English, and they were killed to the last man. So my aunt, after a couple of months, came again, robbed of her stalwart sons, with her husband, whose mind has never since been quite right, and who has lived on for months and years without uttering a word, though attending to his work like anyone else." Lambert ceased speaking. Catherine took his hand and, with gentle pressure, held it. So they went, hand in hand, along the creek. Here and there a pair of summer-ducks came out of the reeds and flew, swift as an arrow, toward the woods. Fish sprang up in the crystal-clear water. The rushes waved. The flowers and grass on the prairie swayed in the tepid wind. The sun poured down its golden rays. But it seemed to both as if there had fallen a veil over the clear, spring morning. "I wish I had not told you this--at least not today," said Lambert. "And I thank you that you did so," said Catherine. "The happiness would be too great were our good fortune without a shadow. Did you not find me helpless, forsaken, poor as a beggar, pressed to the ground by care and grief, and did you not, without a moment's hesitation, stretch out your hand to pick me out of the dust? So I will hold it fast--your dear hand--and help you carry the cares and burdens of life, and with you go into the battle, if it must be, as good Aunt Ditmar did, whom may God bless for her bravery, and whose pardon I heartily beg for the injury I did her in my feelings. Now I can see why she who has suffered so dreadfully cannot, like other good people, heartily rejoice over the good fortune which comes to them before her eyes. Poor soul! She no longer believes in good fortune." "Perhaps it is also something else," said Lambert thoughtfully, and after a short pause proceeded: "See, Catherine, I love you so dearly, and have kept still so long, that I would like to tell you about everything that passes through my mind. So I will also tell you this: I do not know, but I believe that my aunt would be better pleased were Conrad in my place. She has not forgotten that she carried the youngster, when a small and helpless creature, in her arms, and has always loved him as though she were his own mother. So Conrad has also hung to her; and, on account of the Ditmars, the difficulty arose between him and our father. Conrad wanted to go and live at Ditmar's, and father forbid it to the eleven-year-old youngster. The very Indian tribe to which Conrad fled had rescued the Ditmars. I believe he was himself present, though I do not know, since he has never said a word about it; nor has aunt, to whom he may have forbidden it. All this aunt has never forgotten." "And shall not forget it," observed Catherine with animation. "See, Lambert, now that we have honorably acknowledged that we love one another, I am no longer so timid. We must now be equally honest toward the others. Your aunt knows it, you say, and she will adapt herself to the actual state of affairs. Conrad must also know it, and then he won't be angry at you any longer. It perhaps sounds a little bold, but if I am indeed pleasing to him, let me manage it, Lambert. I will tame the young bear for you." Lambert shook his head, and had again to laugh as he now looked into the face of the beloved one, which beamed with happiness as before. "Yes, yes, who could withstand you? Who would not willingly do what you wish?" They had reached the block-house, and entered the open door. Lambert looked about the room with as much wonder as though he now saw it for the first time. About the hearth, on the shelves, there hung and stood kettles, pitchers and pots clean and burnished. They had heretofore always been in confusion. On the hearth itself the live coals glimmered under the ashes, and only needed to be uncovered and fanned again to start the fire. Near by lay the fire-wood carefully piled up. The table was brightly scoured. The chairs were set in order. The floor was sprinkled with white sand. The hunting and fishing apparatus neatly hung against the wall. The small mirror which, dusty and dull, had hitherto leaned in a dark corner, had found a suitable place between the silhouettes of his parents, while they were encircled with simple garlands. "You best one!" said Lambert, as with deep emotion he locked the beloved one in his arms. "You will prove the good angel of us all." "To that may God help me!" ejaculated Catherine. "And now, Lambert, we must think about the obligations resting on us. While you go and feed Hans, I will prepare our noonday meal. After dinner we will start, for I suppose you mean to take me along. Now, no more talking; we have already trifled away too much time." She drove out the beloved one with kisses and scolding, and then turned to her work, which she pushed forward in a lively manner, though she often pressed her hand on her heart, which it seemed would burst with sheer happiness. Wherever she looked, she, in imagination, saw the form of her beloved--the true, good, thoughtful eyes; the face embrowned by exposure, with its handsome, clear expression; the powerful frame, which moved with such calm assurance. In the crackling of the fire; in the measured tick-tack of the old Swartzwald clock, she seemed ever to hear his deep, friendly voice; and she mentally recalled the words he had said to her, and trembled with pleasure as she thought how her name rang out from his lips: "Catherine!" So she had always been called. Her father, friends, neighbors, all the world had called her Catherine, and yet it seemed as though to-day she had heard it for the first time. Oh! everything had turned out so different and so much better than she had dared to hope. How doubtingly she had looked toward the land with fixed eyes, which had already learned to weep on the torture-ship. What more could it bring her besides terrible, inconceivable misery? How unhappy she had yesterday felt on her arrival, and again this morning. Could she then now be in reality happy, so very happy that her dear, dead father, were he still living, could wish for her nothing better--nothing more desirable? Catherine bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer, and then looked up with brightened glances. "Yes," said she softly, "he would have blessed our engagement with his fatherly, priestly blessing. I can call myself his before men, as I am before God and in my own heart. And though I have no friend, male or female, to rejoice with us and to wish us joy, I am on that account none the less his and he mine. But I will make friends of the whole world--the strange old aunt and the wild Conrad. I am no longer afraid of anybody--of anything." So spoke Catherine to herself as she was setting the table, and yet she was badly scared as, at that moment, she heard the stamping of a horse before the house, and a loud human voice calling: "He, holla! Lambert Sternberg!" Trembling, she laid down the plates and stepped to the door to see the caller, who again and again screamed: "Lambert Sternberg! He, holla, Lambert Sternberg!" CHAPTER VII Before the house, on a long-limbed, lean horse, whose panting flanks and hanging head showed that he had just completed a long and rapid trip, a young man had stopped. On Catherine's appearance he forgot to shut the large mouth which he had opened in calling. His long, flaxen hair hung down in strands from under his large, three-cornered hat upon his narrow shoulders. The sweat poured from his freckled, saturated, long face, and his dull, water-blue eyes had a frightened look as Catherine, aghast, called out: "For God's sake, what has happened?" "Where is he?" stammered he on the horse, and turned his eyes in every direction. "You are looking for Lambert Sternberg?" asked Catherine. The rider bowed. "I will call him. Dismount and rest yourself a moment. I will soon be back," said Catherine. The rider did as the young girl had told him, climbed in a tired way out of the high saddle, and tied his horse to the iron ring. As Catherine turned to go, Lambert came around the house. He was leading Hans by the halter, and called out: "God bless you, Adam Bellinger! What brings you here?" "The French are here!" replied Adam. Lambert started, and looked quickly toward Catherine, who on her part kept her large, questioning eyes fixed on him. "What does that mean?" asked Lambert. "Where are they? What do you know, Adam? By the thousand, man, speak!" "I know nothing," said Adam. "My father sent me." "What for? What is to be done?" "I was in the field." said Adam, "when my father came running up, saying that I must unharness and saddle the mare; that Herkimer had been there; that the French were on the march; and that I should report it everywhere, and that this afternoon all should come to his house to consult as to what was to be done." "Then it cannot be so very bad," said Lambert, breathing more freely. "Herkimer is a man of sense, and would not ask us to come to his house if there was very pressing danger to our own homes. But how did you learn that I had returned?" "I was at Aunt Ursul's, who sent me here to tell you that she was going to the meeting, and that if you should not wish to leave the young lady, who may indeed be your bride, alone, you should take her along and leave her at Eisenlord's on the way, or at Voltz', where the women intend to remain at home, or at our house." "It is well," said Lambert, as he took the hand of Catherine, standing by him still and pale. "Now come in, Adam Bellinger, and take a bite and a drink. You appear to need it, and the poor beast too. We will be ready in ten minutes." Lambert shoved up the movable crib, while Catherine went into the house and brought out a loaf of bread which Adam cut in pieces for his horse. Then they all went in and sat down to the hastily prepared meal, to which Adam addressed himself so earnestly that he had little time to answer Lambert's many questions. Catherine learned enough, as she silently listened, to form a conception of the real situation. She had often heard Lambert speak of Nicolas Herkimer, one of the richest and noblest German settlers, who owned a large farm and a castle-like house on the Mohawk, at the mouth of Canada Creek. The year before, during Belletre's raid, he had been of great service to the settlements. The governor had given him a captain's commission, and had intrusted him, for the future, with the defense of the neighboring German districts. "He will already have formed his plans," said Lambert. "We on the creek will doubtless have to look out for ourselves, we are pushed ahead so far. There shall be nothing lacking with us, though I did not expect to have the murdering incendiaries here so soon again." Out of Lambert's entire being spoke the settled courage of a man who well knew the threatened danger, but was resolved to defy it, come what would. His eyes sought Catherine's, who went quietly back and forth serving the men, and whose large, glistening eyes said: "You see, beloved, I am, like you, quiet and self-contained." Adam seemed to have forgotten all his fear, while engaged in eating and drinking. He looked up at Catherine, when she filled his plate for the second time, bowing with a friendly grin. At last he slowly laid down his knife and fork and looked about him contentedly, as though he would say: "One sits here a good deal more comfortably than in the cursed high saddle of the mare, who threw me at every step from one side to the other." "Are you ready, Adam?" asked Lambert, who had risen and had hung about him his rifle. "Indeed," replied Adam, "but hardly the mare. The poor beast is not accustomed to anything like this." "I will water her, and saddle Hans," said Lambert. Catherine followed him to the door. Lambert caught her hand and said: "Catherine, I thank you, I thank you with my whole heart. I now know that I need cast no more reproaches on myself." "You should not have cast any," said Catherine. "Your affairs are mine Your fate is mine. I live and die with you." "And so will I give every drop of my blood for you," said Lambert, "but I hope to God that there are yet many good days appointed us. It cannot for the present have much significance. Conrad, who was up there for a week, and in the region from which they must come, surely knows more about our enemies than anyone else; and he told me that there is at least no immediate danger." "So I think, too," said Catherine, "and for that reason I will ask a favor of you, Lambert. You have on my account slightly neglected your duty. Had you returned alone you would yesterday already have seen and spoken with your friends, for you would have taken the road through the valley instead of through the woods. To-day it is fortunate that your friend Adam has found us, for you might easily have failed to be where you belong. This is not right, and lies heavy on my mind. Now you have a long ride. I know well that Hans can carry us both, but he will go better if you alone ride him. And then what would be the result should everyone, on such an occasion, drag his wife with him? The others also stay at home. You will leave me here, Lambert. Is it not so?" "Now it is getting to be time," said Adam Bellinger, coming out of the door. Lambert stood irresolute. He saw no danger in leaving Catherine alone, but it was very trying for him to separate himself from her just at this time. "Conrad may come back to his dinner and find the house deserted. Surely it is better, Lambert, that I stay here." "Well, as you will," said Lambert. He again unbuckled the pillion that he had put upon Hans. "Does not the maiden go along?" asked Adam, who was already mounted. Lambert did not answer. "Well then, good-bye, young lady; and best thanks. Hot! Mare!" He turned his horse, which left the crib unwillingly. Catherine flew into Lambert's arms. "May you live happy, beloved. I hope you are not displeased with me?" "With you?" His lips trembled. Silently he pressed Catherine to his breast; then with a mighty effort he tore himself away, swung himself upon Hans, galloped after his companion, who was trotting ahead on his long-limbed horse, and at every step of the animal flew up in the air, while his sharp elbows moved up and down like wings. CHAPTER VIII Lambert soon overtook the awkward rider. The two young men trotted on for a time side by side without speaking, until suddenly the mare, panting, stood still. Adam, having thus been thrown upon the neck of the beast, remarked that the mare was a very intelligent creature, and well knew that it was impossible for her to keep going at such a gait; that in such a case she always stopped to give the rider time for reflection; and that he had always found that one also finally reaches his destination by going on a walk, and that far easier. "But also so much later," said Lambert, impatiently. "If you are absolutely unable to keep up with me I must leave you and ride on ahead." "For God's sake!" cried Adam, and thrust his heels so forcibly into the sides of the mare that she sprang forward, and again fell into a trot. "For God's sake! that will soon fail." "You are a coward," said Lambert, "in that you are put to the blush by a girl." He turned back in the saddle toward the blockhouse before it should disappear from his sight behind the forest-encompassed, rocky hill around which they were winding. Catherine had not left her place in front of the door. Though uncertain whether she could see the salutation he waved his hand to her, and then the rocks hid her from his sight. An indescribable sadness fell upon Lambert and it did not lack much but he would have turned Hans about and gone back at full speed. But with a strong determination he overcame his painful emotion. "I am just as great a coward," said he to himself, "and even a greater one, for I know better about what is going on, and nothing that I do for her should be burdensome to me." "You may well talk," Adam broke in upon Lambert's self-communings. "Why?" asked Lambert. "Should they pull the scalp from over your ears no rooster would crow after that; but my mother would weep her eyes out." "Perhaps there may be somebody who would rather see my scalp on my head than on an Indian's girdle." "Do you mean the young lady?" asked Adam, opening his mouth from ear to ear, and for a moment letting go of the horn of the saddle, and pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. "Perhaps," said Lambert. "Don't trouble yourself about that," said Adam, in a comforting tone. "Then I will marry her. It is already a long time since mother wanted me to marry. But you know I would not take just anybody. The girl pleases me." "So!" said Lambert. "Yes," said Adam. "Barbara and Gussie and Annie would doubtless at first cry a little, but that would come right in time. I believe that Fritz and August Volz are already engaged to Barbara and Gussie, and we have always thought that you would marry Annie." "With or without a scalp?" asked Lambert. Adam thought this such a capital joke that he stopped the mare to press his fists into his sides and break out in ringing laughter. A fish-hawk, which had plunged into the creek among the reeds, flew away frightened, while his warning voice rang out. "My God!" said Adam, "I really thought it was already one of the mean French, or red-skins." "Have you during this time of terror heard of them?" asked Lambert as they were riding along. "Once," said Adam, "about a month ago. Father went to Schenectady with the wheat, and I was alone in the field, when little Anton came running and cried out: 'The Indians have swum across the creek and are at our house.' Fear so flew into my legs that I did not know where my head stood, and I wanted to go right home to help the women. But when I again got my breath I was standing before Eisenlord's door. The old man was at home, and at once sent his youngest son to Peter Volz', whence soon there came the old man himself and Fritz and August. Then we went courageously forward, though the crying women did not want us to go. On the way Christian Eisenlord and young Peter Volz joined us, so that we were six or seven, although apparently there could not much reliance be placed on me, since I almost cried my eyes out from pity and heartache that I should now find our house burned down, and my beautiful Bless and the four English hogs, that I had just that morning bought of John Martens, driven away, and mother and Barbara and Gussie and Annie scalped. But as we came out of the woods, through which we had carefully skulked, there stood our house undisturbed; and the women were standing before the door scolding little Anton, who was crying bitterly." "How about the Indians?" asked Lambert. "You must not interrupt me, if I am to tell my story in an orderly way," said Adam. "Where was I?" "At Anton, who was crying bitterly." "The poor boy!" said Adam. "I could not blame him. He should have gone in and covered the Indian--who was about naked, so that the women were ashamed." "Then there really was one there?" "Yes, indeed; and he had swum through the creek, and lay on the hearth as drunk as a red-skin can be, and snored so that we could hear him outdoors. Then the others had a good laugh at my expense, and, since, they have constantly jeered me about the drunken fellow, though one should not paint the devil on the wall. I indeed could do nothing about it. But little Anton should have been wiser. On account of what took place then, they would not believe my message to-day; and had I not said and sworn that Herkimer himself had told my father, they would have remained at home, except Aunt Ursul, who immediately saddled both her horses." "So! Has uncle also gone along?" asked Lambert. "We shall soon know," said Adam. "I will call." They stopped before the Ditmar house. Adam rose in his stirrups, put both hands to his mouth and screamed so loud that the doves on the roof were frightened, and Melac, the watch-dog, in the yard, began to bark and howl fearfully. "He, holla! Christian Ditmar! holla, he!" However the long figure of old Ditmar did not appear at the upper-half of the door, through which one could see the interior. Lambert thought best to go right on and not call at William Teichert's. His farm lay somewhat to one side, at the edge of the woods which here bore back from the creek in a great bend and came back to it again near Peter Volz' yard. Here indeed they had to stop, for mother Volz had seen the riders from a distance, and stood before the door with a pitcher of home-brewed beer in each hand, which Peter, her youngest son, had just drawn fresh from the barrel. Mother Volz was much excited, and great tears rolled over her big cheeks as she handed the pitchers to the riders, at the same time scolding the French and her Peter, who would go to the meeting and leave her--an old, helpless woman--alone, the good-for-nothing! "If I am good for nothing," said Peter, "I cannot help you, mother. But I must always stay at home and play the baby; that is just as it is." "Yes, that is the case," said Adam, smacking his lips forcibly over his beer, "and the rest of us must have a hard time of it." "Then give me the mare and you stay here," said the courageous Peter. Adam was not disinclined to accept so agreeable an offer, and began to climb out of the saddle when the mare, perhaps misunderstanding the motion of the rider, or because she perceived that she was near her own stable, suddenly started on a trot, to Adam's disappointment and Lambert's satisfaction, whose impatience at the unnecessary loitering had become very great. Now, however, thanks to the mare's fixed purpose to end her unusual labor for the day, without stopping, she went on faster and faster--so that Adam held convulsively to the horn of the saddle, while his long, yellow hair flew about his ears--on along the creek, past John Eisenlord's house, where the women hastened to the door, and called, and wondering looked after those who were rushing past. Thus they went faster and faster until the mare stopped in Bellinger's yard with a jerk and threw her rider over her head in the sand at the feet of his mother and three sisters and younger brother. His mother called out: "Run, little Anton! and open the stable for the mare, so that she does not crush her skull against the door--the poor beast!" No one felt concerned for Adam. In fact, this was the usual way in which the mare, after such a trip, returned her rider. He soon got up and rubbed his long legs groaning, while the women surrounded Lambert and inquired about his journey; when he got back; and why in the world he yesterday took the rough road through the woods? how his maid-servant behaved? and why he had brought one from a distance of fifty miles, when he could easily have found one--and perhaps a better one--near by? Lambert briefly thanked them for their kind inquiries, ascertained how long since the men had gone, spurred his horse and, with a brief salutation, trotted away, thus filling the beautiful blonde Annie with not a little anxiety, and compelling her to listen to the remarks of her sisters, Barbara and Gussie: "Now one can clearly see, what we always thought, that Lambert Sternberg did not take that long journey to New York on account of the pines." Annie replied that she cared nothing for Lambert, and that Fritz and August Volz had also not yet declared themselves. The mother took Annie's part, and the dispute threatened to become serious, when it happily occurred to them that they had not once asked Adam what sort of a person the new girl was. They now learned from the keen rider, who had gone into the house and was rubbing his shins with brandy, that, in no case was Lambert to have her, but that he himself was to marry the girl as soon as the Indians had taken Lambert's scalp, and that he and Lambert had come to a complete agreement on that matter. While Catherine's fate was thus discussed in the Bellinger family, Lambert pushed along on a fast trot to regain lost time. He had gathered from the questions of the women, and still more from the tone in which they were put, that the way in which he had dealt was not thought favorably of. He was yesterday persuaded of this, and to escape this neighborhood interference he had taken the road through the woods. He felt grieved and angry at his aunt, who alone could have spread abroad the knowledge of his return and his relation to Catherine. Still he said to himself that, since all must shortly know it, it was best they should know it as soon as possible. He saw how difficult his position in the community would be--as indeed it should be--so long as Catherine was not his wife; possibly even after that; that, at all events, it was his duty to make his relation to Catherine clear to all eyes. He determined yet to-day, should opportunity offer, to speak to the minister and to seek the advice and help of that excellent man. He had now come out of what was properly the valley of the creek, near its mouth. Toward the right of him lay the broad German Flats, in the fork between the creek and the Mohawk. The land, long rescued from the primitive forest, was rich, and there were unbroken lines of successive settlements, with a small church and a parsonage in the midst on a hill. Before him, on the other side of the Mohawk, whose clear waters glanced between its bushy shores, there stood out also on a hill, what looked like a small fortification. This, the purposed end of his journey, was Nicolas Herkimer's stately house. He now discovered that, as he had feared, he would not be the last one to arrive. In the even reaches between corn-fields and bushes those coming on foot or on horseback singly, or by twos, or threes, from different directions, could be seen, all moving toward one point. There was a house conveniently situated on this side of the river, diagonally across from Herkimer's farm, where Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, lived. Here, a few minutes afterward, Lambert met the men whom he had from a distance seen coming. By them he was greeted very cordially, as though all had heard of his journey to New York, but not of his return. They wanted to know how the matters had resulted and especially what he had heard in the city about the war in Europe; whether the French had really, the year before at Roszbach, been so helplessly slaughtered, and whether the king of Prussia was this year going to take the field against his countless enemies. Lambert told them what he knew, and on his part sought information about things at home. Of the five or six men who thus happened to meet, each gave his impressions as best he could, from which it appeared that there were nearly as many different opinions as there were men, in the small gathering. Yes, while they were eagerly attacking Hans Haberkorn's rum, they became so warm that they seemed to have forgotten why they were there, until Lambert's urgency induced them to go on. Hans Haberkorn thought there was no hurry and that they could just as well consult here as at Herkimer's. The rest, however, would not stay behind. They tied their horses in a row, under an open shed, to the manger, and went upon the river; and on the short passage across renewed their debate with increased earnestness, so that it did not lack much of going from words to blows on the small scow. On this account it was fortunate that, as they landed on the other side, others joined them, of whom some had crossed before, while others, coming from the other side, awaited the landing of the ferry-boat so that they could go on together. Over the greeting they for the moment forgot their contention, but they had proceeded but a few steps before the war of words began again as before, while those who came up afterward mingled in the crowd and took part on one or the other side. So, scolding and quarreling, they reached the front yard of Herkimer's house. CHAPTER IX There might have been a hundred who were here assembled, all German settlers from the Mohawk, from the creek, and some even from Schoharie, for that far had the circumspect Herkimer sent his message. In the tall, often giant-like men, who sat in long rows on the benches under the projecting roof of the house, in the shade, or moved about on the open, sunny lawn, nobody would have recognized the descendants of the pale and emaciated immigrants who, in their time, landed in the harbor of New York and of Philadelphia from pest-ships, in an inhospitable country. So thought Lambert, as he cast his eye over the assembly and looked at those nearer, whom he knew and soon singled out. There was first the distinguished form of Nicolas Herkimer himself, with broad shoulders, on which the long, grayish hair fell, and the clear, blue eyes, which to-day appeared brighter and more thoughtful than usual as he spoke with one and another, and then again looked at the position of the sun to see whether the hour appointed for the meeting had come. There was the minister Rosenkrantz, with his kind, friendly face as storm-tried and weather-browned as that of any of his people, from whom he was distinguished only by his black clothes and his large snuff-box, which he was constantly turning about in his fingers. There were his neighbors, the Volzes, and the Eisenlords, father and sons, and William Teichert, and old Adam Bellinger; and at last he also discovered, at the farthest corner, his uncle, Christian Ditmar, still as ever and brooding with his fur cap drawn far down over his face. Lambert was trying to press through to the old man, as Richard, Herkimer's youngest son, of the same age as Conrad, and a dear friend of both brothers, touched his shoulder. "God bless you, Lambert! You have come back at the right time, I should say. Where is your brother?" Lambert informed him that this morning Conrad went hunting, and had not yet returned when he himself left home. "This will be very unpleasant news for father," said Richard. "He has already asked a couple of times for both of you. There he comes himself. I will afterward talk with you, Lambert." It was painful enough for Lambert that he was obliged to give the same information to the honored man who so heartily welcomed him. "I knew it already from your aunt," said Herkimer, "but I hoped that he had meanwhile come. It is very unpleasant that he fails us. I hear that he has been for eight days at the lake, and surely knows more about the movements of our enemies than any one of us. To be sure I have on the whole been well informed, but it would be desirable to have some one on whom I could call. What did he tell you?" "Only this," replied Lambert, and then told Herkimer the little he had learned from Conrad; that the Onondaga Indians were assembled in large number, and that it was Conrad's impression that it was not for a good purpose. "That agrees altogether with my other reports," said Nicolas Herkimer. "These rascals have already for a long time played false, and we shall doubtless soon have them on our necks. Listen, Lambert; I have thought of placing you in an important position, and before we enter upon our consultation I wish to come to an understanding with you. Mr. Rosenkrantz, a moment." The preacher drew near and heartily greeted Lambert, and began at once to ask about his journey, but Herkimer quickly interrupted the talkative minister. "That will do as well later, dominie," said he, "we have now something more important to think of. I wish to explain our plan to Lambert, on whom we can rely in any event. This, Lambert, is our plan: After our losses of last year we are, in any case, too weak for open warfare against an enemy far exceeding us in number and able to choose his own time and place for attack. The only thing left for us to do is, by constant and regular scouting, as well as possible to learn his movements, so that, before an actual attack follows, we can retire to our fortified points. One of these naturally is the fort, which is in a good, defensible condition. The second is my house. For this I stand, and this they did not even venture to attack last year. About the third I will soon speak with you. In addition to this, so that all may be informed as soon as possible, we will establish signals up the river and away from it. For this purpose we must form small squads of troopers which can be rapidly concentrated at threatened points and occupy the enemy until wives and children have accomplished their flight. Cattle, and what else can be concealed, we must secure beforehand. Now, as to what concerns you: It is most likely that this time they will select the creek for attack. They passed by you last year, hence they will hope to find the more with you. And then they know--or believe--that here on the Mohawk we are better prepared and more fully informed than you. The last is probably the case. You live so far off that you could not, upon being pursued, have much prospect of reaching either here or the fort; and for the same reason, we could as little help you. Your father, who was an intelligent man, understood this well, and so strengthened your house that it could for a short time be held by a few well-protected men, furnished with ample provisions and ammunition, against a large troop. On this I have built my plan. You are a good rifleman, and your brother Conrad is the best in the colony. You are both courageous, resolute men, and you have got to carry your own hide to market, which speaks for itself in such circumstances. I will give you two or three men, whom you may yourself select, and it will then be your business to protect yourselves and your neighbors--such as the Ditmars, Teicherts and perhaps also Volzes--who can reach you--Eisenlords and Bellingers are nearer here--until we are in a condition to bring help. I need not tell you, Lambert, upon how responsible and dangerous a post I place you. On your watchfulness hangs not only the life of your neighbors, but perhaps also the fate of all of us about here. On the other hand it may happen that we, with the help of soldiers from Albany, cannot ourselves resist the enemy, and so can either not help you at all, or not at the right time. Will you, Lambert Sternberg, undertake the charge?" "I will," said Lambert. Nicolas Herkimer shook hands with him heartily, and turned to other groups. The minister, who had listened, eagerly twisting his small clothes, and often bowing his head, now reached out his hand to Lambert and said: "You have not undertaken a small matter, dear young man. May God help you!" "Amen! honored sir," replied Lambert. "I need your help perhaps more than you are aware of. I came here to make to you a communication, if opportunity offered, highly important to myself, and to ask your advice. Will you listen to me a few minutes? I will try to be brief." "Speak," said the minister, "though I think I already know what you wish to say." Lambert looked inquiringly at the minister. "My dear friend, your Aunt Ditmar has already told me something which I have interpreted according to the disposition of young people. But say on." Lambert now told the worthy man the history of his love for Catherine from the first moment when he saw her on the deck of the ship to that hour, and at last made known his earnest wish that he might, before all the world, call her his wife. "I understand, I understand," said the minister, who had been all ears; "yes, yes; for this you may well wish, both on the girl's account and your own; yes, also on account of Conrad, who otherwise might deal some silly blows." "And so," said Lambert, "as the danger is threatening, I wish as soon as possible to be united to Catherine forever." "Forever!" said the minister earnestly. "This I also fully understand. Also short and well, dear young friend, I will gladly serve you, as it is my office and my heartfelt wish. We cannot here always observe the forms prescribed by the church, but God sees the heart. So I think to-morrow, satisfied with a single proclamation of the bans, we will attend to the marriage immediately after public worship. Are you satisfied with that? Good; and then I must ask you yet one thing, viz.: That you this evening take the lady to whom you are engaged to your Aunt Ditmar's and leave her there until to-morrow, and from there bring her to the wedding. I repeat, God looks at the heart, but appearances sway our judgment, and so for the people's sake I wish you would follow my advice." "I will gladly do it, worthy sir," said Lambert. "I will at once speak to my aunt about it." "There she comes now," said the minister. Aunt Ursul had been actively helping Herkimer's women in the house, which the labor of entertaining so many guests at once made necessary. She now declared that, with her consent, not another pitcher of beer or glass of rum should be furnished. "I know my people, and if anything is to come out of the consultation, you must begin now, for an hour hence you might as well preach reason to horses. Say this to Herkimer, dominie. I will look after my old man. You are welcome to go with me, Lambert. He has already asked about you--something that he doesn't do every day. But the French you know bring him into harness. He is to-day quite changed." Lambert went to his uncle with his aunt, but could not discover any change in him. The old man kept sitting in the same corner on the bench, the fur cap drawn far down on his forehead. His sunken head was scarcely raised in returning Lambert's salutation with a silent nod. However, the otherwise half-closed eyes looked for a moment from under the heavy eyebrows in a peculiar glance, but his thoughts must have wandered far away. He appeared not to hear what Lambert said to him. "Only let him be," said Aunt Ursul; "he now has other things in his head, and for us it is high time that we at last come to the business. It will likely go like a mixture of cabbage and turnips." Aunt Ursul appeared to be right. The noise kept increasing. They went around with pitchers and flasks in their hands, and drank to one another, and talked and screamed at each other, till suddenly first one then another shouted: "Still!" "Quiet!" Now the well-known form of the minister appeared, as they crowded through one another. He had climbed on a table and stood there. He had quit turning his snuff-box about in his fingers and waited until they should be ready to listen to him. "Still!" "Quiet!" sounded forth more authoritatively than before. But quiet was not forthcoming. In certain distant groups the loud talking continued, and a coarse voice cried: "What does the dominie want?" "What I want," called the minister, "I will soon tell you. I beg you, back there, that you will at length keep your mouths shut and bring your wisdom, if you have any, to market at the right time and to the right place." The rough word awakened laughter everywhere, but after the laughter it became still. The minister slipped the snuff-box into his pocket, took off his large three-cornered hat, shoved back the much-used, short wig and thus proceeded: "I wish with you all to call upon the Lord, and beseech Him that this time the cup, which we emptied last year to the last bitter dregs, the taste of which still lies on our tongues, may graciously pass from us; and if in His incomprehensible wisdom he has decreed that it shall not be so, and that He will again try our hearts and reins, that then, in His grace, He will give us strength to endure the severe trial like brave men who know that the good God, in spite of all and everything, does not forsake him who does not forsake himself, and helps him who helps himself. This, dear friends and countrymen, is a word which has been profitable in many ways and at many times, but never and for no one more than for us at this time. Who will deliver us out of our distress and danger here, on the utmost border of the earth, occupied by people of our race, where surrounding enemies lurk and go about to destroy us, but God and ourselves? And with God's help we will save ourselves--of this I am fully convinced--if we keep His commandment which reads: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' Since if we, as it becomes neighbors, stand beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, with one mind and one heart, and full of the same courage in danger, distress and death, then and only then, dear friends, shall we overcome the danger and deliver ourselves from the distress, and die, should death meet us, as brave men, discharging our highest duty as men and Christians. And now, dear friends, after having said what I, as a servant of the Word of God and a man of peace, wished to say, from a full and loving heart, I thank you that you have listened to me attentively. Will you not with equal attention listen to the man whom we all know and honor, an honest farmer like yourselves, and in addition a brave soldier. May the Lord bless him so that he may give you good advice; and may the Lord bless you so that you may take advice; and may He protect us all and let the light of His countenance fall upon us and give us peace. Amen." The earnest words of the minister, who spoke--especially toward the last--with a deeply moved voice, did not entirely fail of their effect. An approving murmur ran here and there through the assembly. But the voice of the speaker had scarcely ceased and his form disappeared from the table when again, though not as loud as before, some voices were raised asking what was the object of the talk? whether they had come here to hear a sermon? "Talking costs no money and the minister can talk well. He was last year one of the first to run for the fort, and left the rest to their fate, but truly it is well not to be before a gun when it is fired off." So here and there spake those who were dissatisfied. Others said they should be ashamed to say such things about so excellent a man. Others called: "Quiet! don't you see that Herkimer wants to speak?" So at last Nicolas Herkimer, who had already stood on the table a few minutes and let his keen, earnest eyes pass over the assembly, raised his voice. He spoke long and impressively. He unfolded in every particular the plan which he had, in its chief parts, before told Lambert. In it he had thought of everything, remembered everything, and reduced to its smallest compass the threatened danger that could be avoided. "That is what I have to say," he concluded. "Now it is for you to test my proposals. We are free men, and each one can in the end do what he pleases, and carry his hide to market this way or that. But that we are free does not forbid us to be united. On the other hand, only by being united shall we preserve and protect our freedom. United we cannot be and become, if you talk and cry out among each other as just now you did, again. Whoever knows anything better than I, let him come here and speak. Let him who does not, keep still and listen. And let us not forget--what we tell our children--that he who will not hear must feel. Who wishes to speak after me?" "I!" "I!" called out a couple of dozen voices. "You cannot all speak at once," said Herkimer with some bitterness; "so you come here, Hans Haberkorn. You screamed the loudest." Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, appeared beside Herkimer on the table. The small, undersized, barefoot fellow who had, behind the bar connected with his ferry, so often spoken large words and scolded his rich neighbor on the other side of the river, could not let the opportunity pass to tell the last speaker the truth--as he expressed it--before all the world. He wanted to know whether it was honest and neighborly in Nicolas Herkimer that he wanted three ferries at the same time over the river within half a mile of each other, after it had been promised him, Hans Haberkorn, that he should be the only ferryman on this ground? That he on that account had settled on a piece of land which consisted of moor and sand, and on which he would long since have starved if he had not also a beer saloon. Now the two ferries should be used only in urgent cases, and then again discontinued, or--what would follow--let the wolf eat. It was absolutely certain that one ferry without a beer saloon could not support itself. Both the other ferries would want to set up beer saloons, and then it would be to him, personally, the same whether the French came to-day or to-morrow and killed him with his wife and children. For his part he would rather be put to death at once than starve to death by degrees. "Hans Haberkorn is right!" called out half a dozen voices. "Shame on the good-for-nothing fellow who thinks only about himself!" cried others, and pressed toward the table from which Hans Haberkorn quickly jumped. The place he vacated was again occupied by big John Mertens, who had a large farm on the moor between the Mohawk and the creek, near the church, and by some was considered to be better off than Herkimer himself. In any case one could always be sure that John Mertens would oppose anything that Herkimer and the minister wanted, of whom he observed that they always stuck under the same cover. With this--his favorite expression--he began his discourse, saying: That one might well know what to think of a plan that had been formed without consulting him, John Mertens, who also had a word to say, having ten head of cattle in the pasture more than people whom he would not name; nor would he speak of the sheep and the English hogs which he had first introduced; that every child knew that one could not bring sheep out of a stable when the roof over their heads was afire; nor could one drive fifty hogs away so fast that a lame Indian could not overtake them, not to speak of a dozen who could run. They might think of John Mertens so or so, but he is an honest fellow who does not hide his meaning behind a bush. This was what he wanted to say--The discourse of the big farmer was very confused, and was partly lost in the fat of his double chin; but his adherents, of whom the number was not small, showed their approbation with screams and yells. The opposite party did not fail to pay back such an answer as was due. A dreadful tumult arose, which Nicolas Herkimer's powerful voice could not overcome. It seemed as if the consultation on whose issue the weal or woe of hundreds hung, through the folly and conceit of a couple of dozen would end in empty confusion and disorder. Suddenly there stood beside Nicolas Herkimer a person, the mere sight of whom, as with a blow, brought the boisterous assembly to order, as though a dead man had become alive and wished to address them. The giant-long, skeleton-lean form of Christian Ditmar, whose bony hands were stretched apart as if in conjuration, while, from under the thick fur cap the gray hair in disordered strands was whipped by the wind about his ghost-like face, was awe-inspiring. Then he raised his voice, which now shrieked frantically, and then again rung out like thunder, and thus spoke: "So is being fulfilled the Word of God: 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.' Yes, the sins of the fathers. You have quarreled with each other and raised your arms against each other while French wolves are howling around the German flock, and have worried and killed as their wicked hearts desired. They murdered my parents and brothers and sisters. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw too my parents' house go up in flames, and our neighbors' houses burning, and the city became a ruin and an ash-heap--the beautiful proud city on the Neckar. Among the ruins wandered weeping wives looking among the ashes for the bones of husbands and brothers, and cried: 'Woe!' 'Woe!' 'A deadly curse on you hangmen and murdering incendiaries!' "I, a weak boy, cried along with them: 'Woe! Woe! A curse upon you, you hangmen, and murdering incendiaries!' After many years I came here, and again found them, the mean French wolves, howling around the German flock; and I disputed with the rest and separated from the others, and went out with my wife and my sons to take vengeance on those who had killed my parents and all my kindred. How did the vengeance look when my four brave boys lay dead at their father's feet, each with a bullet through his breast?" Christian Ditmar was silent a few moments. He must suppress the sadness that rose in his heart at these recollections. He then proceeded with increasing emotion: "And so you have suffered and bled, earlier and later, under the greedy teeth. However I, who have suffered more than you all, I tell you that I deserved it since I blindly followed the voice of my heart crying for vengeance and did not hearken to the advice of more prudent men; and so you have deservedly suffered, and will suffer, since you also will not listen, you fools and madmen, and propose to separate as you came, the one this way, the other that, by which the wolves will again have an easy play. But then your own and your children's blood will rest on you as my children's blood has come upon me. Here--!" Christian Ditmar tore his fur cap from his head. A broad, fearful scar ran like a stream of blood over the high forehead from one temple to the other. "Here!" he repeated, while with his forefinger he pointed to the track of blood; "here! here!" He raised both hands to his head, and with a dull cry that rang dreadfully through the silent assembly, he fell helpless. Nicolas Herkimer caught him in his arms; but soon the old man gathered himself up and, with Lambert's help, who quickly sprang to his aid, descended from the table and walked slowly to the entrance into the door-yard, supported by the strong arm of his wife and attended by Lambert. "Have you now heard?" said Aunt Ursul to the rest who crowded around, helpful and eager. "Have you now heard, you straw-heads? Why do you stand about here and gape? I can take care of my old man alone. Better go and do what he has told you. You also stay here, Lambert, and when you pass our house stop a moment. I wish to speak with you." Lambert brought out the horses of his relatives from the long row of those which were swinging their tails under the shed, and bridled them. He now helped into the saddle his uncle, who had fallen back into his former stupidity, and after his great excitement seemed to take no farther part in the matter. Meanwhile Aunt Ursul had resolutely brought a stool and from it mounted her horse. Lambert looked at the retreating figures until they reached the ferry, where Hans Haberkorn's oldest boy, in the absence of his father, attended to the service, and then returned to the meeting, in which there now prevailed a very different mood. The appearance and words of Christian Ditmar had produced a powerful effect. Everybody knew the witless Christian and his history, and that he had been dumb since he had lost his sons, and his oldest friends could no longer remember the sound of his voice. And now the dumb had opened his mouth and had spoken fearful words, which cut to the heart those who listened in dumb wonderment. Yes, yes; it was, if not a miracle, at least a sign--a gray sign--well enough understood by the superstitious. When men are silent stones will speak. They had not been silent before--far otherwise--but they had not listened; they would now listen; they wanted to hear Herkimer explain his views once more. Nicolas Herkimer did so, and with a result far different from the first. They now found that it must be altogether so, and not otherwise--that better advice could not be given. Should the French this time select Canada Creek as the first point of attack, as to all appearance they would, it would be very bad for Lambert Sternberg and the Ditmars and the Eisenlords and the rest. But it could not be helped. When now Lambert appeared on the table and in a few plain words said that he was proud to assume the existing responsibility, and that he would hold out on his post to his last breath, and that he now desired the young men who had a heart and a good rifle for the undertaking, at once to go with him to-day; then August and Fritz Volz and Christian Eisenlord, and half a dozen others, cried out: "I!" "I!" with one voice, and pressing up joined the fighting band. The leaders of the three cavalry squads were now selected. These were to help those on and away from the Mohawk, and on the creek, as they were fleeing to the forts. So also right men were quickly appointed for the old ferry, and for the added new ones, and for the other important posts which were yet to be provided for. The excellent spirit which had seized the assembly made them unwilling to hear any more quarreling and strife; and those who grumbled secretly, such as Hans Haberkorn, John Mertens and others, thought it better policy to lay aside their opposition for a more convenient time. It was late in the afternoon when Nicolas Herkimer declared the business finished, and asked the minister to close the meeting. The minister put up his snuff-box, stepped on the table and spoke with a loud voice which clearly indicated deep feeling, as follows: "Dear neighbors and friends: I will not speak long, for you are in a hurry to get home to your wives and children. I will only ask you with me briefly to thank God that He has opened our hearts to the spirit of brotherliness and love, and to beseech Him that He will keep awake in us this spirit for the miserable days with which we are now threatened. Then this open heart and this wakeful spirit will make our hands strong, and we shall live in a strong tower, which is our God. And the prince of this world, however terrible he may be, will accomplish nothing against the eternal God in heaven, who will not leave His brave Germans. And now, dear neighbors and friends, go home, and keep your eyes stiff and your powder dry. To-morrow, as may happen, if you have more to do and cannot come to church, no damage will be done. God give us all a happy reunion. Amen." "Amen!" "Amen!" sounded forth everywhere in the circle of men, among whom there were none who had not found for the moment a deep and holy earnestness. They had assembled in disputation and quarreling. They separated in peace and harmony. Most of them at their departure went to shake hands with Nicolas Herkimer, and specially assured him that he could in any case rely on them. The honor of a pinch of snuff from the minister was sought by so many that the noble man could at last, laughing, only present the empty box. The young people who desired to be placed on the most dangerous post, had gathered about Lambert, and it required Herkimer's authority to settle the choice. Lambert had declared that he could not accept more than four, since he himself and Conrad must also be added, making six good rifles for the protection of the house. A larger number would unnecessarily consume food and ammunition in case they had to stand a siege. So then, to grieve no one, the lot should determine, and it fell on Fritz Volz, from the creek; Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman, from the Mohawk; and on Richard Herkimer. Lambert was satisfied with the issue. They were, on the whole, wide-awake young men--at least Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer, his special friends. They agreed that the last two, who lived near enough, should occupy the post yet this evening, and that the two others should come early in the morning. Now at last, after about all who had been assembled had gone, could Lambert leave Nicolas Herkimer, who said: "I will keep you no longer now. I will ride over to-morrow, as there are yet many things about which I want to talk to you." Lambert had not improperly pressed to go. As he reached the other side he found the Eisenlords, the Teicherts and a dozen others who all, with a glass of Hans Haberkorn's genuine, were discussing what they had heard and decided upon. He shook hands with them and hastened on, Fritz Volz calling after him that he would see him in the evening. As now he gave loose rein to his horse he cast an anxious, inquiring glance at the sky, in which the sun had nearly run its course. It was perhaps yet half an hour to its setting. On his left the level fields and marshes shimmered and glimmered in red, blended lights, so that he could hardly distinguish the shingled roofs of the houses; and the forms of riders and footmen appeared now and then as dark points in the sea of fire. To the right, where the farther he went the nearer did the hills and rocks press toward him, the mighty trunks of the giant pines glowed in dark purple, and their branching tops blazed in green-golden flames to the cloudless sky. With every hoof-beat of the horse the sun sunk deeper, and Lambert had just left Bellinger's farm behind when the sea of fire to the left was extinguished by a blue fog; and toward evening only the highest tops of the tallest trees reflected the departing light of day. Night soon came on. As his noble beast rapidly struck the grassy soil with strong hoofs he saw that he could not reach home in less than an hour. A nameless discontent seized him. The longing for the beloved one, which he had so nobly fought all these hours, now asserted its rights, and so filled his breast that he could hardly breathe. Minutes seemed like hours. There was also another distressing feeling--a feeling of fear for something he could not conceive of, for which he had no name, and which may on that account have been more terrible. In all his life he had never before had such an experience. Nearest to it were the frightful dreams that had terrified him when a boy, from which he in vain sought to wake. Lambert groaned aloud, and Hans groaned under the pressure of the rider's legs. So he rushed forward faster and faster, without looking to the right or left, without stopping at Eisenlord's or at Volz', though everywhere from the doors the women called to him: "Holla, Lambert, whither in such haste?" until at last Hans, angry at the conduct of his otherwise reasonable master, ran at full speed. Aunt Ursul had requested him to stop on his return, and he himself wished to speak with her about what the minister had said. So he stopped his foaming horse unwillingly when he came to the Ditmar house. "Is he near comfort.'" said Aunt Ursul who had heard him coming and now stepped to the door. "The poor beast is like a cat which has been lying eight days in the water. How you look yourself: Like the rider in the book of Revelation." "I feel as though some misfortune had happened there," stammered Lambert, pointing homeward. "Papperlapap!" said Aunt Ursul. "What can have happened? Conrad--yes, Lambert; I already see that now I can't get a rational word out of you, so in God's name, drive on. I have just put my old man to bed and given him a cup of tea, so I am entirely free and will come over in about an hour." She gave Hans, who was already restlessly champing his bit, a blow on his wet neck. He sprang away with his rider. "Those whom we love are always but half near comfort," said Aunt Ursul, looking after him and shaking her head; "nevertheless--nevertheless--Conrad is a madcap, and acted this morning as though he had lost his reason. I must see that all things go right." Aunt Ursul turned back into the house, took her gun from the rack and, with long strides, followed Lambert, who was already immersed in the evening fog which rose from the creek in thick streaks. CHAPTER X When at noon to-day Lambert tore himself away from Catherine, she stood still as though stunned. The conviction that she ought to remain behind had come to her on the instant; the determination to do so had been uttered so soon; the carrying out of the resolution too had followed so closely at its heels, that now, as the forms of the riders disappeared behind a turn of the road and she found herself really alone, it appeared to her as though she were having a disagreeable, fearful dream out of which she must momentarily awake. She struck herself over her forehead and eyes, but all was real. There stood the empty crib. There lay the pail which the mare had pushed over. There was the pillion which at the last moment Lambert had unbuckled from the saddle. There were the short, trampled grass and the tracks of the hoofs of the horses. There was the open door in which she had just now seen Lambert. Catherine took a few steps, as though she would follow the beloved one, and then stood still, pressing her hand on her loud-beating heart. Deep sadness overwhelmed her, but she vigorously fought down the feeling. "He has so often called you a brave girl," said she to herself, "and will you weep and complain like a child which the mother has left alone for a few moments? He will soon come back; surely he will soon come back." She entered the house to see what time it was. The hand of the Swartzwald clock pointed to twelve. The distance to Nicolas Herkimer's house was six miles. If she counted going and returning it was twelve, and on the calculation of the men themselves would take them two hours, so that Lambert could be back by six o'clock, or by seven at the latest. That was indeed a long time, but there was yet much to do, and perhaps also to-day Conrad would return earlier from hunting. "On Conrad's account I should remain here," said Catherine to herself as she cleared away the dinner-dishes. "He must learn to see in me his sister, and he will, when we show our confidence in him and have no secrets before him. Ah, could I only yesterday have greeted him as a brother! However, that will follow. It must follow yet to-day, when he returns. Then we will live together in peace, and the wild man will find that it is not a bad thing to have a female friend who takes care of him until he himself loves a girl, and establishes a home and builds a house for himself here near us, or at the edge of the woods he so much loves. That will be a joyful, happy life. We will be good neighbors. I shall love his wife and she me." Catherine had sat down on the hearth and, with her head supported by her hand, looked before her with half-closed eyes, thinking. The fire on the hearth gently crackled; the wall-clock said "tick-tack." In the meadow outside the birds sang. Through the open door the sun shone clear into the cool, shaded room; and in the bright sunbeams, which reached as far as her knees, dust atoms danced, lighted up, and twinkling like golden stars seemed to be waving and playing and catching one another. Then they were no longer golden stars, but children's laughing faces, which emerged out of the partial darkness of the background, came up to her knees, and again disappeared in the dark corners, and from them looked out with bright, blue, happy eyes. Then the vision vanished. The sun still shone into the silent room. The fire crackled. The wall-clock said "tick-tack," and out in the meadows sang the birds. The young maiden arose and commenced her labor anew, but there was a different expression in her mild, innocent countenance; and other thoughts, which came to her like a revelation, filled her soul. The bridal feeling which now happified her, had acquired another phase, for which she knew not how to account. It was a deeper, more earnest feeling--distinguished from the former like the light of noon now lying on field and forest, from that of the morning. Those were the same bending grass-stems and the same swaying tree-tops. It was the same clear creek and they were the same waving rushes, and yet all was changed as by a gentle, mighty, magic hand, and spoke another speech--moving and dissolving in mystery. Now she understood why the beloved man, who was truth and openness itself, so anxiously concealed from her for weeks that she must live alone with him in his house. "Alone! Would it not have been the same had he told the truth? told me that he loved me? that he did not want me as a maid-servant? Would it not have come out just the same? Did I not also love him from the first moment on? and have I not followed him through peopled cities, through the pathless wilderness, on a journey of weeks, through rain and sunshine, day and night, in unknown regions? What is so different now? Did I not devote myself to him as we left the ship hand in hand? 'You shall be my lord!' And is it not said in the church when the minister lays the hands of lovers together: 'He shall be thy lord.' Yes, he shall be my lord, now and always. He shall be my lord." So spoke Catherine to herself to banish the occasional shudders that passed through her heart and often took away her breath, while she completed the arrangements in her room which had been temporarily made last evening, and put away her few belongings in a closet that had been contrived in the thick wall. Then, as there was nothing more to do here, she for the first time ascended the stairs to the upper story, and walked around the gallery which encircled the house and projected beyond the lower story, and was surrounded by well-joined planks and provided with port-holes. With the exception of a place poorly enough partitioned off in which the brothers had slept the previous night, the room, used in winter as a store-room, was empty, or served for the storage of that for which there was no room below. Catherine acquired a clearer notion of the plan, which she and Lambert had formed in the morning, to prepare a small, pleasant room for them both here where everything was more airy and free. However, without Lambert she did not succeed very well in planning. So she again went downstairs, and to her surprise saw by the clock that since Lambert had left but one hour had elapsed. She took some work and seated herself with it on a bench before the door in the shade of the gallery. It was in the stillness of the day. There was so little wind that the grass-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek, scarcely bent. The butterflies passed from flower to flower on languid wing. The hum of the bees and the chirping of the crickets had a sleepy sound. All around, everything was still. However, out of the forest there frequently came the hoarse cry of the tree-falcon, or the call of a bird which Catherine did not recognize. In the blue sky there hung single white clouds whose shadows moved, slowly--very slowly--over the sunny prairie. At first Catherine was pleased with this quietude, which seemed an image of sabbath stillness, filling her soul. But she had scarcely thus sat an hour before the monotony of the scene about her filled her heart with a strange fear. How entirely different it was this morning. Then heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every grass-stem smiled and bowed their welcome to her. Everything had spoken to her in persuasive language. Now that the beloved one was at a distance everything was dumb, except that heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every grass-stem breathed out one word with ever-increasing sadness: Alone! alone! Catherine let her work sink into her lap. An image, that had been for many years as if blotted from her memory, suddenly came before her in pale colors, but very distinct--the image of her dead mother, who, adorned with flowers, lay in her coffin--and she a little girl, ten years old, stood beside it; and her father had come up and taken her hand and said: "We two are now alone." "Alone!" Her heart was filled with increasing fear. Again taking up her work she tried to sing a song that always occurred to her when everything was so quiet: "Were I a wild Falcon I would soar aloft." But she commenced so gently that she did not complete the first measure. Her voice sounded strange. She was frightened at her own voice. Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she went to the barn-yard where in the morning she had passed such happy moments with Lambert. She arose and hastily walked down the path, at last running, and now with beating heart leaned against the bars of the inclosure. The sheep which stood near ran away frightened, and looked at her from a distance with dull eyes. In the yard all was still. The hens and turkeys had gone out into the fields. As she again turned, from among the fruit trees, in whose blossom-covered branches this morning a robin sang so sweetly, there broke out a brown bird of prey and with broad, flapping wings hastened toward the forest. On the ground among the grass there lay several colored feathers. More sad than when she went Catherine returned to the house, and again sat down before the door, with the full purpose now to wait quietly, and to fight down her depression of spirits. So she sat patiently long, endless hours. The light in the green tops of the trees in yonder woods became more golden. The shadows that lay along the edge became deeper and broader--one after another came out of the wilderness until at last they branched out in troops. From time to time flocks of pigeons flew like lightning over the prairie from one side of the forest to the other. High above them, in the bright sky, sailed more slowly chains of wild geese, filling the air with their monotone cry. Then again everything was still, and Catherine could hear the rushing of the blood in her temples. She could endure it no longer. It occurred to her that she had seen a couple of books in the house on a shelf too high for her to reach. She went in, pushed up the table, set a stool on it and got the books. There were two of them, bound in hog's leather, very dusty and worm-eaten--a Bible and a history, as it appeared. The writing on the fly-leaf was at first in Latin, which the minister's daughter understood well enough to decipher with a little pains. It stated that this book belonged to Conrad Emanuel Sternberg, formerly a student of theology at Heidelberg, who, in the year 1709, after his parents--well-to-do vintners in the Palatinate--had lost everything in the dreadful winter, when the wine in the casks and the birds in the air froze, in company with the young cooper, Christian Ditmar, from Heidelberg, had determined upon the great undertaking of emigrating to America, which he reached June 13th, 1710, more dead than alive, after a long and tedious voyage from the Rhine through Holland and by way of England. He settled on the Hudson with his friends and fellow-sufferers, where he hoped to end his life in quietness and peace. This pious wish was not fulfilled. Further notices followed this connected narrative, but written in the German language, as though the writer had meanwhile forgotten his Latin, saying that he had moved with his faithful companion, Christian Ditmar, from the Hudson to the Mohawk, thence to Schoharie and finally to Canada Creek. Then there was the date of his marriage with Elisabeth Christiane Frank, of Schoharie, the younger sister of Ursula, his old friend's and now brother-in-law's wife, the birthdays of his sons, Lambert and Conrad, and the death of Christiane. With this sad event the record of the life of the old Heidelberg student was closed. He had not written a line more. Catherine looked thoughtfully at the faded writing, gently closed the lid and opened the second, smaller book. It was entitled: "Description of the destruction of the city of Heidelberg on the 22nd and 23rd of May, 1689." She began to read mechanically until by degrees she became conscious of what she was reading and sprang up with a dull outcry: "Great God! what have I read? Is it possible that human beings can so rage against one another--that there are tyrants to whom neither the silvered hair of the aged, nor the modesty of the maiden, nor the innocent laughter of children--to whom nothing is sacred? "Why not? Did not the bands under Soubise ravage through the cities and towns of Hanover? And did not their ruthless cruelty and base shamelessness drive her old father and all her neighbors and friends from their beloved homes across the sea? Were they not the sons and grandsons of those robbers who, under Melac and Borges, burnt the Palatinate and reduced Heidelberg to a dust heap? "And again, did they not, the year before, ravage here just so, in connection with the Indians, their like-minded confederates? Here, among these hills and in these valleys and woods, the same French were threatening again and their approach was already proclaimed. Dreadful! dreadful!" The poor girl, though so sore and sad at heart, had up to this moment found no definite cause of fear. Now fear overwhelmed her with sudden power. She looked with fixed eyes toward the edge of the forest as though at every moment the French and Indians were about to break forth from its silent recesses. She listened intently, until the blood seemed to boil in her temples, and as though it would burst the veins. Merciful God! What would become of her? How could Lambert leave her in such a howling wilderness?--he who had so long been her guardian and defense--he who had cherished her as the apple of his eye. If only Conrad would come. It was about the same time yesterday when he came--no, it was later; the sun had already set, and now it was still over the woods. But why should he to-day stay out so long? And who, besides Lambert, could better protect her than Lambert's brother, the strong, alert man who only needed to set his foot across the door-step to make those dwelling in the house feel secure? So Lambert said only this morning. Why did he now stay away when his presence was so much desired? Catherine pressed her hands against her beating temples. What should she do? What could she do but wait and try to hush a fear that surely was childish. There near her lay the Bible. She had so often, in sad hours, drawn from it rest and comfort. She took it up and read where her eyes happened to fall: "And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain and his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth and his countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain: Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? * * * And Cain talked with his brother Abel, and it came to pass when they were in the field, Cain rose up against Abel his brother and slew him." The printed page glimmered before her eyes. With a dull cry the affrighted girl sprang up. "Cain killed Abel! Cain killed Abel!" And she had wished that he--the terrible one--were here--he who this morning had uttered such dreadful threatenings. No, no! he must not come back; he must not find her alone. He must not see her again. She must away to meet Lambert. She must warn him--must tell him that his brother would kill him on her account; that he must give her up, or with her go out into the wide world. They must flee from the brother. He must save her and himself from that dreaded brother. As though the block-house was on fire Catherine hastened from the door, down the hill, to the creek, along the creek, without looking around, without observing that she had started in the opposite direction so that at every step she was farther away from Lambert. When she reached the bridge where Lambert had yesterday overtaken her she became aware of her mistake. But she was like a wrecked vessel driven shoreward by the waves and then again carried out to sea. Destruction by him from whom she would escape seemed unavoidable. No more capable of forming a further purpose, deprived of all strength, she sunk together; and as though she must here await the expected death-blow, she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. "Catherine!" Slowly she withdrew her hands from her deadly pale face, and saw Conrad standing before her with his rifle on his shoulder and his dog at his heels, looking at her with vacant eyes, and appearing to have just come out of the sedge along the shore. She had anticipated his coming--knew that he would come. She no longer felt that nameless dread. On the other hand there instantly came over her a peculiar restfulness, and in a quiet tone she said: "You come late. I have been waiting for you." "Indeed?" said Conrad. He was also very pale, and the expression of his face was strangely changed. Catherine observed it, but it could not change her purpose to proceed, even should it cost her life. She arose from her reclining position, though not without an effort--her limbs seemed as if dead--and, as she began mechanically to return to the house, she said: "I have been waiting for you, since I wish to say something to you before I leave your house." Conrad started. Catherine felt it, though she kept her eyes directed to the ground. However, involuntarily walking faster, she proceeded: "What I could not tell you this morning, for it has taken place since, I will say now. I have become engaged to your brother." She expected that now an outbreak would follow, but Conrad walked on silently at her side. "I engaged myself to him," said Catherine--and her voice became firmer while she spoke--"this morning after you were gone, and I hardly know how it came about. I only know that Lambert has done for me more than any other man, excepting my good old father who is dead; that to him I owe my life, which therefore belongs to him; that at any time he might ask for it he might have it of me. He did not ask it of me this morning, but I gave it to him freely--my life and my love--for that is the same. And now--" "And now?" asked Conrad. "Now I must away, if you are not the kind brother whom Lambert loves so much--if you are resolved to turn the angry words you spoke this morning into fierce deeds. How could I remain here and see how I have sown strife between brother and brother, especially at this time, when you should stand shoulder to shoulder against the treacherous enemy? Where I shall go I do not know, I only know that I cannot stay, so long as you are angry at your brother on my account. But, Conrad, while I thus speak, it seems to me entirely impossible that you can place yourself between me and your brother." "Why impossible?" asked Conrad. "Because you love your brother," replied Catherine, gathering courage as she spoke. "You have every reason to love him, though you do not love me as Lambert loves me. Why should you? You do not know me. You saw me yesterday for the first time, and a few minutes this morning. Though I may indeed have pleased you, yet, as you now hear that my heart is already given to your brother, what else, as an honorable man, can you do than to rejoice at our happiness as we would rejoice in yours should heaven provide you a similar happiness, which I hope may soon happen?" They had reached the house. The dog, which with long leaps had gone ahead, met them wagging her tail and springing against her master Conrad pushed the animal away, but not with his usual rough force. His manner was more sad than angry and his motions were like those of one who is very tired. He sank down on the bench on which Catherine's work and the books still lay, supported his elbow on his knee and rested his head on his hand. "You are hungry and thirsty from your long hunt," said Catherine; "shall I prepare your evening meal?" Conrad shook his head. All fear had vanished from Catherine's soul. As she saw the wild, intractable man sitting there so still--so sunk within himself--there stirred in her heart stronger and stronger another feeling. "Conrad," said she softly. "Conrad," she repeated, laying her hand on his shoulder, "I will indeed also hold you very dear." A dull cry, like that of an animal that has been mortally wounded, broke from Conrad's broad chest. He put both hands to his face and wept aloud like a child, and the body of the giant-like man shook from the pain stirring within him as might the small frame of a child. Catherine for a moment stood helpless and speechless. Then there also came from her eyes warm tears, and with the tears she found words--mild, kind words--of sympathy and comfort. She told him again and again that she would love him as a sister should love a brother; that his young, sorrowful heart would find peace; that he should see in her his sister; and that he would find pure happiness in this feeling until there blossomed out another happiness in the love of a virtuous girl, in which no one would more deeply share than she and Lambert. "Do not speak his name," said Conrad. He had jumped up, all his limbs shaking with anger and his eyes flashing. He convulsively grasped his gun, which stood near, by the barrel. "You think you are going to play me off with words. For me smooth words; for him kisses! I saw to-day in the woods how handsomely you can kiss." He broke out in loud laughter. Catherine, frightened, drew back. "So!" said Conrad, "that is your true face. Do you still love me as a sister her brother?" "If you are so unbrotherly, no!" said Catherine. "But you do not know what you are saying." "Truly not," growled Conrad. "And not what you are doing," said Catherine. "You would otherwise be ashamed to torment a poor, helpless girl." She leaned against the door-post, pale and trembling, her hands folded over her breast, her large eyes fixed on the angry man, who tried in vain to meet her gaze, and raved before her like a wild animal. Then the dog dashed forward, and at the same moment the dull hoof-beats of a horse in full run became perceptible. Fear seized Catherine as to what the issue would be should Lambert now return--and it could be no other. "Conrad!" she called; "Conrad, it is your brother." Impelled by an overwhelming feeling she threw herself before him and wound her arms about his knees. "Let me be!" cried Conrad. "Not till you have sworn that you will not injure him." "Let me be!" cried Conrad again, and he violently tore her loose. Catherine tottered forward, stumbled and fell. Her head struck hard against the door-sill. She came near fainting, but with a great effort picked herself up again, as angry voices struck her ear, and threw herself between the brothers. "Lambert! Conrad! For God's sake, rather kill me! Conrad, it is your brother. Lambert, he does not know what he is doing!" The brothers released each other, and panting, looked at one another with flashing eyes. By the sound Lambert's rifle had fallen to the ground. Conrad held his half-raised in his strong hands. "Now," said Lambert; "why do you not shoot?" "I do not want to kill you," said Conrad. "If I wanted your life I could have taken it this morning." "What then do you want?" "Nothing from you. Why did you come just now? You shall not see me again. Since we have happened again to meet, let me tell you that it must be the last time. Go your own way and let me go mine." With a powerful swing he threw his rifle on his shoulder and turned away. Lambert intercepted him. "You must not go. I will forget that you raised your hand against me. Do you also forget that I raised mine against you. By the memory of our father; by the memory of our mother, I conjure you, do not leave your parents' house." "It is too small for us all," said Conrad, with bitter scorn. "Then _we_ will leave it. I will gladly do it if you will but stay." "I need no house," said Conrad. "The house, however, needs you, as you can help defend it against our bitter enemies. Do you wish to see it go up in flames? You know that the French are coming--perhaps you know more about it than I--than all of us; and we to-day greatly missed you. Will you become a traitor to our common interests--to your brother, your friends, to wives and children? Conrad, you must not go away!" "If the enemy comes you will again creep away as you did before," said Conrad. "I will not hide in forts. I will fight openly. I will take the matter in hand entirely alone, and you may here, in your holes, go to destruction or not; it will not trouble me. My blood be upon me if I again set either foot across this door-sill!" He pushed his fur cap down over his eyes, whistled to his dog, and as he, making his rounds about the house, did not come, he called out: "So you, too, stay here. Curse on you all!" That was the last word that Catherine heard. The dreadful, soul-stirring excitement of these hours had exhausted her strength, and her fall had broken her down entirely. She felt a stinging pain in her temples. There was a ringing in her ears. She saw Lambert's form, as through a veil, bending over her; and then it was not Lambert, but Aunt Ursul, and then everything sunk away about her in deep night. CHAPTER XI Aunt Ursul sat at Catherine's bed in the room carefully noticing every motion of the young girl who lay there, pale, with closed eyes, half asleep as it appeared. She repeatedly felt her pulse, and renewed the cold cloths on her forehead. She then again bent over her, listened to her quiet breathing, then bowed satisfied and murmured: "There's nothing more to be done here now. We will now look after the young man." She arose and retired, as quietly as her heavy boots would permit, from the chamber, her face expressing displeasure as the door creaked a little, though she shut it very softly. Lambert, who had been sitting at the hearth, raised his head and looked at her who was entering with anxious eye. Aunt Ursul sat down by his side, placed her feet firmly on the hearth, and said, in a tone intended to be a whisper, but on account of her deep, rough voice was a dull growl: "No, Lambert, on that side"--she at the same time inclined her large head toward the chamber--"so far it goes quite well. The girl is a brave child, and will to-morrow again stand firm in her shoes. If we women should at once discover your stupidities we would have much to do." Lambert seized the hand of the kind woman. Tears stood in his eyes. Aunt Ursul did not know how it happened, but her eyelashes also became moist. She breathed deeply two or three times, and said: "You ought to be ashamed, Lambert. You really have a heart like a young chicken, and now it occurs to me that I have eaten nothing the whole day. Give me a piece of bread and some ham, or whatever you have, and if there is yet a swallow of rum in the flask it won't do any hurt--but add to it two-thirds water. A well-behaved person will not otherwise drink the fiery stuff. And now we will once have a little rational talk, Lambert. We need not be in a hurry. The girl sleeps so soundly that she will not wake under six hours." Lambert had taken what was wanted out of the cupboard. Aunt Ursul moved her chair to the table, and while she was eating heartily, said: "Do you know, Lambert, that the girl is a treasure?" Lambert bowed. "And that neither you, nor Conrad, nor any man in this earthly vale of tears, is good enough for the maiden?" Lambert's eyes said: "Yes." "I have now for the first time carefully looked at her," said Aunt Ursul; "as she lay there, white and bloody, like the doves this morning. There is not one false or distorted line in her lovely face. Everything is entire purity and innocence, as though the Lord God had opened a window in heaven and sent her forth upon the earth. And now to think that such a lovely angel is destined to all the suffering and anguish which is our inheritance from our mother Eve--Good God, it is dreadful! Since, rightly considered, Lambert, you cannot help it, as you did not make the world, and are all in all a good man, Lambert--yes, a right good man--what Aunt Ursul can do to smooth the way to your happiness that she will do with all her heart. Yes, surely, Lambert, that she will." "I thank you, aunt," replied Lambert. "I can truly say that I have always been persuaded of your good will, and have constantly reckoned on you, but I am afraid that now nobody can any longer help us. How shall I stand with her before God's altar when I know that my brother begrudges me my happiness? Even could I do so, Catherine could not bear the thought that it is she on whose account Conrad is irreconcilably angry. She knows how I have loved the young man--how I still love him. I could shed my blood for him, and how did he renounce us even now--even now?" Lambert supported his forehead with his hand. On Aunt Ursul's rough face there also lay a deep, helpless sadness. She wished to say something comforting to Lambert, but found nothing to say. Lambert proceeded: "I am not angry at him. How could I be? You know, aunt, that we were long uncertain whether he or I should go to New York, since he had less to keep him, and we thought it would do him good to get out among other people. Then he would have found Catherine, and he would surely have dealt just as I did; and who knows how everything would then have fitted itself in?" Aunt Ursul shook her large head. "Do not sin against yourself, Lambert," said she. "I have always found that, rightly weighed, everything had to come out just as it did come out, and with this we pause." "I, also, cannot conceive how it could have been different," replied Lambert. "As far as I can see, my hand has been little in this, and yet I might even surrender her could I thus bring Conrad back." "And I my two hands and my head in addition," said Aunt Ursul, "could I by that means bring it about that my four boys might enter the door alive. Lambert, Lambert! let me tell you, 'if' and 'but' are very fine things, but one must keep them away from him or he will get crazy over them. I have had experience of it in myself and in my old man." "But Conrad is not dead," said Lambert, "so all hope cannot be lost. I had also lost my head. I did not know what I said or did. He was without this already unhappy enough. Alas, aunt, I am also to blame. I would gladly tell him that. I would like to talk right into his heart. He has hitherto always been willing to listen to me. What do you advise, aunt?" "What should I advise?" said Aunt Ursul fretfully. "It is always the old story: First you set the world on its head, and then you come running and cry: 'What do you advise, aunt?' Am I God? Many times there seems to be need of it. No, Lambert, in that you are indeed right. Conrad is not yet dead, and so we need not throw away our guns into the grain-field. But it will not do to pour out the child with the water in which you have bathed it. To pour oil into the fire increases the blaze. Should you now go to Conrad it would not be well. You can't gather ripe figs from a thorn-bush. In due time one can pick roses, Lambert, in due time." Aunt Ursul repeated her last words several times as though she would thus help her inability to advise. "But time is pressing," said Lambert. "Who knows how soon we shall have the French here?--Perhaps to-morrow. My God! to-morrow should be our wedding day." He told his aunt what arrangement he had made with the minister. "Yes, yes; man proposes, but God disposes," said Aunt Ursul. "We can now say nothing about tomorrow. This thing will probably not get so far as that by to-morrow. What concerns the other I will make my care, Lambert. Whether the maiden comes to me, or I to her, will be about the same in the minister's eyes, to say nothing about God, who has something better to attend to than to trouble himself about such hocus-pocus. I am here beforehand. I would gladly have looked after my old man, who was today quite desperate and heathenish, but if it must be I too will stay. There must be some one to lead the regiment when it comes. Still there, Pluto! What does the beast mean? I believe the young men are coming already. You look after them, Lambert. I will meanwhile look after the girl; and Lambert, if they are there, keep them before the house. The night is warm and you can keep watch there. Whoever wishes to sleep can come in here and lie down on the hearth, but I want him to be as still as a mouse." Aunt Ursul went into the room. Lambert stepped to the front door and quieted the growling Pluto. He listened, and now clearly heard the steps of his comrades. Soon their forms emerged out of the light fog which had spread over the fields near the creek, though the moon already stood at some height over the woods. There were three of them. Lambert's heart beat. He expected only Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer. Was Conrad the third? Surely, surely it must be Conrad. But out of Pluto's broad chest sounds like rolling thunder now broke forth. Did not the intelligent and faithful beast know her own master? Lambert with great eagerness went to meet those who were coming. "God bless you, Lambert," said Richard Herkimer. "God bless you, Lambert," said Fritz Volz. The third one had remained a few steps behind. "Who is the other one?" asked Lambert with trembling voice. "Guess," said Richard laughing. "The crazy fellow," said Fritz Volz. "He would go with us, though Annie herself thought that he would not fire away his powder for nothing," said Richard. "Is it Adam Bellinger?" asked Lambert. "Now come up, you hare's foot," said Fritz Volz. "Are you holding the dog?" asked Adam, with uncertain voice. Richard and Fritz laughed, but Lambert could not join them, as he might have done at another time. Adam instead of Conrad! What could have moved the silly fellow to such night-wandering except the desire again to be near Catherine? What would his friends think of Catherine? What would not the talkative Adam have told them on the way. "Come a little nearer," said Richard, having taken Lambert's arm as they were walking toward the house. "I want to say a few words to you. You must not be angry, Lambert, that we brought Adam along. He would not be set right. Heaven knows what has come into his calf's head. We could have made nothing out of his crazy talk, but the ladies lit the candle so that it shone bright enough. That you--Nay, Lambert, old boy, I wish you happiness with all my heart. And I can also tell you that by this a heavy stone is lifted from my heart. You know I have always liked Annie, and she has not been unkind to me; but old Bellinger had got his head set that you must become his third son-in-law--and nobody else. Now if you marry the stranger girl it will help us all. Therefore once more, happiness and blessing, Lambert Sternberg, with my whole heart." "That I also wish you," said Lambert. "I know it," said Richard; "but now we must also say good evening to your girl, Lambert. If she is half as handsome as Adam swears, she must be something truly wonderful. Is she in the house?" They stood before the door. The two others were still some distance behind. Lambert drew his young friend beside him on the bench and briefly told him everything which sooner or later he would have unfolded more fully, but which now could no longer be kept secret. "This is my situation, Richard," concluded he. "You can conceive how heavy my heart is." "I can well conceive it," said Richard Herkimer, heartily pressing Lambert's hand. "Dear friend, this is an unhappy record. Conrad should be ashamed, especially at this time, to forsake you and leave the cart sticking in the mud, when even such fellows as John Mertens and Hans Haberkorn are pulling with us at the same rope." "You see, Richard, it is that which grieves me most," said Lambert, "You know how they talked about us last year--that we held with the French; that Conrad spoke Indian better than German, and other scandalous stuff. What will they now say when they hear that, at the very moment when the danger breaks in upon us, Conrad is not to be found among us?" "Let them say what they will," said Richard. "My father, the minister, and all who are reasonably intelligent, you have always had on your side; and they will also this time know what to think. Perhaps Conrad also will yet consider." "God grant it!" said Lambert, with a deep sigh. "Now," said Richard, rising, "I will give a wink to Fritz Volz; and then you must tell us what we are to do for the night." Richard Herkimer went to the two others, who had remained standing at some distance, engaged, as it appeared, in a discussion. At the same moment Aunt Ursul came out of the door. "Is that you, Lambert?" "Yes, aunt." "Who are the others?" Lambert named the friends. "What, then, does Adam want?" said Aunt Ursul. "The fellow has become quite foolish. Nay, Lambert, that is your business; but to-morrow send off the awkward fellow. We don't want useless eaters here. This evening he may come in with the rest. Catherine is up again. She says it is not a time now to be sick. In that surely she is right. She is standing at the fire, boiling an evening soup for your people, as though nothing had happened--the noble girl! I am now going home; and, Lambert, the minister meant well in what he said to you, but under the circumstances it is senseless. You are an honorable man, and the girl is not trifling, and God knows what your duty is in the case." Lambert went with Aunt Ursul into the house. Catherine came to meet him, looking pale and having a cloth wound about her head, but greeting him with a friendly smile. "You must not scold me," she said. "To please your aunt I acted as though I was asleep. I have heard everything. I could not remain quietly in bed while you have so many guests. I again feel quite well." She leaned her head against his breast and whispered: "And you love me notwithstanding, Lambert; not so?" Lambert held the dear girl fast in his arms as a loud ahem! was heard, and Aunt Ursul entered the door closely followed by the three young men. "So, you young people," said Aunt Ursul, "come in and eat your supper--that is, if it is ready; and this is my Lambert's dear bride, and she is not standing there like Lot's pillar of salt. Adam Bellinger, you may as well shut your mouth. No roasted pigeons will fly into it. There is for this evening a soup, so that you must move your own hands to get it conveniently out of the bowl. So, Richard Herkimer, that is right that you at once offer your hand to the young lady. You are always polite, having learned it from your father. And now I'll be off. God protect you, Catherine, and you, Lambert, and you all. I shall come again to-morrow and perhaps with my old man. Now nobody needs to be farther concerned about me. Do you hear? Aunt Ursul can find her home alone." While she thus spoke she took her rifle, kissed Catherine heartily, and shook hands with the young men one after the other. Then she walked out of the house into the windy night. The three guests breathed more freely when austere Aunt Ursul had turned her broad back, and her heavy tread outside was heard. But it was some time before they began to look about them and to talk, though Catherine kindly invited them to take seats, and assured them that the soup would soon be ready. Richard Herkimer said to Fritz Volz: "Better sit down, Fritz," though he himself remained standing. Fritz Volz pushed Adam Bellinger in the side and asked him if he did not see that he was standing in the way of the young lady. Then they rubbed their hands as if they were entirely frozen, though, at least on Adam's brow, clear sweat drops were impearled. And when they spoke it was in whispers, as though the steaming soup which Catherine now placed on the table was to be their last meal. Adam Bellinger was not quite sure whether this would be the case with him. Fritz Volz had before told him that the chief business would be diligently to patrol against the enemy, and, since he had such a burning desire to measure himself against the French, he must make the beginning; that it was indeed no fun to walk about the woods in the night when there might be a Frenchman behind every tree; but that doubtless Adam would teach the fellows manners. Adam said that he had come to help defend the blockhouse against a possible attack, but not to let himself be shot by the French and scalped by the Indians in the woods in the night and fog. The contention about this, which had before been arrested, was now again taken up by the teasing Fritz, though with a little timidity. He wanted to know from Adam how he could distinguish between a tree-trunk and an Indian, in the night. Richard asked him how he would save himself if he were suddenly seized by his long, yellow hair from behind and jerked to the ground. By these and other similar questions of the two teasers, Adam was thrown into great distress. They laughed loud, while he came near crying, until Catherine interposed, saying that a courageous man would in danger hit upon the right thing, though he might not be able to tell beforehand what he would do. "Yes, indeed," said Adam, "the young lady has more sense in her little finger than you have in your two heads. I shall doubtless know what I have to do." He accompanied these brave words with such a thankful, tender look at Catherine, that both the merry rogues broke out in loud laughter, and a glimmer of mirthfulness passed over Lambert's earnest face. "It is enough," said he. "Adam will do his duty as well as the rest of us. It is time that we assign the watch for the night; two for every two hours, and Adam and I will make the beginning. Good night, Catherine." He gave his hand to Catherine. The others followed his example. As Lambert was leaving the house Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer came out too. "We will also rather stay outdoors," said Richard. "Fritz, as I know by experience, cannot do without snoring and that might disturb Catherine, who surely needs sleep." Fritz Volz said he could do without snoring, but Richard could not stop talking, and that it was on the whole better that they should camp before the door. "You kind young men," said Lambert. "Is that kind?" said Richard eagerly. "I would stand all night on my head if I knew that Catherine would sleep better on that account." "And I would lie there in the creek up to my neck in the water," said Fritz Volz. Adam sighed, and looked at the moon which hung clear and large over the forest. "Come, Adam," said Lambert, "we will go upon our round." They set out, accompanied by Pluto. The others stretched themselves out upon the dry sand before the door, wrapped up in their blankets, their rifles in their arms. Fritz Volz did not snore. Richard Herkimer did not talk. Both looked up to the twinkling stars, lost in thoughts which happily remained concealed from Gussie and Annie Bellinger. Never before had Catherine been so carefully guarded as during this night. CHAPTER XII The following day was the Sabbath, though it brought the Germans on the Mohawk and on the creek no Sabbath rest; but only labor, fatigue, alarm, distraction. From early morning it swarmed in all the settlements as in a bee-hive. Wives prepared and packed. Holes were dug in carefully selected and well-concealed places, in which such valuable things as could not well be taken along were hidden. The men got their arms in readiness, or brought the cattle from the pastures and from the woods and shut them up in the yards so that they could at any moment drive them to the fort, or to Herkimer's house, as orders had been given yesterday afternoon. Boats went busily here and there. From time to time a rider hastened to one of the rendezvous appointed for the three flying corps. A feeling of security and pride took possession of all when such a squadron, consisting of twenty-four well mounted and armed young men, under the lead of Charles Herkimer, Richard's oldest brother, trotted up the river toward Black River to reconnoiter. By noon the two new ferries were also ready. All felt assured of the usefulness of these arrangements, now that it had come to the point of actual flight, though yesterday they had met with earnest opposition. However, more than one could hardly believe in such a possibility, for the sun in the blue sky shone down so golden, the birds sang so blithely in the trees, and over the fields from the little church on the hill came the clear sound of the small bell. But, indeed, on the twelfth of November of the year before, the sun also rose clear, and when it had gone down its last rays had fallen on the ruins of more than one burned house, and more than one was lying in the fields who would never again see it rise. The remembrance of that dreadful day was yet too fresh to allow the thoughtless to shut out the seriousness of the situation; and the bitter thought that they would have to answer for leaving house and home unprotected from the ruthless enemy, reminded them of Herkimer's words the day before, that everything, except life itself, can again be arranged, and can be more or less easily made to accommodate itself to the inevitable. Also in the otherwise so quiet house on the creek there was to-day a restless urgency. Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman had come from the Mohawk, accoutered with their rifles and a large sack of ammunition, which Herkimer had given them, and which the stout young men had carried by turns the whole distance up the creek. Now the powder, to which each added his own store, was equally divided, and the caliber of the rifles was measured, whence it appeared that two different sizes of bullets must be cast. With this Lambert intrusted Adam Bellinger, after, under four eyes, not without a certain solemnity, he had said that it was his earnest desire to stay and take part in every danger with him and the rest. He knew about the French, but would rather hear the whistling of their bullets and the Indian's war-whoop than the laughter of the women at home should he now return without having accomplished anything. Lambert pitied the poor fellow, and the more since Catherine took kindly to her foolish admirer and laughed in a friendly way at his peculiarities. In the council of war held by the young men it was decided that they must leave the door-yard, which for good reasons had been made to extend a considerable distance from the house, as it was, and that their defense must be confined to the house itself. The proposition of Richard to conduct the water of the creek into the dry ditch which encircled the foot of the hill outside of the stone inclosure was discarded as evidently requiring too much time. Instead of this it was decided to deepen the partly filled ditch as much as they could, and in many places where the wall was broken down to repair and raise it and entirely to block up the passage-way through it opposite the house-door with stones and plank, and meanwhile use a bridge over the wall and dug-way that could be easily removed. There was found little to do to the house itself, though they looked carefully after the strong shutters with which the port-holes of the ground-floor, like those of a war-ship, could be closed from within, and so also at those covering the round holes in the gallery, through which they could fire at an enemy from above, should he be able to reach the house and come beneath the gallery. In the roof were cut several trap-doors, so that here also those approaching could be greeted with two very long-range rifles. While the men were thus engaged, Catherine and Aunt Ursul, who had again come early in the morning, did not remain unemployed. Fortunately water did not first have to be brought. The spring carried into the house by the intelligent and indescribable labor of Lambert's father, furnished plentifully all that was needed. But for the moment the supply of provisions seemed to be inadequate. During Lambert's absence Conrad had lived from hand to mouth, according to his hunter's custom, and Catherine had manifestly had no time to supply what was lacking. So Adam had repeatedly to go empty to the Ditmar house, which happily was not far, and come back loaded with loaves of bread, hams and other good things--every time received with a loud hallo by his merry companions--until Aunt Ursul declared that there was enough to last eight days. For still better provision a couple of wethers of Lambert's small flock were driven into the inclosure where also Hans was pastured on the short grass, and often shook his thick head and looked at Lambert with his intelligent eyes, as though he wished to know what the unusual rush to-day might mean, and whether he must walk about saddled all day. But it might be that at any moment a message had to be sent, and Hans had to be ready. So they labored busily in the work of fortifying, and were toward noon engaged in erecting the fire-signal, when a rider on a gray horse became visible, as he was coming up the valley on a trot. "Herkimer! Herkimer!" called out Fritz Volz, who first saw him. "Yes, it is father," said Richard in confirmation. A few minutes later the distinguished man stopped before the door, and was respectfully greeted by Lambert and the other young men. "I have no time to stop," said Herkimer, "and only wanted to see how far you have got. Now this looks well. Could you fill the ditch with water it would indeed be better; but this would be a long and wearisome labor, and you will have to dispense with it. How are you off for ammunition? Do you think you have enough, Lambert?" Herkimer had now dismounted, and he asked Lambert and Aunt Ursul, who had meanwhile come out of the house, to give him detailed account of the condition of things, by means of which he knew how to bring it about that they should get some distance from the others. He then said, "I would like to speak to you alone. I feel sure of you, and of Richard, but I am not so certain of the others, whom I do not know so well. You will here, so far as one can now judge, have a difficult position. I this morning received intelligence that the French have at least three hundred men, and that besides this the Onondagas and the Oneidas will join them. The bargain is indeed not yet concluded, but will doubtless be made if our last means fail--I mean if Conrad is not in a position to bring his old friends into a different state of mind. I have from the governor the long-expected authority to yield to them everything possible, and can intrust Conrad with it. He or nobody is in a situation to turn away from us this great misfortune. Where is he? I have not yet seen him." "Hurry over there, Lambert. Those sparrow-heads will not finish without you," said Aunt Ursul. "The poor boy!" she proceeded, as Lambert went away with red cheeks and a thankful look at Aunt Ursul, "the poor, dear boy! his heart is being eaten out; and that so that now the whole world must become acquainted with his brother's shame, which is really his own shame. Nay, you are indeed not sponsor for the whole world, Herkimer, but in this case you must be satisfied with me." She then briefly told Herkimer all that it was necessary for him to know. The excellent man listened with an earnest, thoughtful mien, and there lay a deep pain in the tone of his voice as now, shaking his gray head, he said: "So we Germans will not unitedly resist our natural enemy. That Conrad should now fail us is a sad misfortune. His quarrel with Lambert at this moment means, not one friend less, but several hundred enemies more. Yes, why do I say hundred? The example of the Oneidas may become the measure of all the nations along the lakes, and then our well-being--our peace--is past for a long time, perhaps forever!" Nicolas Herkimer sighed, and struck his forehead with his hand. "Now," said he, "what one cannot hinder one must let happen, and, in any case, poor Catherine cannot help it. Let us go in a few moments, aunt, I would like to form the acquaintance of the maiden who so turns the heads of our young men." Catherine, who was busily engaged at the hearth in her preparations for dinner, had paid no attention to what was going on outside. She had just stepped to the door to look for Aunt Ursul, and suddenly saw a strange and very stately man opposite to her, in whom she at once recognized Nicolas Herkimer. A deep blush flew over her cheeks; then, however, she approached without being confused, and put her hand in Herkimer's offered right hand. "Poor child!" said he, holding her thin fingers for a moment, "the life that awaits you here is very rough. May the strength you need not be wanting to you." "Ah, what, sponsor," said Aunt Ursul; "do not make the maiden shy. You think because she has hands like a princess--but it depends not on the hands, but on the heart, sponsor--and that I assure you is in the right place. So much I can tell you." "Should you not say it, those eyes would do so," said Herkimer smiling--"at least to me, who am old enough to look into them without being punished for it. Now, my dear girl, you need not blush. You see my hair is getting gray, so a joke may be allowed. Live happy, Aunt Ursul. Live happy, kind maiden; and may heaven grant that we may joyfully meet again." He said the last words also to the young men, who had finished their work and had come up. Then he pressed the hand of each one in turn, holding that of his son Richard perhaps a moment longer, swung himself on the gray, and rode off on a sharp trot without looking back. "That is an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile," said Aunt Ursul. "And now, children, let us go to the table. I have an appetite like a wild wolf." Notwithstanding this information, at the dinner to which they now sat down Aunt Ursul ate almost nothing, and also, contrary to her custom, was very still. Toward the last she took no part whatever in the conversation, and first woke from her absent-mindedness when Anthony Bierman, who had the watch, announced the minister. "Who?" called Aunt Ursul, as she quickly rose from her chair; "the minister? He comes at the right time for me. God has sent him. Keep your seats; do you hear?" Aunt Ursul hastily left the house and went to meet the minister, who, with rapid strides, was approaching, having his hat, wig and snuff-box in one hand, and in the other a colored pocket handkerchief with which he was wiping his bald head. "I know it already," he called out, as soon as he caught sight of Aunt Ursul. "Herkimer, who met me between your house and Volz', has told me everything." "So much the better," replied Aunt Ursul, "and now, dominie, don't talk as loud as if you were standing in the pulpit. The young folks are within, and must not hear what we are doing here. Come close." She led the minister away from the house to the wall of the door-yard, where nobody could hear except Hans, who now raised his thick head and with a bit of grass in his mouth observantly looked at the two with his black eyes from under his bushy foretop. "What business have you to listen? Go your way," said Aunt Ursul to the horse. "But, Aunt Ursul, what in all the world is it all about?" asked the minister. "You shall soon hear," replied Aunt Ursul, whose glances wandered from the edge of the woods to the sky, and from there again toward the woods, and at last, with a peculiar expression of face, rested on the minister. "You are not married, dominie, and for what you do, or leave undone, you are accountable to nobody." "What do you mean by that?" asked the minister. "My old man is seventy-one, and I do not believe that he will last much longer," remarked Ursul thoughtfully. The minister held the pinch of snuff, that he had meant to apply to his nose, between his fingers, and looked attentively at Aunt Ursul. "Should he live longer, he has had me thirty years; and sometime everything must come to an end; so we are very properly called and chosen thereto." The minister dropped the pinch of snuff. "For God's sake, Aunt Ursul, what are you driving at?" "I took you to be more courageous," said Aunt Ursul. "And I you to be more rational," said the minister. "About such things one must ask his own heart," said Aunt Ursul. "And the heart is a timorous, perverse thing," replied the minister. "Yes, very timid," said Aunt Ursul, scornfully. "Yes; truly perverse," said the minister guardedly. "Now, without further parley, will you be my man, or not?" said Aunt Ursul who had lost patience. "God forbid!" said the minister, who could no longer control his repugnance. "Indeed, you look like a man," said Aunt Ursul contemptuously, turning on her heel. "Are you then entirely God-forsaken, unhappy woman?" said the minister, laying his fleshy hand on Aunt Ursul's shoulder. "Not I, but you, hare-hearted man," said Aunt Ursul, shaking off his hand and turning vigorously away. "You who always preach about sacrifice and love, and have neither the one nor the other; and shear the cuckoo for the lost lamb, if you can only sit quietly by your flesh-pots. Now then stay, in the devil's name--God forgive me the sin--I shall be able alone to find the road to my poor, misguided boy, and God will give me the right words to touch his heart." Again Aunt Ursul turned away. The minister slapped his forehead, and with a few rapid steps overtook her as she was hastening from him. "Aunt Ursul!" "What do you want?" "Naturally I will go with you." "For once." "For once and every time. By the thousand, woman! why did you not tell me at once that it was something about Conrad?" "About whom else should it be?" "About many things. Forget what I have said. I give you my word as a man and as a servant of God that it was a misunderstanding--of which I am ashamed--and for which I ask your pardon. When shall we start?" Aunt Ursul shook her head. She could not conceive what her old friend had before thought, but she felt that he was now fully resolved, and minutes were precious. "At once naturally," she replied to his last question. "I am ready." "So! Come in and say a friendly word to the girl, and let nothing be noticed. Lambert must not know what we have in hand. Nobody must know. If we succeed in bringing him back it is well; if not, let his shame be buried with us. In either case they must not feel concerned about us. It is possible, dominie, that we shall never return. You comprehend that clearly?" "God's will be done," said the minister. CHAPTER XIII Two hours later, Aunt Ursul and the minister were already deep in the forest, away from the creek, on a narrow Indian path, which was as well the path of the buffalo and the deer. But Pluto, going before the wanderers, with her broad nose near the ground and her long, restless tail wagging, did not follow the tracks of buffalo or deer. More than once she turned away from a fresh track into the woods, every time soon to return into the path. "You see now, dominie, how well it is that I went back to fetch the dog on an occasion like this," said Aunt Ursul. "You were impatient at the losing of time, but we are well paid for it." "It was not on account of the delay," replied the minister. "I was afraid that, in spite of our large circuit, they would guess our purpose. Both Lambert and Catherine looked at us with an expression which, as I read it, meant: 'We know what you are up to!'" "They know nothing," said Aunt Ursul. "Why should I not call out the dog for my own and my old man's greater security?" "Because nobody would really believe that you are so disturbed by fear." "Well," said Aunt Ursul, "let them think what they please. Without the dog we should fail, and so let us push on." "I am not quite sure that we shall so reach our end, Aunt Ursul." "Are you already tired?" "I tire not so easily, in such an affair, you know. But who can assure us that Conrad, in his anger and despondency, has not walked as far as his feet would carry him, which at last must be farther than we with our best will can go. And there is another possibility, of which I think with trembling." "That my young man has gone over to them?" cried Aunt Ursul, turning so quickly that the minister, who was close behind, jumped back a step. "Do you mean that?" "God forbid!" replied the minister, displeased at Aunt Ursul's question, and that by its earnestness his opened snuff-box was almost knocked out of his hand. "But he who lays his hand upon his brother, as Conrad has done, may also lay his hand upon himself. As far as I know Conrad, the last will be at least as easy as the first." "You, however, do not know my young man," said Aunt Ursul earnestly, and she went on in more quiet tones: "See, dominie, I admit that the young man, at this moment, does not value his life more than a pine cone, but, notwithstanding, I would swear that he will sell it dear. And who shall pay for it? The French and their base Indians. That you may depend on. And see, dominie, that is also the reason why I am thoroughly convinced that he has not gone as far as his feet could carry him, but is somewhere here near by, and is keeping sharp watch over the house in which his parents lived, whose door-sill he will never again cross. He may keep his word, but be assured, dominie, if the enemy get so far they will have to come over his dead body." Deeply moved, Aunt Ursul was silent. The minister, though not entirely convinced, thought it prudent not to express his opinion. So they went on for some time in silence. The dog ran ahead, or out to one or the other side of the path, at one moment stopping and smelling up in the air, then again eagerly following a track. Aunt Ursul's sharp, knowing eyes watched every movement of the animal, and often she gently said: "Search, Pluto!--that is right, Pluto," more to herself than to the dog, for she needed little encouragement. The minister kept his eyes fixed on Aunt Ursul's broad back, and conversed with her when the path did not require all his attention. This indeed was often the case, and soon the path became so difficult for their unaccustomed feet that conversation stopped entirely. Ever rougher and steeper became the ascent over the great roots of the old forest pines. Ever more wildly roared the creek among the sharp rocks, until at length in a deep cleft under overhanging vines it entirely disappeared from the wanderers. Following the dog, they now turned off to the right into the woods, and, laboriously going up a few hundred steps, reached the top of the plateau. Here the minister, whose strength was nearly exhausted, would gladly have rested a few moments; but Aunt Ursul, with an expressive look, pointed to the dog, which with great jumps, as though full of joy, ran about a pine which stretched up giant-like in the midst of a little opening. "There he lay," said Aunt Ursul, almost breathless from excitement and joy. "Here, in this spot, he lay. Do you see, dominie, the impression in the moss and the crushed bushes? There also is a torn piece of paper. Here he put a new load in his rifle. Further, dominie, further. I would swear that in less than half an hour we will have himself. Further! Further!" The energetic woman shoved her rifle, which had slid off by her bending over, more securely on her shoulder, and took several long steps, as the dog, which for a moment had stood motionless with raised head looking into the woods, suddenly, with a loud bark and breaking through the bushes with great leaps, disappeared in the forest. "Now, God help us! what then has the beast?" said the minister, coming up panting. "Her master," replied Aunt Ursul. "Still!" Bending her body she stared with great round eyes at the thicket in which the dog had disappeared. The minister's heart throbbed ready to burst. He would gladly have taken a pinch of snuff, as he usually did when peculiarly excited, but Aunt Ursul had laid her hand on his arm, and her brown fingers pressed harder and harder. "Still!" said she again, though the minister neither spoke nor stirred. "Don't you hear anything?" "No," said the minister. "But I do." A peculiar sound, half a call, half a sob, came from her throat. She let go the arm of the minister and hastened in the same direction the dog had taken. But she had not yet reached the edge of the opening, when the bushes separated and Conrad stepped out, accompanied by Pluto, barking with joy and jumping up against her master. Aunt Ursul could not or would not check her walk. She threw herself forward on Conrad's breast, who with strong arms embraced the good aunt, his second mother, bending his face over her shoulder to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes. So the two stood, encircled in each other's arms, and the light of the evening sun played so beautifully about the handsome picture that the eyelashes of the minister became moist. He stepped up gently, and, laying one hand on Conrad's shoulder and the other on that of his aunt, said heartily: "Here my blessing is not needed, but I must be permitted to rejoice with you." "God bless you, dominie!" said Conrad, raising himself up and reaching out his hand to the worthy man. "This is handsome in you that you have accompanied aunt. I did not expect you, at least not both of you." "Yet, Conrad," said Aunt Ursul, interrupting him, "why are you ashamed to tell the truth? You did expect me!" "Well, yes," said Conrad. "And I have brought him along." Aunt Ursul added, "because you know him from childhood, that he's a good and righteous man; and in such a case a man can speak better to a man than a poor woman like me, for the cuckoo knows how it looks in your hard hearts." Conrad's handsome countenance darkened while his aunt spoke in this manner. His eyes looked angry from under his sunken eyelashes. However, he forced himself to speak with apparent calmness, saying: "I thank you again; but, aunt, and you, dominie, I beg you say nothing about him--you know whom I mean--and also nothing about her. I can't hear it and I won't hear it. It may be that I am wrong, but I have taken my stand and will take the consequences." "Now," said Aunt Ursul to the minister, "you must open your mouth. For what else did I bring you along?" Aunt Ursul was quite angry. She felt a secret sympathy with Conrad, and had at the same time an obscure feeling that, in his condition, she would think and speak and act in the same manner. She could say nothing more, in a case in which her heart sided so painfully with the one who was in the wrong. The minister, in his excitement, took one pinch of snuff after the other. Then he sought unavailingly for the few remaining particles, closed his box, put it in his pocket, and said: "Conrad, listen quietly to me a few minutes. I think I can tell you something of which you have, perhaps, not so earnestly thought. Whether you are wrong in regard to your brother and the maiden--whom I to-day first learned to know, and who appears to be a good, brave girl--or not, I will not decide, nor will I examine into the matter. I have never been married, nor, so far as I know, in love, but once, and that so long ago that it may well be that I do not understand such things. But, Conrad, there are brothers whom we cannot renounce. There are father's houses which must be sacred to us under all circumstances. In the one case we are of the same lineage; in the other it is our home-land. On this account, to us driven away and thrust out--to us pressed down and shaken together by strangers in a strange land--must those relatives who are still left--must the country of our new home, be twice and thrice holy. And there is nothing, Conrad, that can release us from this duty; no strife with a brother, no wish to have a wife, no rights as to mine and thine, for here there is no mine and thine, but only _our_, as in the prayer we offer to God in whom we all believe. I know well, Conrad, that this feeling of holy duty has not died out of your heart; that, on the other hand, you will in your own way satisfy it. But, Conrad, your way is not a good one, even were you determined, as we all suppose, to sacrifice your life. I tell you, Conrad, God will not accept the offering. He will reject it, as he did Cain's sacrifice, and your precious blood will run down into the sand useless and unhonored." The minister's deep voice had an unusually solemn tone, in this forest stillness; and as he now, on account of his emotion, which beautifully illuminated his plain face, was silent a few moments, it roared through the branches of the giant pines as if God himself and not a man had spoken. So at least it seemed to good Aunt Ursul, and the same feeling was able also to touch the wild and perverse heart of Conrad. His broad breast rose and fell powerfully; his face had a peculiar, constrained expression; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and his strong hands, which grasped the barrel of his gun, trembled. The minister began anew: "Your precious blood--I say, Conrad, precious, as all human blood is precious, but doubly precious in the hour of danger, thrice precious when it flows in the veins of a man to whom the God of all has given the power to be the protection and defense of those nearest to him. Moreover, Conrad, to whom much is given, of him shall much be required. The rest of us are only like soldiers in rank and file, and we need not be ashamed of it. But you are looked upon as holding a more important position, and I need only to mention it so that you may return to yourself. You will not shrink from a task that you and you only of us all are fitted for. Nicolas Herkimer has learned that negotiations are taking place between our enemies and the Oneidas; that they are only delaying their attack until a treaty is concluded, in order that then they may fall upon us with resistless power. You know that our holding of the Oneidas will secure to us the other nations on the lakes. You know that thus far they have been a wall to us behind which we felt measurably secure. You have lived for years with the Oneidas. You speak their language; you are highly respected by them; you know the way to their hearts. Now then, Conrad, it is the wish and will of Herkimer, our captain, that you go at once to them, and in his name, and in that of the governor, assure them of the yielding of all points lately in controversy between them and the government to their satisfaction, and according to their own views, if they will abide by the old protection and alliance which they entered into with us--yes, if they only will not take part against us in the present war. You notice and understand the proposition, so that I, a man little accustomed to such things, need not go into particulars. I now ask you, Conrad Sternberg, will you, as is your bounden duty, carry out the orders of our captain?" "It is too late," said Conrad, with broken voice. "Why too late?" "What you fear has already taken place. The Oneidas have joined the French and the Onondagas. This morning--yes, an hour ago--I could yet have gone to them unobserved to bring about what you propose. Now it is impossible." "How do you know it, Conrad?" asked the minister and Aunt Ursul, as if out of the same mouth. "Come," said Conrad. He hung his rifle over his shoulder, and now walked before them both diagonally through the forest, which was constantly becoming lighter until the tall trees stood singly among the low bushes. Here he moved carefully in a bent posture and indicated to the two by signs that they should follow his example. At last he fell on his knees, bent a couple of bushes slowly apart, and winked to the others to come up in the same way. They did so, and looked through the opening, as through a little window for observation in a door, on an unusual spectacle. Beneath them, at the foot of the steep mass of rocks on the edge of which they were, there spread out a broad, meadow-like valley, which on the opposite side was encircled by precipitous, wood-covered rocks, and through it in many windings a creek gently ran. On the bank of the creek next to them there was a space covered with small, canvas-walled tents and lodges, standing without order. Between the tents and lodges there burned a couple of dozen fires whose rising smoke, glowing in the evening sun, spread out above in a dark cloud, through which the scene below looked more phantasmal. There was a mass of people in active movement--French, some regulars and some volunteers, many without any distinctive mark--and, in greater number, Indians, whose half-naked bodies, adorned with variously colored war-paint, shone in the light of the sun. The groups on the bank of the creek stood close together, and it was not difficult to discover the reason. On the other side, the band of Indians there gathered must have arrived recently. Some were engaged in putting up their wigwams, others were kindling fires. The most of them, however, stood at the edge of the creek talking with those on the other side. The creek, of moderate breadth, had washed out for itself a deep bed in the meadow-land, with steep sides. They could not well come together without bridges, and these were hastily made for the occasion with tree-trunks, while here and there the willful or eager swam across, or, trying to jump across and in most cases falling short, occasioned every time shouts of laughter among those looking on. With beating hearts Aunt Ursul and the minister in succession observed the spectacle which had to them such a terrible meaning. Then following Conrad's whispered request, they withdrew as carefully as they had crept up, back through the bushes into the woods. "How many are there?" asked Aunt Ursul. "Four hundred besides the Oneidas," replied Conrad. "The Oneidas are quite as strong, if they allow all their warriors to be called into the field. I have just counted two hundred and fifty. Anyhow, the others will follow, otherwise they would find no preparations for the night." "But will they go on at once?" asked Aunt Ursul. "Certainly, for they know that the hours are precious. So you will doubtless by to-morrow noon have them on your necks." "_You_?" said the minister impressively. "You should say '_We_,' Conrad." Conrad did not answer, but went silently and without turning into the border of the woods far enough from the edge of the plateau to prevent their being seen. After going about two hundred steps they came to a place where there was a deep ravine, which led from the heights above by a sort of natural rock-stairs into the valley. Above, where the stairs opened on the plateau, there was a narrow, deep-cut path entirely blocked by a cunningly devised obstruction of tree-trunks, stones and brush. Other stones, some of them very large, were pushed so close to the sides of the ditch that with a lever, or perhaps even with the foot, they could be slid of! on those coming up the path. It looked as if a dozen strong men must have labored for days to perform such a work. Conrad's giant strength accomplished it in a few hours. "Here," said he, turning to his companions with his peculiar laugh, "here I intended to wait until the last stone had been thrown off and my last cartridge had been shot." "And then?" asked Aunt Ursul. "Break in two my rifle on the head of the first one that should come up into the narrow path." "And now?" asked the minister, seizing the hand of the wild man; "and now, Conrad?" "Now I will carry out the orders of Herkimer." "For God's sake!" cried Aunt Ursul. "It would clearly be your destruction; the Onondagas, your enemies, would pull you to pieces!" "Hardly," replied Conrad. "The Oneidas would not consent to it--at least without quarreling and strife. By this means already much would be gained, and thus I would keep them back longer than if I opposed them here, where I would in a few hours be killed. But I hope it will come out better. I would already have gone over to the Oneidas this morning, when they lay in the woods, but I had nothing to offer them. Now this is different. Perhaps I may be able to talk them over. At least I will try. Goodbye, both of you." He reached out his hands to them. Aunt Ursul threw herself into his arms as though she would not again let her beloved young man be separated from her; but Conrad, with gentle force, freed himself and said: "There is not a minute to be lost. I must make a wide circuit in order to come from the other side into the valley, and you have a long journey. The dog I shall take along. She can be of no use to you on the way home. Can you find the way without her, aunt? Now then good-bye; good-bye all!" "In the hope of again seeing you," said the minister. Conrad's face was convulsed for a moment. "As God will," he answered, in subdued tones. The next minute they two were alone. For a moment they heard his retreating steps. Then all was still. "We shall not see him again," said Aunt Ursul. "We _shall_ see him again," said the minister, looking at the purple clouds shining through the branches. "God helps the courageous." "Then he will help him," said Aunt Ursul. "A more courageous heart than that of my young man beats in no human breast. God be gracious to him!" "Amen!" said the minister. They turned back on their homeward journey, back through the primitive forest, over which now the evening shadows were fast gathering. CHAPTER XIV The minister had not deceived himself when, at their departure from the block-house, he thought he read in Lambert's and Catherine's manner that they both perceived what he and Aunt Ursul contemplated, in spite of all their precautions. Indeed, while Lambert was guiding the labor of fortifying, and was himself taking an active hand in the work, his mind was constantly oppressed with heavy cares about Conrad. His heart, full of love, and needing love, could not bear the thought that his brother should be so unhappy while he was so happy--that for the first time he could not give the best part of the sunshine of life to him for whom hitherto no sacrifice had been too heavy. No, not him could he give--but he would give--not for all the world--not for his soul's salvation. Here there was no doubt--there _could be_ no doubt--for this would have been the basest treachery toward himself, and toward the dear girl who had trustfully given him her pure maiden heart. And yet--and yet-- Catherine's heart was scarcely less sad. She held Lambert so unspeakably dear, and her first experience must be that she was bringing to her beloved great suffering as her first gift. She saw, indeed, no mark of sorrow in the countenance of the precious man. She had learned too well to read those smooth and honorable lines. There was no dark cloud on that open brow, no gloomy falling of those mild, blue eyes, no sad contortion about the mouth, which otherwise so readily and often opened in friendly smiles, but which was now closed so fast. Thus they, without needing to speak about winning back Conrad, had thought and brooded; and when Aunt Ursul, yesterday, brought in the minister, and scarcely left the good man time to sit down and eat his dinner, but soon drove him up again and with him left the block-house, and a few minutes after returned and called Pluto out, as though she no longer placed any reliance on Melac, her watch-dog at home, Lambert and Catherine gave each other an expressive look, and as soon as they were alone fell into each other's arms and said: "Perhaps, perhaps everything will come out right yet." However sad the minds of the lovers, they kept their sadness to themselves; and the rest were little inclined to trouble themselves about an anxiety which was so carefully concealed from them; though Richard Herkimer, Lambert remembered, had said it was a pity that Conrad should just at this time show his folly. The others had spoken in a similar manner, but with that on their part the matter was laid aside. With or without Conrad, they were determined to do their duty; and this certainty raised the spirits of the brave young men to unwonted courage. One added circumstance gave a peculiar impulse to this courageous feeling and enabled them to look upon the very important position in which they found themselves in an entirely poetic light. The excellent young men were all quite enchanted with Catherine's beauty and loveliness, and gave to this enchantment the most harmless and delightful expression. If Catherine at the table said a friendly word, there shone five pairs of white rows of teeth. If she expressed a wish, or only indicated one with her eyes, ten hands were stretched out--ten legs began to move. Wherever she went or stood, she had two or three attentive listeners at her side who watched with the greatest eagerness and sought to anticipate her wishes. It was a conviction firmly fixed in the mind of each that for Catherine's sake they were willing not only to be killed, but to die in the most barbaric manner the cruel nature of the Indian had discovered. So, on one occasion, when Lambert was not present, in an overflow of heroism, on Richard Herkimer's special suggestion, they all five had agreed and had shaken hands on it and promised that, whichever of them should outlive the rest, before he died himself he would kill Catherine, so that she should not fall into the enemy's hands. This agreement of tragic sacrifice did not in any way hinder the five heroes from trying their wit on each other, and, together with their sympathy for the beautiful maiden, to tease and joke each other in every way. Poor Adam had to suffer the most from this habit. They tried to convince the good young man that Lambert had laid away a bullet which was not intended for the French, and that they were not surprised that Lambert should think no one dangerous to him besides Adam. Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer--that he well knew himself--had already made their selection. Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman were secretly weeping for their treasures that they had left on the Mohawk. Adam had already for years been going about like a roaring lion seeking whom he might devour; that he was a wandering terror and a constant care for all bridegrooms and unmarried young men; that the others had been commanded to come, but that Adam came of his own accord; and that he should tell them to what end and for what purpose, as he stood guard last evening, he had sung so sweetly: "How beautiful shines on us the morning star," that Catherine had cried and said: "Now listen to Adam, who sings sweeter than a nightingale." Adam did not fail to reply to his tormentors. They should only concern themselves about their own affairs; that he knew what he was about. Then again, in a weeping tone, he would beg and beseech the friends to tell him truly whether Lambert had indeed formed such a shameful purpose, and whether Catherine had really found and declared his singing so fine, and that in this life she only wanted one thing and that was a blonde lock from the head of the singer to take with her into the grave. The friends swore high and low that each of them had heard it out of Catherine's own mouth, and that each of them had promised to fulfill her special wish, and that Adam should now freely give up his scalp-lock before the Indians took it by force and the skin with it. Adam resisted, and called for help until the surrounding space resounded with shouts and laughter. It was in the afternoon when Lambert, driven from the house by unrest, walked slowly along the bank of the creek up toward the woods. He stopped a moment and shook his head as the noise from the house struck his ear, and then again went on. They could joke and laugh, those good comrades, in this hour of sorrow and need, which oppressed his soul with leaden weight. And yet they well knew that this hour might be their last. They also had parents at home and sisters, and one and another had a girl whom he loved, and the life of these people also hung on the cast of a die. But then, they were all much younger than he, and took life so much lighter--as light as one must take it at last and be done with it so as not to sink under the burden. Was he not already too old to load more on himself--he, to whom the old burden was already so heavy to carry? How often had the rest jeered him on this account; called him Hans the dreamer; using as a by-word when anything more serious occurred: "For this let God and Lambert Sternberg provide." Yes, indeed, he had learned to know care early enough, when his mother died leaving him alone with his peevish, passionate father; and he had to play the mediator between him and the wild Conrad, and their relatives and the rest. And then, after his father's death, all the labor for the common good fell upon him, if there was any failure on the part of the neighbors. So he had always labored and cared, and had well understood this spring that he must undertake the difficult and responsible mission to New York. He had undertaken it, as he did everything which was too burdensome for others, without thinking of pay, without expecting the thanks of those who had given him their commission. Now heaven had so arranged that he should find her from whom one look, one word was pay and thanks for all that he had done--for all that he had suffered. The pay was too great, the thanks were too much. He had perceived this from the beginning. Who could honorably begrudge him his unexpected happiness, obtained after fearful misgivings? Not the neighbors, who would hardly forgive him for preferring a stranger to their daughters. Not Aunt Ursul, who, though her honest and righteous disposition strove against it, yet would rather see Conrad in his place. And Conrad himself--his only, his beloved brother--yes, that was the deepest grief; that was the drop bitter as gall, poured into the sweet draught of love, and which he must always taste. It ought not to be so. If this should not be so what purpose, what meaning had the rest? Why care for a future that could no more bring him true joy? Why cling to a life that had become so burdensome to him? Why undertake the heavy conflict that was imminent? Why hope to come out of this battle as victor? There the grass was growing in his fields. Must it be trampled? There his cattle were, wandering in the wilderness. Must they fall as booty into the hands of the enemy? There stood his barn. Must it go up in flames? There was his strongly built house. Must he and she be buried beneath its fragments? Thus, in deep, oppressive anxiety, Lambert stood at the edge of the forest, looking over the valley that contained his home, glittering in the bright sunlight. There was no noise in the wide circuit except the buzz of insects over the soft bending grass and flowers of the prairie, and an occasional bird-note from the branches of the dark-green pines which, motionless, drank in the heat of the sun. Was then everything which had passed through his brain a heavy, fearful dream, out of which he could wake when he pleased? Was the signal pile there, which with its smoke and fire should warn the rest down the creek, erected for a joke? Did Aunt Ursul, who, full of care, had the evening before sent Fritz Volz at a late hour to tell them that she had certain knowledge that the enemy was quite near, and that they should keep the sharpest watch--did Aunt Ursul only imagine that it was so? There! What sound was that which that instant struck his sharp ear out of the woods? There was a cracking and crushing in the dry branches, as when a deer runs with full speed through the bushes. No, It is not a deer. He now clearly heard another sound which could only be produced by the foot of a man running for his life. Nearer and nearer, down the creek, down the steep, stony, bushy path, in mad leaps, as when a stone is pushed down over a slope, came the runner. A sudden, joyful fear rushed through Lambert's soul. In all the world but one foot could step like that--his brother's foot. In breathless, intense emotion he stands there, his wildly beating heart almost leaping from his breast. He wishes to call, but the sound sticks in his throat. He tries to run to meet him, but his knees tremble under him. At the next moment Conrad, breaking through the bushes, is at his side, and his faithful dog with mighty leaps comes with him. "Conrad!" cried Lambert, "Conrad!" He rushed to his brother and encircled him in his arms. All that had just now troubled him so dreadfully is forgotten. Now come what will, it is worth while to live, and also, if it must be, to die. "Are they coming, Conrad?" "In one hour they will be here!" CHAPTER XV The certainty that now the decisive moment had come, and the joy that the same moment had brought back his brother, again gave Lambert a touch of the peculiarities on account of which young and old valued and praised him--calmness, circumspection, confidence. Without hesitating a moment as to what was next to be done, and calling to his brother to notify those in the house, he hastened across the plank over the creek to the hill yonder, where the signal pile had been erected, which from there could be clearly seen from Ditmar's house away from the creek. A minute later there rose from the lofty, ingeniously constructed wood-pile a dark column of smoke, pushing its way up like the stem of a mighty palm, and spreading out above in the still air like an immense crown. Then, a quarter of a mile down the creek, there came up a dark cloud of smoke. Uncle Ditmar has kept good watch. The signal has been answered and carried farther. In a quarter of an hour they will also know on the Mohawk, six miles farther, that here on the creek the enemy has broken in. Then back over the creek--a strong push--the fastening is broken off. The plank floats away. "Are you here yet, Conrad? How the rest will rejoice! Come!" Lambert hastened ahead. Conrad followed with slow, lingering steps. Was it fatigue after the dreadful running? Had the blood with which his leathern jacket was dotted spurted from his veins? So asked Lambert, but received no answer. And now they had reached the temporary bridge, where the friends who stood on the wall received them with loud cheers. Lambert hastened up and shook the hand of each brave youth with heartfelt joy. Conrad still lingered at the foot of the bridge. His face was pale, and as if emaciated with bodily pain, or an inward conflict. He had sworn with a terrible oath that he would not again cross the door-sill of his father's house, or his blood should pay the forfeit. The strong, wild heart shrunk together in his breast. His blood--why should this trouble him? He had not spared it. He had, a quarter of an hour ago in a battle which he alone could take up--which he alone could bring to a happy issue--put it at hazard. But his word! his word! that he had never yet broken--which he now shall break--_must_ break, as his clearer soul tells him--as his noble heart bids him, in spite of all. As he still lingered, Catherine was suddenly standing among his cheering companions. On her account had he renounced his father's house. As if blinded by lightning he turned away his gaze. But she is already at his side, has seized his hand with a soft pressure that he cannot withstand, leads him with gentle force, that he must follow, up the bridge, over the wall, down into the inner yard, where his comrades, jubilant, press around him, and at the same time, with a sudden impulse, seize him, raise him up on high, and with jubilation and noise carry the fugitive--the returned one--into the house, as though they would with bantering cunning drive from their prey the demons lurking about the door-sill. So it also seemed to him. Conrad is back, the best rifle in the colony. They had resolved without Conrad to do their duty. But the quick looks, the short words which they interchanged, the faces illuminated with joy, these said plainly, "It is far better so." If only Aunt Ursul and Christian Ditmar were here the dance might begin at once. "They could be here already," thought Catherine. "Hurrah! there they come!" cried Richard Herkimer, who had gone up on the gallery to see better; "and there are three. The third is the minister. Hurrah! and again, hurrah! and once more, _hurrah_!" Who now has time or inclination to ask the breathless ones how the minister came to be here? Enough that they are here at the right time, and that at last the bridge can be thrown off and that the door can be barricaded with the strong beams lying ready. There they now are, locked in their wooden fortress in the midst of the wilderness, miles away from friends, depending solely on themselves, on their firm courage, on their strong arms, on their keen eyes--two women, nine men, nine rifles. Though the minister is not to be counted, as he would not know how to use a rifle even if he wished to fight, yet Aunt Ursul has a rifle, and knows how to use it, and will fight; that can be depended on. Now the parts are assigned and everything and every man is in place. In one division of the lower, thoroughly protected room is Hans, whom Lambert will not sacrifice. In another are the sheep, which were taken in out of compassion, and now bleated piteously in the darkness. On the gallery of the upper story, behind the breastwork, lay Lambert, Richard, Fritz Volz, Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman, with the barrels of their rifles in the port-holes. On the floor above, at the trap-doors of the high, shingled roof, stood Conrad, Aunt Ursul and Christian Ditmar, whose far-carrying rifle was, in his time, the dread of the enemy. With them is the minister, who, though he is not a good shot, well understands how quickly and properly, to load a rifle. This service Adam Bellinger performs for those on the gallery. Catherine is to bring food and drink, when necessary, to those who are to fight. Lambert and the rest have adjured her not in any way to expose herself to danger. She, however, secretly purposed, in case of need, to take Adam's rifle, which now lay idle, and follow Aunt Ursul's example. Silence reigned in the house. Whoever should see it standing there, still, gloomy, locked, would suppose it forsaken by its former occupants--a piece of abandoned property in the all-embracing wilderness. Silent in its entire circuit lay that wilderness under the ban of the hot afternoon sun. Silent was the green prairie on which scarcely a single flower bent, or grass-stem waved. Silent the woods whose treetops reached up unmoved toward the blue sky, from which several white clouds looked down motionless. Deepest silence! Forest stillness! There!--a loud, long drawn-out, many-voiced whoop, whose dreadful echo is reflected back from surrounding objects. From the forest break forth at once fifty half-naked Indians in their colored war-paint, swinging their rifles and tomahawks, and, leaping forward with wild jumps, hastening over the prairie, one part coming directly toward the block-house, the other going around so as in a short time to rush up from all sides. The house stood as silent as before. There was no reply to the demand which the on-rushing enemy kept repeating with yells and cries and whoops. The first are already within a hundred paces--then comes the answer, a short, sharp sound from four German rifles fired at the same moment, so that but one report was heard. Four Indians fall not to rise again. The others run on more rapidly, and had already reached the surrounding wall, when again is heard the crack of four rifles and again four Indians fall--one, having been shot through the heart, leapt up high, like a deer. This they had not expected. A third salvo might follow the second, and there yet lay between them and the house a ditch and wall. Who could tell whether this third salvo might not be more dreadful than the first two? No one wants it tried. In a moment all turn and run, in like haste, back to the woods, which they had not reached until again four shots are sent after them. Two more sink dead at the feet of the French, who had kept concealed in the woods, observing the bloody spectacle before them, full of horror and compelled to confess that the first attack, which they had cunningly left to their Indian allies, had altogether failed. Yes, the first attack had been repelled. Those in the block-house shook hands with each other, and then again grasped their freshly loaded guns. One of the Indians raised up on his hands and knees, and again fell back, and then again raised up. Richard Herkimer said: "That is my man. The poor devil shall not be in pain much longer." He raised his rifle to his cheek, but Lambert laid his hand on his shoulder saying: "We shall need every shot, Richard, and he has enough." The Indian, in a death-cramp grasped the grass, twitched a few times, and then lay rigid like the rest of his comrades. "What will happen now? Will they seek us again in the same way, or choose some other mode of attack? and what then?" The young men debated the matter, and Aunt Ursul, who had come down from the upper floor, joined in the discussion. Their views were divided. Lambert thought that they had soon enough found out how strong the fastness was, and how much they must sacrifice in this most dangerous pitfall until the rest should actually reach the house. It also appeared how large the number was, since thus far it was clear that they had had to do with only a part, and that their principal force was still in the woods. "Lambert is right," said Aunt Ursul. "They are one hundred and fifty strong--fifty French and a hundred Onondagas." "Ninety-two," said Anton Bierman, "for eight lie there." Jacob Ehrlich usually laughed when Anton said something witty. This time he did not laugh. He was silently reckoning how many Indians, leaving out the French, would fall to his share if there really were so many. Jacob Ehrlich could not make out the exact number, but he reached the result that under all the circumstances it would be hard work. The others looked inquiringly at Aunt Ursul. That the report came from Conrad was certain, but how had he learned the fact? Aunt Ursul now related her yesterday's expedition with the minister. But thus it could not be concealed that, without her interference, Conrad would not now have been here. But about this she did not wish to speak, at least today. She also said that Conrad had found and watched the camp of our enemies; that he had counted them head by head, and that they had divided into two parts; that of these the larger, a hundred French, as many Onondagas and at least two hundred Oneidas, had started for the Mohawk, and would doubtless already have arrived, but that the Oneidas had no heart for the affair, and that it was at least possible that at the decisive moment they would fall away and go over to their old treaty friends. "If it is so, we can also reckon on help from my father," said Richard Herkimer. "We will reckon on nobody but ourselves," said Lambert. "What are the fellows up to now?" said Anton Bierman. Out of the woods in which the enemy for the last half-hour was entirely concealed there came three men--one Frenchman and two Indians. They had laid aside their arms. Instead of them they carried long rods to the ends of which white cloths were tied. They swung the rods back and forth and made the cloths flutter. So they came up slowly as though they were not quite sure, and wished to assure themselves whether those on the other side were disposed to regard a flag of truce. Anton Bierman and Jacob Ehrlich felt no inclination to do this. They thought that the scoundrels, the year before, had never shown mercy, and that for their part they would send them to the devil with their white rags and, though there were but three, they were worth three charges of powder. Lambert had enough to do to hush the excited men, and to make it clear to them that they, as Germans, should not be the first to do that. Meanwhile those who had come to ask a parley had approached to within a short distance of the house. Lambert appeared on the gallery, after he had told the others not to let themselves be seen, and called out: "Halt!" The three stood still. "What do you want?" "Is there one among you who speaks French?" asked the Frenchman in German. "We speak only German," answered Lambert. "What do you want?" The Frenchman, a tall, dark-complexioned man, placed himself in a quite theatrical posture while he set his flag of truce on the ground with his left hand and raised the right hand toward heaven, and called out: "I, Roger de St. Croix, Lieutenant in the service of his most Christian Majesty, Louis XV., and commander of his majesty's troops here present, and of the allied Indians of the tribe of the Onondagas, herewith bring to your knowledge and inform you that, if you at once and on the spot lay down your arms and give yourselves up to our mercy or severity, we will grant life to you, your wives and children, nor will we injure you in your possessions, but will leave everything--house, barn and cattle--undestroyed. But should you be mad enough to make further resistance against the formidable power of six hundred well-armed and disciplined soldiers of his majesty, and as many more brave and dreadful Indians, then I swear--I, Roger de St. Croix--that not one of you shall get away with his life--neither you, nor your wives, nor your children--and that we will level with the dust your houses and barns, so that nobody could again find the place where they stood." The man, who spoke German glibly enough, though with a French accent, had spoken louder and louder until at last he shrieked. He now let his gesticulating right arm fall to his side and stood there in an indifferent attitude, like a man conducting a spiritless conversation which he can stop or continue just as the other may prefer. "Shall I answer for you?" asked Anton as he struck his rifle. "Still!" said Lambert, and then raised his voice: "Go back to your people and tell them that we here, united German men, one as all and all as one, are resolved to hold the house, come what will; and that we are quite confident that we can hold it, even if you were twelve hundred instead of one hundred and fifty, counting in the ten already lying there." The Frenchman made a quick motion of surprise, and turned to his attendants who had been standing there without altering their posture, or stirring. He appeared to say something to them which arrested their attention. Then he again took his former theatrical posture and called out: "From what you last said, though it is false, I infer that there is with you a certain Conrad Sternberg. I promise you that not a hair shall be bent and a hundred Louis d'or besides, if you will deliver to us this Conrad Sternberg." "The man of whom you speak," replied Lambert, "is with us, and you have already twice heard the crack of his rifle, and if you so please you can hear it again." "But this Conrad is a traitor, who has cheated us in the most shameful manner," cried the Frenchman. "I am no traitor," called Conrad, who now stood beside his brother. "I told you I would escape as soon as possible. Since you this time thought your six could hold me you will the next time set a dozen to guard me." "The next time I will begin by having laid at my feet, first your scalp and then your head," cried the Frenchman in loudest tones. "Enough!" called Lambert. "I give you ten minutes to get back into the woods. He of you who then yet lets himself be seen outside does it at his peril!" The Frenchman doubled up his fist, and then bethought himself as to what, under all circumstances, a Frenchman owes himself against German blockheads, and taking off his large, three-cornered hat, made a low bow, turned on his heel, and walked at first slowly, then faster and faster toward the woods, until he fell into a regular trot, evidently to spare the Germans the shame of shooting, after the ten minutes had elapsed, at the messenger of his Most Christian Majesty. "Lord of my life!" cried Anton. "Now I first know him. That is the same fellow, Jacob, who three years ago came to us begging, and who afterward hung about the neighborhood half a year. He called himself Mr. Emil, and said that he had shot a comrade in a duel and had on that account to flee. But others claimed that he was an escaped galley-slave. Afterward he wanted to marry Sally, Joseph Kleeman's black girl, but she said she was too good for a fellow like that, and Hans Kessel, Sally's treasure, once pounded him as limber as a rag, after which he disappeared. Lord of my life! He gives himself out here as a lieutenant, and speaks of his Most Christian Majesty, and is willing to leave us our dear lives--the mean plate-licker, the gallows-bird!" So honest Anton scolded and abused, and asserted that if he did not get this Mr. Emil, or Saint Croix, or whatever the fellow's name was, in front of his rifle, to him the whole sport would be spoiled. The rest would gladly have known what Conrad had before had to do with the French, but their curiosity remained unsatisfied, for Conrad had immediately again gone up, and soon the attention of the besieged was directed to another side. From the barn-yard arose a column of smoke, which every moment became thicker and blacker, until the flames burst forth from the mass. The enemy had made his threat true. It seemed to be a useless barbarity, for the barn was too far from the block-house for the flames to leap across, though the wind, which now began to rise, was blowing toward the house, driving along smoke and sparks. But this whole war was only a continuous chain of such barbarities. This morning Lambert had mentally seen what he now actually saw. He had wrought all this with his own hands, which now the more firmly grasped the barrel of his gun. Then there cracked a shot above and another, and Aunt Ursul called down the stairs: "Be watchful! Eyes left! In the reeds!" The meaning of these words and of the shots fired from above soon became clear. The attention of the besieged had not been uselessly directed to the land side. In the thick sedge and reeds, of man's height, with which the shores of the creek were overgrown, one could come from the woods within a hundred paces of the house. It was a difficult undertaking, for the ground was a bottomless bog as far as the reeds grew, and where they ended the creek was deep and rapid. But they had ventured to do it, and it soon appeared with what result. From among the reeds here and there shots were soon being fired with increasing rapidity. There must indeed have been a considerable number who had came by that dangerous way, and had concealed themselves along the shore in spite of all that those in the house could do to free themselves from neighbors so unwelcome and dangerous. Wherever an eagle-feathered head or a naked arm showed itself, or the barrel of a gun glistened, yes, if the sedge only moved, a bullet struck. But though a few dead bodies floated down the creek, others lay dead or wounded among the rushes and others still had sunk in the morass, the remaining number was so great and the daring enemy was so embittered by his heavy losses, it seemed that the worst must and would come. Besides, the evening wind kept increasing, causing the tops of the rushes to wave hither and thither, so that it was difficult and often impossible to follow the movements of the unseen enemy, and many a precious charge was wasted. This evidently made the attacking party more bold. The fire-line was constantly receding from the shore. The more frequent bullets rained against the breastwork and roof. It might be expected at any moment that a rush would be made from the reeds and that, having rapidly run across the short distance that still separated them from the house, they would attempt to storm it. But it soon became manifest that on the opposite side of the house they were by no means willing to set the decision of the day on a single card. Suddenly, at the edge of the woods, there began to be a stirring and a moving as if the forest itself had become alive. Broad shields of man's height cunningly contrived out of pine branches were pushed out or carried, one could not tell which, in a connected line over the smooth level meadow toward the house. The progress was slow, but onward, until they had approached within rifle shot, and then the marksmen behind the shields opened a lively fire. The shields were indeed no sure protection for the attacking party, but they made the aim of the beleaguered more difficult, and moreover compelled them to be more watchful, and to direct their rifles toward two sides at once. But the oncoming foe had not yet exhausted his ingenuity. From the barn-yard, where everything was entirely burned down, they at the same time came rolling before them Lambert's large casks, and, as soon as they were near enough, they set them up and so made a wall that could every moment be shoved farther, and offered a much more sure protection than the pine-branch shields. Anton Bierman had laughed loudly when he saw the casks coming toward the house, but after he had fired at them a few times, clearly without effect, he laughed no more, but said softly to his friend Jacob: "Things begin to look serious!" It was indeed serious. So far no one had received apparent injury, except that one and another was badly cut by splinters torn from the breastwork by bullets, and bled profusely. But the battle had now lasted for three hours. It was a warm piece of work, under the June sun, and the cheeks of the fighters glowed, and the barrels of their guns were hot. Furthermore, many an eye, when it could turn away a moment from the unaccustomed bloody work toward the sun, had observed with care how rapidly it had been sinking during this hour which would not end--how low it already stood. So long as its light lasted a handful of men might keep up the doubtful strife against a crafty, cunning enemy far outnumbering them, and leave it undecided. But how soon the sun would set, and when it did, and darkness came on, it would cover the valley for hours with an impenetrable veil, since now the moon did not rise till after midnight; and under the protection of the night and of the fog the enemy could slip up and storm the place. True the beams of the lower story were thick enough, and the only door was barred, but a dozen axes could in a short time break in the door and, however thick the beams, they could not withstand fire. Then the beleaguered would have no choice but to give their living bodies to the flames, or with their arms in their hands try to open a way from the closely surrounded, burning house. And even then their destruction was sure. Whoever was not killed at once would, on account of the number of the pursuers, be overtaken and brought down. Such was the situation. It could not be doubtful either to the besieged, or besiegers, who had long been convinced that the house was defended by no more than ten rifles. But however much this certainty may have raised their desire to fight and their thirst for vengeance, the courage of those in the blockhouse remained unbroken. Nobody thought of flight, which was indeed impracticable; nor of surrender, which equally meant a painful death. All were resolved to defend themselves to the last breath, and sooner to kill themselves, or each other, than to fall alive into the hands of the cruel enemy. Lambert and Catherine had already before said this to each other, and during the battle they had more than once signaled the death covenant to each other with silent, intelligent glances. But the courageous girl was--not only to her lover--like a banner which waves before the bold soldier in battle and on which his eyes rest with an enthusiasm that overcomes death. Whoever looked at the pale, still, determined, restlessly helpful maiden, drank from a spring of courage and strength, so that his fearful heart beat higher and his tired limbs were again strengthened. To the commands constantly repeated from the first: "Stay away, Catherine! Don't stand there, Catherine!" she paid no attention. Where she knew she was needed, there she was; above with the men under the hot roof; below with those on the gallery, giving one a drink; taking a discharged rifle from the hands of another; giving to another a gun that she herself had loaded. She had also learned quickly, as she learned everything on seeing it, that Adam Bellinger, though he reasonably exerted himself and the sweat ran in streams from his forehead, was not equal to his task, and that the marksmen often called in vain for their guns. So she was again occupied in the inner room when Aunt Ursul, Conrad, old Christian and the minister came down from above, while also those in the gallery stopped shooting and it became still outside. "What is going on?" asked Catherine. "They are about to visit us with a second storming party," said Lambert, coming in from the gallery. "It is well that you have come down. Every man of us must now be on the gallery. We shall soon enough have them under us." Others also came in to hear what would happen. They were assembled in full count. "I think," said Lambert, "we had better not shoot until they are on the wall, for now they will not turn back again, and then we have eight of them sure. Afterward five of us will give attention to the others, while the rest put a stop to the work of the scoundrels below us. Are the rifles all loaded?" "Here!" and, "Here!" said Catherine and Adam, handing out the last two rifles. It so happened that the two were Lambert's and Conrad's rifles. As they both at the same time came up it was not by mere chance that both took their guns with the left hand, for at the next moment their right hands clasped, and thus they stood before Catherine, who, blushing deeply, took a step back, fearing that her nearness should anew break the bond of the brothers. But the minister laid his hand on the hands of the brothers as they held each other with a firm grasp, and said: "As these two who had for a moment lost each other, and in the hour of danger have again found each other, to be and to remain, in life and in death and in eternity united, so let us all, dear brothers and sisters, thank and praise God that we here stand together so united, and that, in this solemn hour, which according to all human calculation is our last, we are fulfilling the chief commandment, and are loving one another. Since life can offer us nothing greater than this, though we should live a thousand years, let us without murmuring take our departure from this dear life. We do not give it up lightly. We have defended it as well as we could. But we are only flesh and blood, and this our fortress is wood. God, however, who made us in his own likeness and breathed his breath into us--God is a spirit and a strong tower." As the minister uttered the word, then, as though the Spirit to whom they were praying had inspired it, the sentiment it awakened passed through the little assembly and Luther's battle-hymn sounded forth as if from one mouth: A Strong tower is our God-- A good defense and armor; He keeps us free in every need Which us has yet befallen; The old and angry fiend, Earnestly he means, Great might and much craft His dreadful armor is, On earth there's nothing like him. With our own might nothing's done; We surely are quite helpless; There fights for us the very Man, Whom God himself has chosen. Ask you who is He? He's called Jesus Christ, The Lord Sabaoth, There is no other God; The field he'll not surrender. And were the world of devils full, Would they us wholly swallow, So fear we not so very much; We yet shall surely prosper. There they were, on every side, as though the creek and the prairie and the woods had spit them out at once. They came on in wild leaps, swinging axes and guns and brush-bundles. French and Indians, hunters and dogs, rushed on to battle. In a moment they flew across the narrow intervening space, down into the ditch, up the wall, in frenzied motion, digging with their nails, one on another's shoulder, up, up. Up but not over--at least not the first. As soon as a head emerged from behind the wall, a pair of elbows put firmly on it, a breast exposed, came the deadly bullet, and the venturesome enemy fell back into the ditch. This fate befalls the first, the second, the third and the fourth. The fifth at last succeeds and the sixth; and now half-a-dozen at once, and at another point also a couple. These are enough. The object is gained. Words of command are called out. Those who are still on the other side of the wall retire, forming about the house in a double circle and continually firing. Again, and then for the last time, to rush forward so soon as those who had pressed to the house should have finished their work. It will to all appearance soon be finished. Sharp axes cut down the door. The ax-swingers understand their work. They have before opened breaches in many a barricaded house. And those on the other side, toward which the wind was blowing, understood their business equally well. They have often before placed a firebrand against a house they could not otherwise take. Those above shot well through the round holes in the bottom of the gallery, and one or two of those below must pay for their bravery with their lives. But the others are covered, and the rain of bullets which pours upon the house divides the force of the besieged who must turn to every side at once. Yet a few strokes and the door lies in fragments and out of the thick smoke which comes up over there the flame will soon burst forth. The beleaguered know it. An attempt to avert the threatened danger must be made. They must risk a sally. Two of them must do it. Which two? "I!" called out the brave minister. "Why is it not suitable for me?" "I!" cried Conrad. "This is my business!" "Conrad's and mine," said Lambert with determined voice, "and no one else. Away, the rest of you, to your posts. You, Richard and Fritz, guard the door. Here are the two axes; and now, in God's name--" The beams which bar the door are taken away so as to uncover a strong plank, fitting closely into the opening and against which the blows from without are directed, the door having been shattered. The last beam is drawn away; the plank falls; the breach desired by the besiegers is made, and out of the breach rush Lambert and Conrad side by side, old Christian Ditmar swinging aloft an ax with his nervous arm and crying: "Here! Germany forever!" It is the first word that has to-day fallen from his lips, and it is his last for to-day and forever. Pierced at once with three bullets, cut and crushed by a dozen knife cuts and ax-blows he falls, but his big-hearted purpose is attained. He broke the first onset of the attacking party. He made a way for the two young men behind him. They rushed into this passage-way. Nothing can withstand Conrad's giant strength. His blows fall like hail. He rages among the crowd like a jaguar among sheep. Yes, it is a jaguar that has come among them--the great jaguar, as they call him at the lake, who had already torn so many of the tribe of Onondagas. They are willing to fight with the devil himself, but cannot bear to look at the flaming eyes of the great jaguar. They rush away toward the wall, over the wall, into the ditch, followed by Conrad. Lambert, who had already pulled apart the burning pile of wood, called after him that he should go no farther but come back, for the others, who had seen the shameful flight of their comrades, now directed their fire at the two. Bullet after bullet strikes the wall near Lambert. It is a wonder that he is yet uninjured; yes, that he is alive. But he does not think of himself. He only thinks of his lion-hearted brother. He rushes toward the raging one, who is fighting near the wall with three Indians, the last within the enclosure. They shall not get over it again. He seizes one, whirls him on high and dashes him against the wall where the unlucky fellow lies with a broken neck. The two others improve the moment and climb over the wall. One of them, before sliding down into the ditch, discharges his gun. "Come in, for God's sake, Conrad!" called Lambert. He seizes Conrad by the hand and drags him away. They had reached the door when Conrad staggered like a drunken man, Lambert caught him about the body. "It is nothing, dear brother," said Conrad and straightened himself up. But in the door he fell down. A stream of blood gushed from his mouth and moistened the door-sill which he had sworn never again to cross without the shedding of his blood. The door is again barred more strongly than before. The fire that Lambert had pulled apart wastes away powerless at the base of the house. The house is saved; but how long? The little company that guards it is poorer by two fighting men. The rest, exhausted by their frightful labor, are more dead than alive. The ammunition is used up to within a few charges, and the sun pours its last red rays over the lonely battle-field in the midst of the surrounding forest. In a few minutes it will go down. Night--the last night--will come on. "Your brother is dead," said the minister to Lambert. "He has gone before us," said Lambert. "Stay near me, Catherine." The minister and Catherine had been occupied below with Conrad. The minister was skilled in the healing art, but here his skill could accomplish nothing. Conrad had opened his beautiful blue eyes, with a bewildered look, but once. They for a moment became bright and clear, as he saw Catherine's face through the mist of death. Then he lay still with closed eyes. There was deep peace in the yet wild and battle-angered face. He breathed but once again. Then his head sunk to one side as if he were now sleeping quietly. The sun sinks behind the forest, spreading its blood-red evening-light over those on the gallery. "On what do the fellows wait?" asked Jacob Ehrlich. "Eternity will be long enough for you, fool," replied Anton Bierman. "If father means to send us succor he must be quick about it," said Richard Herkimer, with a sad smile. "Hurrah! hurrah! and again hurrah!" cried Adam Bellinger, who now rushes down the stairway and dances about like a crazy person, and then, crying loudly, falls into the minister's arms. "Poor boy! poor boy!" said the minister. Lambert went round to the other side of the gallery, from which one could look down the creek to the edge of the woods where the road makes a turn and then disappears to reappear for a short distance a little further on. On this side and on that there was nothing in the road. The slight hope which had kindled in Lambert's breast was at once extinguished. Sadly he shook his head. And yet, what sound is that? Lambert clearly hears a dull, strong sound, while, at the same moment, the noise of the enemy is stilled. The sounds become heavier and stronger. Lambert's heart beats as though it would split. Suddenly there came around the corner of the woods one, two, three riders in full run and a moment later a large company; twenty, thirty horses, under whose hoofs the ground trembles. The riders swing their rifles and "Hurrah! hurrah!" sound forth so that Lambert hears. He hastens to his comrades. "Have you all loaded? Then up and out! Now it is our turn. Now we will drive them!" A sharp pursuit--a wild pursuit on the darkening prairie after the French and Indians, who in frenzied flight rush toward the woods while German rifles crack after them. CHAPTER XVI It was during the fifth summer after these events that the August sun, which rose above the woods in beaming glory, brought the Germans on the creek, on the Mohawk and on the Schoharie, a joyful day. To-day bison and deer might go their way through the primitive forest unmolested. The hunter drew the charge out of his rifle and put into it a large load of loose powder. To-day cattle and sheep were left to themselves in the pasture-fields. The herdsman had brushed his Sunday-coat clean, and had stuck a large bunch of flowers in his hat. To-day there was rest from pressing labor, in field and mart. The farmer, much as he had to do, the herder, the hunter, and all the world, young and old, men, women and children, were to keep a great holiday--a great, wondrous, fine peace-festival. For there was again peace on earth--which had drunk the blood of her children in streams for seven long years. Peace over in the old home; peace here in the new one. There the hero of the century, old Fritz, the great Prussian king, was done with his enemies, and had sheathed his sword. So here too the battle-ax could be buried. During the last years it had indeed become dull enough. Since, in the spring of 'fifty-eight, the attack of the French and Indians had been so bravely resisted by the Germans, they had made no further invasion across the border, protected as it was by such a warlike race. As now Fort Frontenac had fallen and Quebec was surrendered the following year. England's great victory was won, and what yet followed were only the flying sparks and the last flickering of a great conflagration. But for a German shingle or straw roof sparks are also dangerous, and the master of the house had yet constantly gone to bed burdened with anxiety, and the next morning went to his labor with his rifle on his shoulder. Now the last trace of uncertainty had disappeared, and the bell in the little church sounded out "Peace, peace," over sunny fields and still woods. Out of the woods and over the fields they came in festive groups, on foot, on horseback, young and old, adorned with flowers, sending friendly greetings from afar, heartily shaking each other's hands if they happened to meet at the crossroads; engaging in friendly conversation as they went through the smiling valley between the Mohawk and the creek toward the hill on which the church stood, which to-day could not hold all who came with pious thankfulness. "But God does not dwell in temples made by human hands. He is clothed with light. Heaven is His throne and the earth is His footstool." That is the text of the sermon which the worthy minister, Rosenkrantz, to-day delivers to his congregation, gathered around him in a wide circle under the bright sky and on the green earth. In words that fly on eagle's wings over the assembly he praises the great, good God, on whom they, in their need, had called, and who, out in the wild woods and on the lonely prairie, had delivered them from danger. He calls to remembrance those who had fallen during the war, and says that not in vain did they shed their precious blood for house and home in which man must live, that in the circle of his own family, at his own hearth, he may show the virtues of love, of helpfulness and patience, and live according to the image of Him who made him. He declares that those who survive are called and chosen, after the fearful labor of the war, to the valuable works of peace, and that all hatred and quarreling and envy and strife must henceforth be banished from the congregation, otherwise the dead would rise and complain and ask: "Why did we die?" More than once the voice of the minister trembled with deep feeling. He had gone through it all himself. Every word came from the bottom of his heart and so it reached the heart. There was scarcely one of the assembled hundreds whose eyes remained free from tears; and when the benediction was pronounced, that the Lord who had now so evidently let the light of His countenance fall on them and had given them peace, might also further bless and preserve them and give them peace, Amen! the word touched every heart, and hundreds of voices responded: "Amen!" "Amen!" as the wind roars through the tops of the trees of the forest. Then the roaring grew louder and mightier, as it spread in sacred accord over the sunny fields in the hymn. "Now let us all thank God." Then they retired stiller than they came. But the festival of peace should also be one of joy, and there were with the old far too many who were young to keep in their joy very long. At first a few lively words were jokingly interchanged. Then a lusty fellow had a funny conceit which, in that beautiful, bright sunshine, he could not possibly keep to himself. The old smiled. The young men laughed. The girls giggled. The laughter and the joyfulness were so inspiring and communicative that the guns went off as if of themselves, and an hour later one who did not know better might have thought that Herkimer's house, which the French had not ventured to attack in the frightful years of '57 and '58, was being stormed on the festival of peace by German young men. This indeed was unnecessary. Nicolas Herkimer's large and hospitable house had to-day all its doors opened wider than usual, for men and women--for all who lived oh the Mohawk, on the creek and on the Schoharie--for all that were German, or that were ready to rejoice with the Germans--all were invited, and were welcome to drink of Nicolas Herkimer's beer and eat of his roast, and, happy with the joyful, help to celebrate the great festival. As all had been invited so nobody stayed at home, unless it might be a mother who could not leave her children alone, or one to whom it was utterly impossible to come. Big John Mertens had come, and, simpering, mingled with the guests, his thumbs in the pockets of his long vest, except when he drew somebody aside secretly to ask him if it was not very nice in John Mertens that he gave precedence to Nicolas Herkimer, and that he did honor to his festival by his presence; that he could just as well entertain such a multitude of guests and perhaps a little better. Hans Haberkorn was there, and acted very modestly and reminded one and another that he had then already said that three ferries across the river were not too many. Now there were six ferrymen and all made a good living. Some thought that Hans Haberkorn talked in that way because he was owing Nicolas Herkimer every cent that the ferry and beer-house were worth, and a couple of hundred dollars besides. But who had time now to investigate such things? Surely not the young men and maidens who, on the level ground adjoining the house, beneath the shadow of an immense basswood tree, were ceaselessly swinging in the dance to the stirring music of a violin, two fifes and a drum. Parents and old people, who sat under the long, projecting roof where it was cool, and thoughtfully emptied one pitcher after another, had also something better for their entertainment. They remembered, as to-day they well might, what they themselves had suffered in the home across the sea, or had, at least, been told by the father, or the grandfather--how the bitter enemy, the Frenchman, had scorched and burned, up and down the beautiful green Rhine, and how their own lord by his servants had seized what the French had left, so that, in his grand castles, he with his courtiers might gormandize and have brilliant feasts and great hunts, while the poor farmers, oppressed by service and burdens of every kind, were starving of sheer hunger. And also the priesthood and the tithes and other endless miseries of the holy Roman empire of the German nation. Yes, yes, it had looked badly over there, and though since the great king of Prussia, old Fritz, had intervened and had followed bravely on his crutch, it was a great deal better, yet one could live here freer and better, if one considered it well, being under no lord; and the minister, though all were not like Rozenkrantz, would allow one to talk with him and a man's life could be joyful, especially now that the Frenchman has crept into his hole and the war is at an end. Then they talked about the war. That was an inexhaustible subject. In that everybody had taken part--had himself fought and had his part to tell--his altogether peculiar experiences, which, if to no one else, at least to the narrator were of deep interest. They recalled the chief events of the war, wherein all agreed that the interest was supreme. These were recounted a hundred times and were gladly repeated once more, and which clothed themselves in a wonderful garb, though the eye-witnesses were yet for the most part alive. Of these peculiarly noteworthy events, none was more remarkable than the battle at Sternberg's house in the year '58. And when the deed had been told that nine men had for six or seven hours resisted one hundred and fifty well-armed enemies, incredible as it was, there was that in the history which gave it for the moment a romantic color, even in the eyes of the indifferent. The quarrel of the brothers over the beautiful maiden, who was now the handsomest wife in the whole district; the reconciliation of the brothers in the last hour, and the succeeding heroic deaths of Christian Ditmar and of Conrad Sternberg--the oldest and the youngest of the company--and both dying so nobly that one could not do better than to follow them, as Aunt Ursul said, when they were both laid in the cool earth. Yes, she had soon enough followed them--the wonderfully brave souls--she who was so rough, while her heart was so soft that she did not want to live longer, nor could she without her husband, with whom she had spent forty years in joy and sorrow--but mostly in sorrow--and without her wild, strong and last but perhaps most dearly beloved son. Yes, yes, that he was, to Aunt Ursul--the Indian, and, as they already before had called him and still called him at the lake, the great jaguar--Conrad Sternberg, wild and strong. Were he still living Cornelius Vrooman, from Schoharie, would not have carried off the victory away from the young men on the Mohawk. What Cornelius did was indeed no small matter, to draw a sleigh by the tongue, standing in the sand, loaded with twelve heavy men, half a foot from its position. Conrad would have drawn the sleigh five feet with Cornelius on his shoulders. Yes, yes, Conrad Sternberg was endowed with superhuman strength. Would he otherwise have been able to overcome twenty-four Indians who had already pressed forward to the house? And was it not more than human courage for him, whom every Onondaga had sworn to kill, notwithstanding to go to their camp and set the Onondagas and Oneidas against each other and both against the French and then to deliver himself up to the Onondagas, as they insisted on it that they might feel assured, and to tell them that he would stay with them as long as they could hold him; and the simpletons, who might have known better, had thought that six men were sufficient for this, and had placed the six, with Conrad as guide, in the van. Yes, he had showed them the way there whence none of them would return. So had he protected the Sternberg house, and, if one correctly considered it, all the houses on the creek and the Mohawk, since the Oneidas went back, and the French and Onondagas might be glad that they had not in the evening been followed more sharply, since half of the cavalry had been sent to relieve the Sternberg house. Yes, that was a man, that Conrad, the like of whom would probably never again appear among them--a Samson among the Philistines, "who slew them with the jaw-bone of an ass," as the minister to-day said, in his sermon, though he did not mention Conrad's name. The minister himself knew how to tell about it, for he was there and could say more if he would; but he said no more about it, as soon as he came in his discourse to the chapter. Now, perhaps a servant of peace should not be blamed if he did not wish to remember that he had laid low six Indians that day with his own hand. In their gossiping exaggeration and envy they proceeded to add that if Lambert Sternberg seldom speaks of his brother he may possibly have his grounds, since many suspect that Catherine loved Conrad better than him, and that Lambert Sternberg, in spite of his comfortable condition--since he is now also Aunt Ursul's heir--and in spite of his handsome wife and beautiful children, is the unhappiest man in the whole valley. "Be still! There comes Lambert with Herkimer; and what peculiar little fellow have they forked up?" Nicolas Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg approached these confident dividers of honors, whose conversation had just taken so interesting a turn, and introduced to them Mr. Brown, of New York, who in Albany, where he had business, had heard of the peace-festival on the Mohawk, and as he was a friend of the Germans, had at once decided to come up and help them celebrate the day. The honor-conveyers welcomed the stranger, and said that it was a great honor which they knew how to prize, and asked whether Mr. Brown and Lambert--Herkimer had already gone away--would not sit down at their table and empty a glass to the well-being of his majesty the king. Mr. Brown was ready for this, and also drank to the welfare of the Germans, but then left, with the promise that later he would come again with Lambert; that he wished first to look about a little over the place where the festival was being held. Mr. Brown had not made the long journey from New York to Albany and from Albany here merely on his own business, nor out of pure sympathy with the Germans. He came at the suggestion of the Government, which had at last comprehended the value of the German settlements on the Mohawk, and further up toward the lake, and had formed the earnest purpose to advance them as far as possible. Mr. Brown, being peculiarly fitted to further this end on account of his long business intercourse with the Germans, was intrusted with this mission. He was to communicate with the leading Germans, such as Nicolas Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg, and take their proposals into consideration. To this end he had held a long conference with Nicolas Herkimer, and now imparted his views to his younger friend while walking with him about the place, Lambert attentively listened in silence. It did not occur to him that the Englishman had in reality the interests of his nation in his eye when he spoke of the advantages which should grow out of it all to the Germans. Nor did Mr. Brown deny it. "We are a practical people, my dear young friend," said he, "and do nothing for God's sake. Business is business; but this is an honorable one--I mean one by which both sides are the gainers. Naturally you will at first serve as a dike and a protecting wall against our enemies, the French. You will help extend and establish our control of the continent which will yet come to us. But if you so pull the chestnuts out of the fire for us will not the sweet fruits be just as good for you? When you strike for King George do you not just as well fight for your own house and home? What then, man? So long as one does not stand firm in his own shoes one must lean against others. See that you Germans reach a position so that you can enter the market of the world, dealing for your own advantage and in view of your own danger. You will have to be satisfied either to be taken in tow by us, or, if you prefer, be road-makers and pioneers for us." The earnest man had, according to his custom, at last spoken very loud, and with it gesticulated with his little lean arms, and thrust his Spanish cane into the ground. Now he looked around frightened, grasped Lambert under the arm, and, while he let himself be led farther away, proceeded in a more gentle manner and in lower tones: "And now I will intrust you with something, my young friend, which I would not for all the world should come to Mrs. Brown's ears, and which also, on your own account, you may keep to yourselves. You remember, Lambert, how five years ago, you were in New York, and we stood on the quay and saw your country people leave the ship, poor simpletons! It rained powerfully, and the dismal scene did not by this means become brighter. Well, this morning, while we were here wandering about, I have been constantly forced to think and have said to myself: What immeasurable life-vigor must stick in this race, which needs but a single life-time to change from half-starved, shy-looking, all-enduring slaves, into lusty, broad-shouldered, independent freemen. How immeasurably must such a race have suffered to sink so deep! How high it must rise when these sufferings are removed; when its good instincts are left to themselves; when fortune permits it freely to unfold its great strength which slumbers hidden and is yet scarcely waked up! How high it must ascend! How wide it must spread! What is beyond its reach? Do not laugh at me, my young friend. I tremble when I think of it---when I think what a host like this, as yet without leaders, only subject to the law of gravity, can overcome--_must_ overcome--when it has learned to take care of itself; to lead and to march in rank and file. However this may be, so much is already clear to me; you who here stand on the border are evidently now our vanguard. You prepare your countrymen a way. You are truly German pioneers. But again, not a word of this when you this fall come to New York. My neighbors already call me 'the Dutchman' and Mrs. Brown will not again--Well, as we are now speaking of the women, where, then, is your wife, with whom you at that time so hastily went away? I think I will to-morrow lay claim to your guest-friendship for a day, and so would be gladly introduced to my beautiful entertainer." "My wife," said Lambert, "is not here. She--" "I understand, I understand," interrupted the talkative old man. "Little household events happen in the best of families. I understand." "Now," said Lambert, laughing, "our youngest is already half-a-year old, and my wife was unwilling longer to stay away from the children; and besides, this joyous day is also one of sorrowful thoughts to my family." "I know, I know," said the old man. "Your brother--we heard of it in New York. What do you want, man? Your brave deed is in the mouth of the people. The ballad singers sing it on the streets:" "A story, a story, Unto you I will tell, Concerning a brave hero--" "I should say, two brave heroes. But the people like to keep to one. You must tell me all this circumstantially when I come to your house to-morrow." "This I will cheerfully do," replied Lambert, "and so I will to-day take my leave of you. The sun is already low, and I would like to be home in good time." Lambert took the old man to the giver of the feast, who sent his hearty compliments to his wife, and promised to come with the guest to-morrow, to have farther consultation, and to visit his daughter-in-law on the way, who had already fourteen days ago presented him with a grandson. Richard, after Aunt Ursul's death, had bought the property from Lambert, and was now his nearest neighbor. Richard came up and proposed to accompany Lambert. Fritz and August Volz would probably also have done this, but their wives did not yet want to leave the festival, which was now at its highest point. And then the women had taken it into their heads that this was the day on which their brother Adam must lose his long-maintained freedom and lay it down at the feet of Margaret Bierman, Anton Bierman's sister. Adam came up. His eyes were red. He no longer stood quite firm on his long legs. He put his arms around Lambert, and assured him with hot tears that a man has but one heart to give once for all, but that if it was necessary for Lambert's comfort--a necessity that he fully understood--to follow Jacob Ehrlich's example, given a short time before, he would marry a Bierman even if a man has but one heart, and Margaret didn't sound half as nice as a certain other name, that should not cross his lips, "for a man has but one heart and his heart--" Here came Anton Bierman and his brother-in-law Jacob to fetch the faithless knight, and Anton, who had overheard the last words, assured Lambert that Adam was a perfect fool, though at bottom a goodhearted and brave fellow, and that the old Bellingers had left behind, besides the visible property, a nice round sum, and that if his sister Gretchen was willing he was satisfied. What did Lambert say to it? Lambert said, that he had always given Adam that advice and would also do it under present circumstances; and to the same effect he spoke to Richard Herkimer as, two hours later, they two trotted up the creek. "Adam," said he, "is not so great a fool. The fellow has mother wit enough, and, if he can be easily teased, so his antagonists for the most part do not escape without some scratches. He is also brave, when he must be. That he showed at that trying time in the block-house. In wedlock one must be brave. Therefore I always advise to found a new home when it is suitable. And then, Richard, the German only increases when he has his own hearth, when he can care and work for house and home, for wife and child. So I salute the smoke that rises from a new hearth like a banner about which will gather a group of German pioneers, as Mr. Brown calls them, who lead forward the host that shall come after us." Richard looked at his companion with some astonishment. Lambert had always so few thoughts and words. He would have liked to ask whether Lambert expected to be one among the coming host, but they had just reached his house, and Lambert bade him give his compliments to Annie, pressed his hand and trotted away. Yes, Lambert always had but few thoughts for others, but not for Catherine. He could tell her everything that his warm heart suggested and about which his ever active mind was busy. She, the handsome, good, intelligent one understood it, felt as he did, and often made things clear that he could not himself see through. What would she say to the proposition that Mr. Brown had made to him? "On, Hans, old fellow, yet a little trot." Hans was satisfied. The five years had not weakened his strength. He could, if a long, sharp trot was necessary, yet make a round of ten miles with any horse. But this time the well-known endurance of the active horse was not put to the test. He had scarcely trotted two hundred yards and was beginning to enjoy it, when his master, with a sudden jerk, held him up, and at the next moment sprang out of the saddle. "Catherine!" "Lambert!" "How are the children?" "All well. Conrad did not want to go to bed before he had seen you." "And little Ursul?" "To-day got her third tooth." "And little Catherine?" "Sleeps wonderfully." They walked on along the bank side by side, leading Hans by the bridle. "Are you yet thinking about it?" said Catherine. Lambert did not need to ask about what he should be thinking. One does not forget things like that. It seemed as though it had occurred but yesterday. And yet there had been great changes since that evening. Where they then walked along the seldom-trodden meadow-path they now went through waving grain fields on a well-beaten road in which a deep, firm wagon-track was cut. There were fields with suitable buildings in all directions, as far as the edge of the woods, which in many places had been cleared far back. Where portions of the old wood pasture showed themselves between the cultivated fields, there large gates had been put, over which here and there a colt or a heifer coming up looked with large, languid eyes, while farther on in the pasture the rest were feeding in the rank grass. On through meadows and fields were seen the shingle roofs of large farmsteads, beside which the old barns which had been burned down would have looked very mean. On the place where the block-house was, there now stood forth a stately stone-house in whose gable the windows were glowing in the evening sun. Yes, there have been great changes since that evening which to Lambert seemed like yesterday, as though he had never lived without his wife and children. They had put Conrad to bed, and Catherine with her soft voice had sung the wild boy to sleep, while the other two little ones, with their red cheeks, were slumbering quietly in their beds. They sat before the door in the honeysuckle-arbor, through which the soft, summer evening wind was murmuring. Lambert told his wife the events of the day, and about Mr. Brown, and they discussed Mr. Brown's plan of extending the German settlements farther up the creek, over to the Black River--if possible to Oneida Lake--and that Mr. Brown, Nicolas Herkimer and himself were to buy the land, and that he was to be the leader and patron of the new settlers. He also told Catherine what the old man had said about the future of the Germans in America, and how the Englishman feared that this hardy, industrious race would yet surpass the English and take from them their dominion over the continent. "Such language from the mouth of so intelligent a man might make us very proud," said Catherine. "So I thought too," said Lambert. "And yet, when I reflect upon it more fully it makes me quite sad." "How do you mean, Lambert?" "I mean the industry, the pains, the labor, the strength, the courage, the energy, we must use to carry it so far here will be such that they might perhaps better remain in the old home. As you have painted your father to me, mild, generous, helpful, learned; such as was my father, quick, decided, looking far ahead; such as was Uncle Ditmar, unbending, stern and refractory; such as was our noble Conrad and Aunt Ursul. What precious blood this new land has already drunk and in the future will drink! And does it produce the right fruit from the costly seed. I know not. Granted that we attain all which our old friend promises us--though it sounds like a fable--but granted that we reach it, and that we should once have to divide the rich inheritance with the English, should we remain Germans? I doubt it, and you yourself, Catherine, have taught me to be doubtful. What would I be without you? And you had to come to me from the old home--could come only from the old home. In your soul there sounds a deeper, purer tone, just as in the beautiful songs that you brought over with you. Will a still deeper tone sound in the souls of our children? What will be their condition should it die out?" Lambert was silent. Catherine leaned her head on his shoulder. She found no answer to a question that had already filled her breast with sad anxiety. "And so," Lambert continued, "my heart is divided into two parts. To-morrow, when the old friend comes, I will go out with him into the woods and show him the way by which those who are to come must go, and point out the places where they must build their huts. But as for myself, I would rather tear down the huts and take you and the children--how goes the song, Catherine, with which you just now sung our boy to sleep, the dear, old song, out of the dear, old home-- "Were I a wild falcon, I would soar aloft." And he pointed toward the east where, in the holy mother-arms of the dark night, the glory of the coming day was slumbering. THE END 
41132	----	The Bomb-Makers Being some Curious Records concerning the Craft and Cunning of Theodore Drost, an enemy alien in London, together with certain Revelations regarding his daughter Ella. By William Le Queux Published by Jarrolds, London. The Bombmakers, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE BOMBMAKERS, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. CHAPTER ONE. THE DEVIL'S DICE. "Do get rid of the girl! Can't you see that she's highly dangerous!" whispered the tall, rather overdressed man as he glanced furtively across the small square shop set with little tables, dingy in the haze of tobacco-smoke. It was an obscure, old-fashioned little restaurant in one of London's numerous byways--a resort of Germans, naturalised and otherwise, "the enemy in our midst," as the papers called them. "I will. I quite agree. My girl may know just a little too much--if we are not very careful." "Ah! she knows far too much already, Drost, thanks to your ridiculous indiscretions," growled the dark-eyed man beneath his breath. "They will land you before a military court-martial--if you are not careful!" "Well, I hardly think so. I'm always most careful--most silent and discreet," and he grinned evilly. "True, you are a good Prussian--that I know; but remember that Ella has, unfortunately for us, very many friends, and she may talk--women's talk, you know. We--you and I--are treading very thin ice. She is, I consider, far too friendly with that young fellow Kennedy. It's dangerous--distinctly dangerous to us--and I really wonder that you allow it--you, a patriotic Prussian!" And, drawing heavily at his strong cigar, he paused and examined its white ash. "Allow it?" echoed the elder man. "How, in the name of Fate, can I prevent it? Suggest some means to end their acquaintanceship, and I am only too ready to hear it." The man who spoke, the grey-haired Dutch pastor, father of Ella Drost, the smartly-dressed girl who was seated chatting and laughing merrily with two rather ill-dressed men in the farther corner of the little smoke-dried place, grunted deeply. To the world of London he posed as a Dutchman. He was a man with a curiously triangular face, a big square forehead, with tight-drawn skin and scanty hair, and broad heavy features which tapered down to a narrow chin that ended in a pointed, grey, and rather scraggy beard. Theodore Drost was about fifty-five, a keen, active man whose countenance, upon critical examination, would have been found to be curiously refined, intelligent, and well preserved. Yet he was shabbily dressed, his long black clerical coat shiny with wear, in contrast with the way in which his daughter--in her fine furs and clothes of the latest mode--was attired. But the father, in all grades of life, is usually shabby, while his daughter--whatever be her profession--looks smart, be it the smartness of Walworth or that of Worth. As his friend, Ernst Ortmann, had whispered those warning words he had glanced across at her, and noting how gaily she was laughing with her two male friends, a cigarette between her pretty lips, he frowned. Then he looked over to the man who had thus urged discretion. The pair were seated at a table, upon which was a red-bordered cloth, whereon stood two half-emptied "bocks" of that light beer so dear to the Teuton palate. They called it "Danish beer," not to offend English customers. The girl whose smiles they were watching was distinctly pretty. She was about twenty-two, with a sweet, eminently English-looking face, fair and quite in contrast with the decidedly foreign, beetle-browed features of the two leering loafers with whom she sat laughing. Theodore Drost, to do him justice, was devoted to his daughter, who, because of her childish aptitude, had become a dancer on the lowest level of the variety stage, a touring company which visited fifth-rate towns. Yet, owing to her discovered talent, she had at last graduated through the hard school of the Lancashire "halls," to what is known as the "syndicate halls" of London. From a demure child-dancer at an obscure music-hall in the outer suburbs, she had become a noted revue artiste, a splendid dancer, who commanded the services of her own press-agent, who in turn commanded half-a-dozen lines in most of the London morning papers, both her prestige and increased salary following in consequence. The British public so little suspect the insidious influence of the press-agent in the formation of modern genius. The press-agent has, in the past, made many a mediocre fool into a Birthday Baronet, or a "paid-for Knight," and more than one has been employed in the service of a Cabinet Minister. Oh what sheep we are, and how easily we are led astray! On that wintry night, Ella Drost--known to the theatre-going public as Stella Steele, the great revue artiste whose picture postcards were everywhere--sat in that stuffy, dingy little restaurant in Soho, sipping a glass of its pseudo-Danish lager, and laughing with the two unpresentable men before her. Outside the unpretentious little place was written up the single word "Restaurant." Its proprietor a big, full-blooded, fair-bearded son of the Fatherland, had kept it for twenty years, and it had been the evening rendezvous of working-class Germans--waiters, bakers, clerks, coiffeurs, jewellers, and such-like. Here one could still revel in Teuton delicacies, beer brewed in Hamburg, but declared to be "Danish," the succulent German liver sausage, the sausage of Frankfort--boiled in pairs of course--the palatable sauerkraut with the black sour bread of the Fatherland to match. "I wish you could get rid of Kennedy," said Ortmann, as he again, in confidence, bent across the table towards Ella's father. "I believe she's in collusion with him." "No," laughed the elder man, "I can't believe that. Ella is too good a daughter of the Fatherland." He was one of Germany's chief agents in England, and had much money in secret at his command. Ortmann screwed up his eyes and pursed his lips. He was a shrewd, clever man, and very difficult to deceive. "Money is at stake, my dear Drost," he whispered very slowly--"big money. But there is love also. And I believe--nay, I'm sure--that Kennedy loves her." "Bah! utterly ridiculous!" cried her father. "I don't believe that for a single moment. She's only fooling him, as she has fooled all the others." "All right. But I've watched. You have not," was the cold reply. From time to time the attractive Ella, on her part, glanced across at her father, who was whispering with his overdressed companion, and, to the keen observer, it would have been apparent that she was only smoking and gossiping with that pair of low-bred foreigners for distinct purposes of her own. The truth was that, with her woman's instinct, feminine cleverness and ingenuity, she, being filled with the enthusiasm of affection for her aviator-lover, was playing a fiercely desperate part as a staunch and patriotic daughter of Great Britain. The hour was late. She had hurried from the theatre in a taxi, the carmine still about her pretty lips, her eyes still darkened beneath, and the greasepaint only roughly rubbed off. The great gold and white theatre near Leicester Square, where, clad in transparencies, she was "leading lady" in that most popular revue "Half a Moment!" had been packed to suffocation, as indeed it was nightly. Officers and men home on leave from the battle-front all made a point of seeing the pretty, sweet-faced Stella Steele, who danced with such artistic movement, and who sang those catchy patriotic songs of hers, the stirring choruses of which even reached the ears of the Bosches in their trenches. And in many a British dug-out in Flanders there was hung a programme of the revue, or a picture postcard of the seductive Stella. There were, perhaps, other Stella Steeles on the stage, for the name was, after all, not an uncommon one, but this star of the whole Steele family had arisen from the theatrical firmament since the war. She, the laughing girl who, that night, sat in that obscure, smoke-laden little den of aliens in Soho, was earning annually more than the "pooled" salary of a British Cabinet Minister. That Stella was a born artiste all agreed--even her agent, that fat cigar-smoking Hebrew cynic who regarded all stage women as mere cattle out of whom he extracted commissions. To-day nobody can earn unusual emoluments in any profession without real merit assisted by a capable agent. Stella Steele was believed by all to be thoroughly British. Nobody had ever suspected that her real name was Drost, nor that her bespectacled and pious father had been born in Stuttgart, and had afterwards become naturalised as a Dutchman before coming to England. The cigarette-smoking male portion of the khaki-clad crowd who so loudly applauded her every night had no idea that their idol had been born in Berlin. Isaac Temple, the mild-mannered press-agent whom she employed, had always presented her, both to press and public, and sent those artistic photographs of hers to the Sunday illustrated papers, as daughter of a London barrister who had died suddenly, leaving her penniless. Thus had the suspicious connection with Drost been always carefully suppressed, and Ella lived very quietly in her pretty flat in Stamfordham Mansions, situate just off the High Street in Kensington. Her father--her English mother, whom she had adored, being long ago dead--lived a quiet, secluded life in one of those rather large houses which may be found on the south side of the Thames between Putney and Richmond. Pastor Drost had, it was believed by the Dutch colony in London, been a missionary for some years in Sumatra, and, on more than one occasion, he had lectured upon the native life of that island. Therefore he had many friends among Dutch merchants and others, who all regarded him as a perfectly honest and even pious, if rather eccentric, man. At times he wore big round horn-rimmed glasses which grossly magnified his eyes, giving him a strange goggled appearance. The world, however, never knew that Pastor Drost's only daughter was that versatile dancer who, dressed in next-to-nothing, nightly charmed those huge enthusiastic audiences in the popular revue, "Half a Moment!" Until three months after the outbreak of war Ella had regarded her father's idiosyncrasies with some amusement, dismissing them as the outcome of a mind absorbed in chemical experiment, for though none save herself was aware of it, the long attic beneath the roof of her father's house--the door of which Theodore Drost always kept securely locked--was fitted as a great chemical laboratory, where he, as a professor of chemistry, was constantly experimenting. After the outbreak of war, by reason of a conversation she one day overheard between her father and his mysterious visitor, Ernst Ortmann, her suspicions had become aroused. Strange suspicions they indeed were. But in order to obtain confirmation of them, she had become more attached to her father, and had visited him far more frequently than before, busying herself in his domestic affairs, and sometimes assisting the old widow, Mrs Pennington, who acted as his single servant. Two years prior to the war, happening upon that house, which was to be sold cheap, Ella had purchased it, ready furnished as it was, and given it as a present to her father as a place in which he might spend his old age in comfort. But until that night when she had overheard the curious conversation--which she had afterwards disclosed in confidence to her lover, Lieutenant Seymour Kennedy, Flight-Commander of the Naval Air Service--she had never dreamed that her father, the good and pious Dutchman who had once been a missionary, was an enemy alien, whose plans were maturing in order to assist a great and desperate conspiracy organised by the secret service of the German Fatherland. On a certain well-remembered November evening she had revealed to Kennedy the truth, and they had both made a firm compact with each other. The plotter was her father, it was true. But she was a daughter of Great Britain, and it was for her to combat any wily and evil plot which might be formed against the land which had given birth to her adored mother. She loved Seymour Kennedy. A hundred men had smiled upon her, bent over her little hand, written to her, sent her flowers and presents, and declared to her their undying affection. It is ever so. The popular actress always attracts both fools and fortunes. But Ella, level-headed girl as she was, loved only Seymour, and had accepted the real, whole-hearted and honest kisses which he had imprinted upon her lips. Seymour Kennedy was a gentleman before being an officer, which could not, alas! be said of all the men in the services in war-time. Ella Drost was no fool, her dead mother had always instilled into her mind that, though born of a German father, yet she was British, an argument which, if discussed legally, would have been upset, because, having, unfortunately, been born in Berlin, she was certainly a subject of the German octopus. At the time of her birth her father had occupied a very important position among professors--half the men in the Fatherland were professors of something or other--yet Drost had been professor of chemistry at the Imperial Arsenal at Spandau--that great impregnable fortress in which the French war indemnity of 1870 had been locked up as the war-chest of golden French louis. How strange it was! And yet it was not altogether strange. Ella, whose heart--the heart of a true British girl trained at her mother's knee-- had discovered a curious "something" and, aided by her British airman lover, was determined to carry on her observations, at all hazards, to the point of ascertaining the real truth. England was at war at the battle-front--and she, a mere girl, was at war with the enemy in its midst. Three-quarters of an hour later Ella--whose comfortable car was waiting outside the dingy little place--had driven her father home, but on the way she expressed her decision to stay with him, as it was late and her French maid, Mariette, had no doubt gone to bed. As they stood in her father's large, well-furnished dining-room, Ella drew some lemonade from a siphon and then, declaring that she was sleepy, said she would retire. "All right, my dear," replied the old man. "All right. You'll find your room quite ready for you. I always order that it shall be kept ready for you. Let's see! You were here a week ago--so the bed will not be damp." The girl bent and imprinted a dutiful kiss upon her father's white brow, but, next instant, set her teeth, and in her blue eyes--though he did not see it--there showed a distinct light of suspicion. Then she switched on the light on the stairs, loosened her furs, and ascended to the well-furnished room that was always regarded as hers. The room in which Ella found herself was large, with a fine double wardrobe, a long cheval-glass, and a handsome mahogany dressing-table. The curtains and upholstery were in pale-blue damask, while the thick plush carpet was of a darker shade. Instead of retiring, Ella at once lit the gas-stove, glanced at her wristlet-watch, the face of which was set round with diamonds, and then flung herself into a deep armchair to think, dozing off at last, tired out by the exertion of her dancing. The striking of the little gilt clock upon the mantelshelf presently aroused her, and, rising, she switched off the light and, creeping upon tiptoe, slowly opened her bedroom door and listened attentively. Somewhere she could hear the sound of men's voices. One she recognised as her father's. "That's Nystrom again! That infernal hell-fiend!" she whispered breathlessly to herself. Then, removing her smart shoes and her jingling bangles, she crept stealthily forth along the soft carpet of the corridor, and with great care ascended the stairs to the floor above, which was occupied by that long room, the door of which was always kept locked--the room in which her father conducted his constant experiments. From the ray of light she saw that the door was ajar. Within, the two men were talking in low deep tones in German. She could hear a hard sound, as of metal being filed down, and more than once distinguished the clinking of glass, as though her father was engaged in some experiment with his test-tubes and other scientific paraphernalia which she had seen arranged so methodically upon the two long deal tables. "What has Ortmann told you?" asked Theodore Drost's midnight visitor, while his daughter stood back within the long cupboard on the landing, listening. "He says that all is in order. We have a friend awaiting us." "And the payment--eh?" asked the man Nystrom, a German who had been naturalised as a Swede, and now lived in London as a neutral. As a professor of chemistry he had been well-known in Stockholm and, being a bosom friend of the Dutch pastor's, the pair often delighted in dabbling together in their favourite science. "I shall meet Ernst on Friday night. If we are successful, he will pay two thousand pounds--to be equally divided between us." "Good," grunted the other. "We shall be successful, never fear--that is if Ortmann has arranged things at his end. _Himmel_! what a shock it will be--eh, my friend?--worse than the Zeppelins!" Theodore Drost laughed gleefully, while his daughter, daring to creep forward again, peered through the crack of the door and saw the pair bending over what looked like a square steel despatch-box standing upon the table amid all the scientific apparatus. The box, about eighteen inches long, a foot wide, and six inches deep, was khaki-covered, and, though she was not aware of it at the time, it was of the exact type used in the Government offices. Fridtjof Nystrom, a tall, dark-haired man, with a red, blotchy face, rather narrow-eyed and round-shouldered, was adjusting something within the box, while old Drost, who had discarded his shabby black pastor's coat and now wore a dark-brown jacket, took up a small glass retort beneath which the blue flame of a spirit-lamp had been burning, and from it he poured a few drops of some bright red liquid into a tiny tube of very thin glass. Then, taking a small blow-pipe, he blew the flame upon the tube until he had melted the glass and sealed it hermetically. The blotchy-faced man watched this latter operation with great interest, saying: "Have a care now, my dear Theodore. The least mishap, and not a piece of either of us would remain to tell the story." "_Ja_! Leave that to me," answered Ella's father. "We do not, I agree, desire a repetition of the disaster which happened last week." Ella, hearing those words, stood aghast. A week before all London had been mystified and horrified by a most remarkable explosion which had occurred one night in a house in one of the outer suburbs, whereby the place had been set on fire and utterly demolished. Whoever were present in the house had been blown to atoms, for no trace of the occupants, or of what had caused the disaster, had been discovered. At first it was believed to have been caused by an incendiary bomb dropped from the air, but expert evidence quickly established the fact that something within the house had exploded. Was it possible that her father and his dastardly companions possessed knowledge of what had actually occurred there? Suddenly, Drost having handed the tiny sealed tube to Nystrom, the latter proceeded to place it in position within the box, using most infinite care. Then her father turned upon his heel, and came forward to the door behind which his daughter was standing. In a second Ella had shrunk back noiselessly into the cupboard, which the old man passed in the darkness, and descended the stairs. He had passed the door of Ella's room when, having gained the bottom of the stairs, he paused and whistled softly. In a few seconds Nystrom came forth. "Come, Fridtjof," he urged in a low whisper. "Let us drink to the success of our expedition to-night, and the victory of our dear Fatherland," an invitation which his visitor at once accepted. Ella heard the two men descend, making but little noise, and a moment later she crept into the long, well-lit laboratory where, upon the table, stood the big official-looking despatch-box. A second's glance was sufficient to reveal the truth even to her, a woman unversed as she was in such things. It was a most ingeniously-constructed infernal machine which would detonate the quantity of high-explosive which she saw had been placed within. Though her father had taken the greatest precaution to conceal from his daughter the exact line of his chemical experiments, yet, if the truth be told, Ella and her lover had watched carefully, and Kennedy--who had shared his well-beloved's suspicions--had ascertained, without doubt, that Drost and Nystrom had been engaged in that long, low room beneath the roof, in treating toluene with nitric and sulphuric acid for several days under heat thus producing tri-nitro-toluene--or trotul--that modern high-explosive, of terrible force, which was rapidly superseding picric acid as a base for shell-fillers. At a glance Ella saw that the square steel bomb, fashioned like an official despatch-box, was filled with this highly dangerous explosive, and that the thin glass tube which, when broken, would explode it, had already been placed in position. Such a bomb, on exploding in a confined space, must work the most terrible havoc. In those few seconds the girl verified the suspicion which Kennedy had entertained. Some desperate outrage was to be committed. That was quite certain. A bomb from a Zeppelin could not cause greater injury to life and property than that ingeniously contrived machine, the delicately constructed fuse of which, fashioned on the lathe by her father's own hands, could be arranged to detonate at any given time. A second's pause, and then the girl, beneath her breath, took a deep oath of vengeance against the ruler of that hated land wherein she had been born. "Thank Heaven that I am English!" she whispered to herself. "And I will live--and die, if necessary--as an English girl should." With those words upon her lips she crept away from the laboratory, down the stairs to her room, and, swiftly putting on her fur coat, she went into the basement, from which she let herself out noiselessly, and then hurried through the night, in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge. On gaining the bridge, she saw the red rear-light of a motor-car, and knew that it was Kennedy's. He had drawn up against the kerb, and had been consuming cigarettes waiting in impatience for a long time. "Well, darling?" he asked, as they met. "I got your message from the theatre to-night. What is in progress?" "Something desperate," was her quick reply. "Let's get into the car and I'll explain." Both entered the comfortable little coupe, and then Ella explained in detail to her flying-man lover all that she had discovered. The keen-faced, clean-shaven young officer in uniform who, before he had gone in for aviation duties, had graduated at Osborne, and afterwards been at sea and risen from "snotty" to lieutenant, sat beside her, listening intently. "Just as we thought, darling," he remarked. "For me, loving you so dearly, it is a terrible thing to know that your father is such a deadly and ingenious enemy of ours as he is. Truly the German plotters are in our midst in every walk of life, from high society down to the scum of the East End. The brutes are out to win the war by any underhand, subtle, and brutal means in their power. But we have discovered one line of their enemy intentions and, with your aid, dearest, we will follow it up and, without exposing your father and bringing disgrace upon you, we'll set out to combat them every time." "Agreed, dear," declared the girl with patriotic enthusiasm. "I have told you all along of my suspicions. To-night they are verified. Father, and that devilish scoundrel, Nystrom, mean mischief--for payment too--one thousand pounds each!" "The infernal brutes!" exclaimed the man at her side. "At least it is to you, dear, that this discovery is due. I had no idea what you were after when you sent me that wire to-night." "I suspected, and my suspicions have proved correct," said the girl. "Shall we wait here and follow them? They must cross the river if they intend to go into London to-night--as no doubt they do." "Yes. They believe you to be soundly asleep, I suppose?" "I locked my door, and have the key in my pocket," replied his well-beloved with a light laugh. And she, putting her ready lips to his, sat with him in the car at the foot of the long suspension-bridge, waiting for any person to cross. They remained there for perhaps half-an-hour, ever eager and watchful. Several taxis passed, but otherwise all was quiet in the night. Now and then across the sky fell the big beams of searchlights seeking enemy aircraft, and these they were watching, when, suddenly, a powerful, dark-painted car approached. "Look!" cried Ella. "Why, that's that fellow Benyon's car--he's a friend of Dad's!" Next moment it flashed past, and beneath the dim light at the head of the bridge they both caught a glimpse of two men within, one of whom was undoubtedly Theodore Drost. "Quick!" cried Ella. "Let's follow them! Fortunately you have to-night another car, unknown to them!" In an instant Seymour Kennedy had started his engine, and slowly he drew out across the bridge, speeding after the retreating car over the river, along Bridge Road to Hammersmith Broadway and through Brook Green, in a direction due north. Through the London streets it was not difficult at that hour to follow the red tail-light of the car in which Drost sat with his bosom friend George Benyon, a mysterious person who seemed to be an adventurer, and who lived somewhere in York or its vicinity. "I wonder if they are going up to York?" Ella asked, as she sat in the deep seat of the coupe at her lover's side. "We'll see. If they get on to the North Road we shall at once know their intentions," was her lover's reply. Half-an-hour later the pseudo-Dutch pastor and his companion, driven by rather a reckless young fellow, were on the main Great North Road, and Kennedy, possessing a lighter and superior car, had no misgivings as to overtaking them whenever he wished. On through the night they went, passing Barnet, Hatfield, Hitchin, the cross-roads at Wansford, and up the crooked pebbled streets of Stamford, until in the grey of morning they descended into Grantham, with its tall spire and quaint old Angel and Crown Hotel. It was there that Drost and his companion breakfasted, while Ella and her lover waited and watched. Some devilish plot of a high-explosive nature was in progress, but of its true import they were in utter ignorance. Yet their two British hearts beat quickly in unison, and both were determined to frustrate the outrage, even at the sacrifice of their own lives. At three o'clock in the afternoon Drost and Benyon drew up at the Station Hotel at York, and there took lunch, while Ella and her lover ate a very hurried and much-needed meal in the railway-buffet in the big station adjoining. Then, after they had watched the departure of the big mud-spattered car which contained the two conspirators, they were very quickly upon the road again after them. Out of the quiet old streets of York city, past the Minster, they turned eastward upon that well-kept highway which led towards the North Sea Coast. An hour's run brought them to the pleasant town which I must not, with the alarming provisions of the Defence of the Realm Act before me, indicate with any other initial save that of J--. The town of J--, built upon a deep and pretty bay forming a natural harbour with its breakwater and pier, was, in the pre-war days, a popular resort of the summer girl with her transparent blouses and her pretty bathing costumes, but since hostilities, it was a place believed to be within the danger zone. As they descended, by the long, winding road, into the town, they could see, in the bay, a big grey four-funnelled first-class cruiser lying at anchor, the grey smoke curling lazily from her striped funnels--resting there no doubt after many weeks of patrol duty in the vicinity of the Kiel Canal. Indeed, as they went along the High Street, they saw a number of clear-eyed liberty men--bluejackets--bearing upon their caps the name H.M.S. _Oakham_. The car containing Ella's father and his companion pulled up at the Palace Hotel, a big imposing place, high on the cliff, therefore Kennedy, much satisfied that he had thus been able to follow the car for over two hundred miles, went on some little distance to the next available hotel. This latter place, like the Palace, afforded a fine view of the bay, and as they stood at a window of the palm-lined lounge, they could see that upon the cruiser lights were already appearing. Kennedy called the waiter for a drink, and carelessly asked what was in progress. "The ship--the _Oakham_--came in the day before yesterday, sir," the man replied. "There's a party on board this evening, they say--our Mayor and corporation, and all the rest." Ella exchanged glances with her lover. She recollected that khaki-covered despatch-box. Had her father brought with him that terrible death-dealing machine which he and Nystrom had constructed with such accursed ingenuity? The hotel was deserted, as east coast hotels within the danger zone usually were in those war days, remaining open only for the occasional traveller and for the continuity of its licence. The great revue star had sent a telegram to her manager, asking that her understudy should play that night, and the devoted pair now stood side by side watching how, in the rapidly falling night, the twinkling electric lights on board the fine British cruiser became more clearly marked against the grey background of stormy sea and sky. "I wonder what their game can really be?" remarked the young flying-officer reflectively as, alone with Ella, his strong arm crept slowly around her neat waist. From where they stood they were afforded a wide view of the broad road which led from the town down to the landing-stage, from which the cruiser's steam pinnace and picket-boat were speeding to and fro between ship and shore. A dozen or so smart motor-cars had descended the road, conveying the guests of the captain and officers who, after their long and unrelaxing vigil in the North Sea, certainly deserved a little recreation. Then, as the twilight deepened and the stars began to shine out over the bay, it was seen that the procession of guests had at last ended. "I think, Ella, that we might, perhaps, go down to the landing-stage," said Kennedy at last--"if you are not too tired, dear." "Tired? Why, of course not," she laughed, and after he had helped her on with her coat, they both went out, passing down to the harbour by another road. For fully an hour they idled about in the darkness, watching the swift brass-funnelled pinnace which, so spick and span, and commanded by a smart lad fresh from Osborne, was making the journey regularly between ship and quay. Away in the darkness the lights on the cruiser's quarter-deck reflected into the sea, while ever and anon the high-up masthead signal-lamp winked in Morse code to the coastguard station five miles distant across the bay. While they were watching, the pinnace came in again, whereupon the smart figure of a naval officer in his topcoat appeared within the zone of light, and descended the steps, shouting in an interrogative tone: "_Oakham_?" "Ay, ay, sir!" came a cheery voice from the pinnace. "Look!" gasped Ella, clinging to her lover's arm. "Why--it's Benyon-- dressed as a naval lieutenant! He's going on board, and he's carrying that despatch-box with him!" Indeed, he had handed the heavy box to one of the men, and was at that moment stepping into the pinnace. "Off to the ship--as quick as you can!" they heard him order, while, next moment, the boat was cast loose and the propeller began to revolve. "We haven't a second to lose!" whispered Kennedy who, as soon as the pinnace was around the pier-head, called out "Boat!" In an instant half-a-dozen men, noticing that he was a naval officer, were eagerly crowding around him. "I want to follow that pinnace--quick!" he said. "Three men--and you can sail out there. The wind's just right." In a few moments a boat came alongside the steps, and into it the pair stepped, with three hardy North Sea boatmen. Quickly sail was set and, favoured by a fresh breeze, the boat slowly heeled over and began to skim across the dark waters. Already the light on the pinnace showed far away, it having nearly reached the ship. Therefore Kennedy, in his eagerness, stirred the three men to greater effort, so that by rowing and sailing by turns, they gradually grew nearer the long, dark war-vessel, while Ella sat clasping her well-beloved's hand in the darkness, and whispering excitedly with him. Those were, indeed, moments of greatest tension, away upon that dark wintry sea beyond the harbour, that wide bay which, on account of its unusual depth and exposed position, was never considered a very safe anchorage. Their progress seemed at a snail's pace, as it always seems upon the sea at night. They watched the pinnace draw up, and they knew that the man, Benyon, who, though German-born, had lived in London the greater part of his life--was on board carrying that terrible instrument of death that had been cleverly prepared in such official guise. At last--after an age it seemed--the boat swung in beside the lighted gangway against the pinnace, and Kennedy, stepping nimbly up, said to the sentry on board: "Let nobody pass up or down, except this lady." Then, seeing the officer on duty, he asked if a lieutenant had arrived on board with a despatch-box. "Yes. I've sent him down to the captain," was the reply. "Take me to the captain at once, please," Kennedy said in a calm voice. "There's no time to lose. There's treachery on board!" In a second the officer was on the alert and ran down the stern gangway which led direct to the captain's comfortable cabin, with its easy-chairs covered with bright chintzes like the small drawing-room of a country house. Kennedy followed with Ella, but the captain was not there. The sentry said he was in the ward-room, therefore the pair waited till he came forward eagerly. "Well," asked the grey-haired captain with some surprise, seeing an officer and a lady. "What is it?" "Have you received any despatches to-night, sir?" Kennedy inquired. "No. What despatches?" asked the captain. Then, in a few brief words, Kennedy explained how he had watched a man in naval uniform come off in the pinnace, carrying a heavy despatch-box. The man had passed the sentry and been directed below by the officer on duty. But he had never arrived at the captain's cabin. The "owner," as the captain of a cruiser is often called by his brother officers, was instantly on the alert. The alarm was given, and the ship was at once thoroughly searched, especially the ammunition stores, where, in the flat close to the torpedoes on the port side, the deadly box was discovered. The guests knew nothing of this activity on the lower deck, but the two men who found the box heard a curious ticking within, and without a second's delay brought it up and heaved it overboard. Then again the boatswain piped, and every man, as he stood at his post, was informed that a spy who had attempted to blow up the ship was still on board. Indeed, as "Number One," otherwise the first lieutenant, was addressing them a great column of water rose from an explosion deep below the surface, and much of it fell heavily on deck. Another thorough search was made into every corner of the vessel, whereupon the stranger in uniform was at last discovered in one of the stokeholds. Two stokers rushed across to seize him, but with a quick movement he felled both with an iron bar. Then he ran up the ladder with the agility of a cat, and sped right into the arms of Ella and Kennedy. "Curse you--I was too late!" he shrieked in fierce anger, on recognising them, and then seeing all retreat cut off, he suddenly sprang over the side of the vessel, intending, no doubt, to swim ashore. At once the pinnace went after him, but in the darkness he could not be discovered, though the searchlights began to slowly sweep the dark swirling waters. That he met a well-deserved fate, however, was proved by the fact that at dawn next day his body was picked up on the other side of the bay. Yet long before, Theodore Drost, suspecting that something was amiss by his fellow spy's non-return, had left by train for London. Seymour Kennedy was next day called to the Admiralty and thanked for his keen vigilance, but he only smiled and kept a profound secret the active part played by his particular friend, the popular actress--Miss Stella Steele. CHAPTER TWO. THE GREAT TUNNEL PLOT. "There! Is it not a very neat little toy, my dear Ernst?" asked Theodore Drost, speaking in German, dressed in his usual funereal black of a Dutch pastor, as everyone believed him to be. Ernst Ortmann, the man addressed, screwed up his eyes, a habit of his, and eagerly examined the heavy walking-stick which his friend had handed to him. It was a thick bamboo-stump, dark-brown and well-polished, bearing a heavy iron ferrule. The root-end, which formed the bulgy knob, the wily old German had unscrewed, revealing in a cavity a small cylinder of brass. This Ortmann took out and, in turn, unscrewed it, disclosing a curious arrangement of cog-wheels--a kind of clockwork within. "You see that as long as the stick is carried upright the clock does not work," Drost explained. "But,"--and taking it from his friend's hand he held it in a horizontal position--"but as soon as it is laid upon the ground, the mechanical contrivance commences to work. See!" And the man Ortmann--known as Horton since the outbreak of war--gazed upon it and saw the cog-wheels slowly revolving. "By Jove!" he gasped. "Yes. Now I see. What a devilish invention it is! It can be put to so many uses!" "Exactly, my dear friend," laughed the supposed Dutch pastor, crossing the secret room in the roof of his house at Barnes. It was afternoon, and the sunlight streaming through the skylight fell upon the place wherein the bomb-makers worked in secret. The room contained several deal tables whereon stood many bottles containing explosive compounds, glass retorts, test-tubes, and glass apothecaries' scales, with all sorts of other apparatus used in the delicate work of manufacturing and mixing high-explosives. "You see," Drost went on to explain, as he indicated a large mortar of marble. "I have been treating phenol with nitric acid and have obtained the nitrate called trinitrophenol. I shall fill this case with it, and then we shall have an unsuspicious-looking weapon which will eventually prove most useful to us--for it can be carried in perfect safety, only it must not be laid down." Ortmann laughed. He saw that his friend's inventive mind had produced an ingenious, if devilish, contrivance. He had placed death in that innocent-looking walking-stick--certain death to any person unconscious of the peril. Indeed, as Ortmann watched, his friend carefully filled the cavity in the brass cylinder with the explosive substance, and placed within a very strong detonator which he connected with the clockwork, winding it to the full. He then rescrewed the cap upon the fatal cylinder, replacing it in the walking-stick and readjusting the knob, which closed so perfectly that only close inspection would reveal anything abnormal in the stick. "The other stuff is there already, I suppose?" "I took it down there the night before last in four petrol-tins." "The new stuff?" "Yes. It is a picric acid derivative, and its relative force is twice as great as that of gun-cotton," was the reply of the grey-haired man. He spoke with knowledge and authority, for had he not been one of the keenest explosive experts in the German arsenal at Spandau before he had assumed the role of the Dutch pastor in England? "It will create some surprise there," remarked Ortmann, with an evil grin upon his sardonic countenance. "Your girl knows nothing, I hope?" "Absolutely nothing. I have arranged to carry out our plans as soon as possible, to-morrow night, or the night after. Bohlen and Tragheim are both assisting." "Excellent! I congratulate you, my dear Drost, upon your clever contrivance. Truly, you are a good son of the Fatherland, and I will see that you receive your due and proper reward when our brave brothers have landed upon English soil." "You are the eyes and brains of Germany in England," declared Drost to his friend. "I am only the servant. You are the organiser. Yours is the Mysterious Hand which controls, and controls so well, the thousands of our fellow-Teutons, all of whom are ready for their allotted task when the Day of Invasion comes." "I fear you flatter me," laughed Mr Horton, whom none suspected to be anything else than a patriotic Englishman. "I do not flatter you. I only admire your courage and ingenuity," was the quiet reply. And then the two alien enemies, standing in that long, low-ceilinged laboratory, containing as it did sufficient high-explosives to blow up the whole of Hammersmith and Barnes, bent over the long deal table upon which stood a long glass retort containing some bright yellow crystals that were cooling. Theodore Drost, being one of Germany's foremost scientists, had been sent to England before the war, just as a number of others had been sent, as an advance guard of the Kaiser's Army which the German General Staff intended should eventually raid Great Britain. Truly, the foresight, patience, and thoroughness of the Hun had been astounding. The whole world's history contained nothing equal to the amazing craft and cunning displayed by those who were responsible for Germany's Secret Service--that service known to its agents under the designation of "Number Seventy, Berlin." It was fortunate that there was hardly a person in the whole of London who knew of the relationship between Stella Steele, the clever revue artiste, whose songs were the rage of all London and whose photographs were in all the shop-windows, and the venerable Dutch pastor. With his usual craft, Drost, knowing how thoroughly English was his daughter, had always posed to her as a great admirer of England and English ways. To judge by his protestations, he was a hater of the Kaiser and all his Satanic works. If, however, Ella--to give Stella her baptismal name--could have looked into that long, low attic, which her father always kept so securely locked, she would have been struck by the evil gloating of both men. Ortmann--whom she always held in suspicion--had conceived the plot a month ago--a foul and dastardly plot--and old Drost, as his paid catspaw, was about to put it into execution forthwith. Next night, just about half-past ten, Stella Steele gay, laughing, with one portion of her lithe body clothed in the smartest of ultra costumes by a famous French _couturiere_, the remainder of her figure either silk-encased or undraped, bounded off the stage of the popular theatre near Leicester Square, and fell into the arms of her grey-haired dresser. It was Saturday night, and the "house," packed to suffocation, were roaring applause. "Lights up!" shouted the stage-manager, and Stella, holding her breath and patting her hair, staggered against the scenery, half-fainting with exhaustion, and then, with a fierce effort, tripped merrily upon the stage and smilingly bowed to her appreciative and enthusiastic audience. The men in khaki, officers and "Tommies," roared for an encore. The revue had "caught on," and Stella Steele was the rage of London. Because she spoke and sang in French just as easily as she did in English, her new song, in what was really a very inane but tuneful revue--an up-to-date variation of musical comedy--had already been adopted in France as one of the marching songs of the French army. From paper-seller to Peer, from drayman to Duke: in the houses of Peckham and Park Lane, in Walworth and in Wick, the world hummed, sang, or drummed out upon pianos and pianolas that catchy chorus which ran: Dans la tranchee... La voila, la joli' tranche: Tranchi, trancho, tranchons le Boche; La voila, la joli' tranche aux Boches, La voila, la joli' tranche! As she came off, a boy handed her a note which she tore open and, glancing at it, placed her hand upon her chest as though to stay the wild beating of her heart. "Say yes," was her brief reply to the lad, who a moment later disappeared. She walked to her dressing-room and, flinging herself into the chair, sat staring at herself in the glass, much to the wonder of the grey-haired woman who dressed her. "I'm not at all well," she said to the woman at last. "Go and tell Mr Farquhar that I can't go on again to-night. Miss Lambert must take my place in the last scene." "Are you really ill, miss?" asked the woman eagerly. "Yes. I've felt unwell all day, and the heat to-night has upset me. If I went on again I should faint on the stage. Go and tell Mr Farquhar at once." The woman obeyed, whereupon Stella Steele commenced to divest herself rapidly of the rich and daring gown. Her one desire was to get away from the theatre as soon as possible. Mr Farquhar, the stage-manager, came to the door to express regret at her illness, and within a few minutes Miss Lambert, the understudy, was dressing to go on and fulfil her place in the final scene. Her car took her home to the pretty flat in Stamfordham Mansions, just off Kensington High Street, where she lived alone with Mariette her French maid, and there, in her dainty little drawing-room, she sat silent, almost statuesque, for fully five minutes. "Is it possible?" she gasped. "Is it really possible that such a dastardly plot is being carried out!" she murmured in agitation. Her little white hands clenched themselves, and her pretty mouth grew hard. She was sweet and charming, without any stage affectations. Yet, when she set herself to combat the evil designs of her enemy-father she was not a person to be trifled with--as these records of her adventures will certainly show. "I wonder if Seymour can have been misled?" she went on, rising from her chair as she spoke aloud to herself. "And yet," she added, "he is always so level-headed!" Mariette--a slim, dark-eyed girl--entered with a glass tube of solidified eau-de-Cologne which she rubbed upon her mistress's brow, and then Ella passed into her own room and quickly dismissed the girl for the night. As soon as Mariette had gone she flung off her dress and took another from her wardrobe, a rough brown tweed golfing-suit, and put on a close-fitting cloth hat to match. Then, getting into a thick blanket-coat, she pulled on her gloves and, taking up a small leather blouse-case, went out, closing the door noiselessly after her. At nine o'clock on the following evening Ella Drost descended in the lift from the second floor of the Victoria Hotel, in Sheffield, and, wearing her blanket-coat, went to the station platform and bought a ticket to Chesterfield--the town with the crooked spire. Half-an-hour later she walked out into the station yard where she found her lover, the good-looking Flight-Commander, awaiting her in a big grey car. He no longer wore uniform, but was in blue serge with a thick brown overcoat. "By Jove, Ella!" he exclaimed in welcome, as he grasped her hand. "I'm jolly glad you've come up here! There's a lot going on. You were perfectly correct when you first hinted at it. I've been watching patiently for the past month. Hop in; we've no time to lose." Next second, Ella was in the seat beside her lover, and the powerful car moved off down the Arkwright Road, a high-road running due eastward, till they joined another well-kept highway which, in the pale light, showed wide and open with its many lines of telegraphs--the road to Clowne. On through the falling darkness they travelled through Elmton and up the hill to Bolsover, where they suddenly turned off to the left and, passing down some dark, narrow lanes, with which Kennedy was evidently familiar, they at last pulled up at the corner of a thick wood. "Now," he said, speaking almost for the first time, and in a low voice, "we'll have to be very careful indeed." He had shut off his engine and switched off his lamps. "We ought to make quite certain to-night that we are not mistaken," she said. "That is my intention," was her lover's reply, and then she flung off her coat and crossed the stile, entering the wood after him. He had a pocket flash-lamp, and ever and anon threw its rays directly upon the ground so that they could see the path. The latter was an intricate one, for twice they came to cross-paths, and in both cases Kennedy selected one without hesitation. At last, however, they began to move down the hill more cautiously, conversing in low whispers, and showing no light until they at last found themselves in the grounds attached to a large, low-built country house, lying in the valley. "Ortmann is living here as Mr Horton," Kennedy whispered. "They told me in the village that he took the house furnished about three months ago, from a Major Jackson, who is at the front." "But why is he living down here--in a house like this?" she asked. "That's just what we want to discover. Many Germans have country houses in England for some mysterious and unknown reason." Kennedy, glancing at his luminous wrist-watch, noted that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. From where they stood at the edge of the wood the house was plainly visible, silhouetted on the other side of a wide lawn. No light showed in any of the windows, and to all appearances the inmates were asleep. As the pair stood whispering, a big Airedale suddenly bounded forth, barking angrily as a preliminary to attacking them. It was an exciting moment. But in that instant Ella recognised the bark as that of her father's dog. "Jack!" she said, in a low voice of reproof. "Be quiet, and come here." In a moment the dog, which Drost had evidently lent to his friend Ortmann as watch-dog, bounded towards his mistress and licked her hand. It was evident that the occupiers of the lonely place did not desire intruders. Fearing lest the barking of "Jack" might have alarmed the inmates, they remained silent for a full quarter-of-an-hour, and then again creeping beneath the shadows of the hedges and trees, they managed to cross the lawn and the gravelled path, until they stood together beneath the front of the house. "Listen!" gasped Kennedy, grasping the girl's arm. "Do you hear anything?" "Yes--a kind of muffled crackling noise." "That's a wireless spark!" her lover declared. "So they have wireless here!" Creeping along, they passed the main entrance and gained the other side of the house where, quite plainly, there could be heard the whir of a dynamo supplying the current. But though Kennedy's keen eyes searched for aerial wires, he could discover none in that dim light, the moon having now disappeared entirely. So he concluded that they were so constructed that they could be raised at night and lowered and concealed at daybreak, or perhaps even disguised as a portion of wire fencing. "As the wireless is working--sending information to the enemy without a doubt--then our friend Ortmann is most probably at home," whispered the flying-man. "As the motor is still running it will drown any noise, and we might get inside without being heard. Are you ready to risk it?" "With you, dear, I'll risk anything that may be for my country's benefit," she declared. Then he pressed her soft hand in his, stooping till his lips met hers. As they stood there in that single blissful moment, there came the sound of a train suddenly emerging from a long tunnel in the side of the hill in the near vicinity, and with the light of the furnace glaring in the darkness it sped away eastward. Its sound showed it to be a goods train--one of the many which, laden with munitions from the Midlands, went nightly towards the coast on their way to the British front. Only then did they realise that the railway-line ran along the end of the grounds, and that the mouth of the great G--Tunnel was only five hundred yards or so from where they stood. Kennedy took from his pocket a small jemmy in two pieces, which he screwed together, and then began to examine each of the French windows which led on to the lawn. All were closed, with their heavy wooden shutters secured. The shutters of one, however, though closed, had, he saw by the aid of his flash-lamp, not been fastened. The dog, Jack, following his mistress, was sniffing and assisting in the investigation. Examining the long window minutely, they saw that it had been closed hurriedly and, hence, scarcely latched. The room, too, was in darkness. Suddenly, just as Kennedy was about to make an attempt to enter, the electric light was switched on within the room, and the pair had only time to slip round the corner of the house, when the French window opened, and four men stepped forth upon the lawn, conversing in whispers as they walked on tiptoe together across the gravel on to the grass. "I wonder what's up!" whispered Kennedy to Ella. "Let us follow and see." This they did, keeping always in the dark shadows, and retracing their footsteps to the edge of the wood close to where the railway ran. As they watched they saw that, having crossed the lawn, the four men entered a meadow adjoining, and they then recognised the figures of Drost and Ortmann with two strangers. They all walked straight to the corner where stood an old cow-shed, and into this they all four disappeared. For a full half-hour they remained there, Kennedy and his well-beloved crouching beneath a bush in wonder at what there could be in the cow-shed to detain them so long. The shed was at the base of a high wooded hill. Away, at some distance on the left, the railway-line entered the great tunnel which pierced the hill, and through it ran one of the most important railways from the Midlands to the East Coast. The reason of their long absence in that tumbledown cow-shed was certainly mysterious. The lovers strained their ears to listen, but no sound reached them. "Very curious!" whispered Kennedy. "What, I wonder, should detain them so long? There is some further mystery here, without a doubt. Something of interest is in progress." Suddenly, all four men emerged from the shed laughing and chatting in subdued tones. Drost was carrying his hat in his hand. They passed within ten yards of the lovers, and as they went by they overheard Drost say in German: "To-morrow night at 11:30 a heavy munition train will come through the tunnel. Then we shall see!" And at his words his three companions laughed merrily as they walked back to the house. Kennedy and the popular revue artiste--the girl whose name was as a household word, and whose songs were sung everywhere--crouched in silence watching the men until they had disappeared through that long French window opening on to the lawn. Then, when they were alone, Kennedy said in a low voice: "There's more going on here, Ella, than we at first anticipated--much more! I wonder what secret that old shed contains--eh?" "Let's investigate!" the girl beside him suggested eagerly. Five minutes later they emerged from the shadow, and hurrying quickly across the grass, entered the old tumbledown shed, whereupon Kennedy switched on his electric torch, when there became revealed a wide hole in the ground, which sloped away steeply in the darkness. "Hulloa! Why, here's a tunnel!" exclaimed Kennedy in surprise. "They've been down there, evidently! I wonder where it leads to?" Then, as they both glanced around, they saw a thin, twisted electric cable containing two wires which led from a cigar-box on the ground in a corner away down into the tunnel. Kennedy lifted the lid of the box, and within found an electric tapping-key with ebonite base and two small dry cells for the supply of the current. "Now what can this mean, I wonder? Some devil's work here, without a doubt!" he said. "Let us ascertain." Together the pair carefully descended into the narrow tunnel that had been driven into the side of the hill, evidently by expert hands, for its roof had been shored up along the whole length with trees cut from the wood. Away along the narrow passage they groped, finding it so low that they were compelled to bend and creep forward in uncomfortable positions until they came to a sudden turn. Whoever had constructed it had also succeeded--as was afterwards found-- in cleverly disguising the great heap of earth excavated. He had also probably misread his bearings, for at one point the subterranean gallery went away at right angles for about fifty yards, until there--where the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive because of lack of ventilation-- stood several petrol-tins. To one of them the end of the cable leading from the unsuspicious cow-shed had been attached. As they stood staring at the petrol-tins a sudden roar slowly approaching sounded directly overhead--a heavy rumble of wheels. Then it died away again. "Hark!" gasped Ella. "Isn't that a train? Why, we are directly under the railway-line running through the tunnel." "Yes, dear. A touch upon that key up in the shed and we should be blown out of recognition, and the tunnel, one of the most important on the line of railway communication running east and west across England, would be blocked for months." "That is what those devils intend!" Ella declared. "How can we frustrate them?" Seymour Kennedy reflected for a few seconds, holding his torch so that its rays fell upon those innocent-looking petrol-tins at the end of the cunningly contrived sap. Then he took up one of them and carrying it said: "Let's get back, dear. We know the truth now." "It is evident that they intend to blow in the tunnel from below," declared Ella, as they crept back along the narrow gallery. "Without a doubt," was her lover's reply. "Mr Horton, as he is known, took the house with but one object--namely, to cut the railway-line to the coast--the line over which so much war material for the front goes nightly. Truly, the Hun leaves nothing to chance." "And my father is actually assisting in this dastardly work?" "I'm afraid he is, darling. But so long as we remain wary and watchful, I hope we may be able to combat the evil activities of these assassins." "I'm ready to help you always, as you know," was the girl's ready reply. "But it grieves me that father is so completely German in his actions." "It is but natural, Ella. He is a German. If he were English, and lived secretly in Germany, he would act as an Englishman. All enemy aliens should have been interned long ago." Ever and anon, on their way back to the opening, they both stumbled upon the wire, while Seymour, carrying the petrol-tin, evidently filled with some heavy explosive, followed his well-beloved, who held the torch. At last they emerged from the close atmosphere of the long, tortuous gallery that had been secretly driven to a point exactly beneath the railway-line in the very heart of the hill, and once again stood upright in the shed. Their clothes were muddy, and their hands and faces were besmeared with mud. At last Kennedy put down the square heavy tin, the cap of which he very carefully unscrewed, and then examined it by aid of his torch, smelling it critically. Taking from his pocket a strong clasp-knife he went back into the tunnel again for about fifty yards. With a swift cut he severed the lead which led away to the concealed tins of explosive, and bringing it back with him to the shed, took the severed end, unravelled the silk insulation of both wires, bared them by scraping them thoroughly with his knife, and with expert hand attached them to a detonator which he had taken from the tins concealed at the end of the gallery. Having done this he put the detonator into the opening of the petrol-tin which, with its wire lead, he afterwards carefully concealed behind a heap of straw in the corner. He had taken care to replace the cable leading from the cigar-box exactly as he had found it, therefore, to the eye, it looked as though nothing had been touched. The cable ran into the underground passage, it was true, but it returned back again into the cow-shed, and into the tin of high-explosive. Kennedy, who knew something of mining, had noticed that half-way along the working a quantity of earth had been left for the purpose of tamping the gallery, in order that the force of the explosion should go upward, and not come back along the subterranean passage. Before the Kaiser's secret agents exploded the mine they would, no doubt, fill up the gallery at that point before completing the electric circuit. It was evident that on that night the four men had made a final inspection before exploding the mine. Therefore, quite confident in what they had achieved, Ella and her lover crept back, and away through the wood to where they had left the car. At six o'clock on the following morning, the Victoria Hotel in Sheffield being always open, Ella entered alone, and ascended to her room. Next evening at half-past seven she met her lover again in the Ecclesall Road, and he drove her out in the car away through Eckington and Clowne, to the wood from which they had watched on the previous night. The weather was muggy and overcast, with low, heavy clouds precursory of a thunderstorm. There was plenty of time. The attempt would probably be made at half-past eleven when the munition train passed through, it being intended to explode the whole train as well as the mine in the heart of the tunnel, so as to produce a terrific upheaval by which the tunnel would be blocked for, perhaps, a mile. Arrived at the edge of the wood, in sight of the lawn and house beyond, soon after ten o'clock, the lovers sat together upon a fallen tree conversing in whispers, and awaiting the result of the counterplot. They were, however, in ignorance of what was transpiring within the house. Truth to tell, Ortmann and Drost were at that moment in one of the servants' bedrooms upstairs, which had been cleared out, and where, upon a long table, stood a complete wireless set both for receiving and transmission. "That fellow Kennedy is _here_!--and with my girl Ella!" gasped old Drost, who had just come into the room. "I've been across to the wood. They're actually here!" "_Kennedy here_!" exclaimed Ortmann, his face pale in an instant. "How could he possibly know?" "Well, he's here! What shall we do?" Ortmann stood for a few moments reflecting deeply. Slowly an evil, sinister grin overspread his countenance. "Your girl," he said in German, in a deep voice. "She is your daughter. You wish to protect her--eh?" "No, she's English. We are Germans." "Excellent. I knew that you were a good Prussian. Then I may act--eh?" "Entirely as you wish. We must get rid of these watch-dogs," snarled the old man in a venomous voice. Ortmann, without further word, descended the stairs and entered the dining-room wherein sat two men, Germans, naturalised as British subjects, by name Bohlen and Tragheim. To the first-named he gave certain and definite instructions, these being at once carried out. Kennedy and Ella, both, of course, quite unconscious that their presence had been discovered by the wily Drost, saw a tall man, a stranger, carrying a thick stick, cross the lawn to the gate which gave entrance to the wood, and watched how he remained there for about ten minutes, while presently there emerged a second figure, who crossed to the cow-shed wherein the electric tapping-key remained concealed. Kennedy glanced at his wrist-watch. The munition train was almost due to enter the tunnel, therefore the stranger Tragheim, one of Ortmann's poor, miserable dupes, had been sent forward to depress the key as soon as he heard the second bell ring in the signal-box at the exit of the tunnel--all the signal bells being distinctly heard in the night from the door of the shed. The ringing of that second bell would announce that the train was passing over the exact point in the line under which the mine had been laid. The man Bohlen, seeing his companion come out, moved away from the gate across the lawn back to the house, whereupon Kennedy crept up to the spot where the German had been standing, and whence they could obtain a good view of the shed from which the dastardly attempt was to be made. Beside the gate they found a walking-stick--a thick one made of bamboo. "That fellow has forgotten his stick," remarked Kennedy, taking it up, all unconscious of the peril. From one of the darkened windows of the house Ortmann was watching his action, and chuckled. Of a sudden, however, a fierce blood-red flash lit up the whole country-side, and with a deafening roar, the shed was hurled high into the air, together with the shattered remains of the man who had pressed the key. Instead of exploding the mine under the railway tunnel, as was intended, he had exploded the tinful of picric acid derivative which Kennedy had concealed beneath the straw! Then, a few seconds later, the heavy train laden with munitions for the British front emerged from the tunnel in safety, its driver all unconscious of the desperate attempt that had been made by the enemy in our midst. Kennedy, having witnessed the consummation of his well-laid plan to blow up any conspirator who touched the key, cast the walking-stick to the ground and, taking Ella's arm, retraced his steps through the woods. But they had not gone far ere a second explosion, a sharp concussion which they felt about them, came from somewhere behind them. "Funny!" he remarked to his well-beloved. "I wonder what that second noise was, dearest?" "I wonder," said Ella, and they both hurried back to their car. CHAPTER THREE. THE HYDE PARK PLOT. Two men sat in a big, handsome dining-room in one of the finest houses in Park Lane. One was Theodore Drost, dressed in his usual garb of a Dutch pastor. A look of satisfaction overspread his features as he raised his glass of choice Chateau Larose. Opposite him at the well-laid luncheon table sat his friend, Ernst Ortmann, alias Horton, alias Harberton, the super-spy whose hand was--if the truth be told--"The Hidden Hand" upon which the newspapers were ever commenting--that secret and subtle influence of Germany in our midst in war-time. Count Ernst von Ortmann was a very shrewd and elusive person. For a number of years he had been a trusted official in the entourage of the Kaiser, and having lived his early life in England, being educated at Oxford, he was now entrusted with the delicate task of directing the advance guard of the German army in this country. Two years before the war Mr Henry Harberton, a wealthy, middle-aged English merchant from Buenos Ayres, had suddenly arisen in the social firmament in the West End, had given smart dinners, and, as an eligible bachelor, had been smiled upon by many mothers with marriageable daughters. His luncheon-parties at the Savoy, the Ritz, and the Carlton were usually chronicled in the newspapers; he was financially interested in a popular revue at a certain West End theatre, and the rumour that he was immensely wealthy was confirmed when he purchased a fine house half-way up Park Lane--a house from which, quite unsuspected, radiated the myriad ramifications of Germany's spy system. With Henry Harberton, whose father, it was said, had amassed a huge fortune in Argentina in the early days, and which he had inherited, money was of no account. The fine London mansion was sombre and impressive in its decoration. There was nothing flamboyant or out-of-place, nothing that jarred upon the senses: a quiet, calm, and restful residence, the double windows of which shut out the sound of the motor-'buses and taxis of that busy thoroughfare where dwelt London's commercial princes. Surely that fine house was in strange contrast to the obscure eight-roomed one in a long, drab terrace in Park Road, Wandsworth Common, where dwelt the same mysterious person in very humble and even economical circumstances as Mr Horton, a retired tradesman from the New Cross Road. As Ortmann sat in that big dining-room in Park Lane, a plainly decorated apartment with dead white walls in the Adams style, and a few choice family portraits, his friend, Drost, with his strange triangular face, his square forehead and pointed grey beard, presented a picture of the true type of Dutch pastor, in his rather seedy clerical coat and his round horn-rimmed spectacles. The pair had been discussing certain schemes to the detriment of the English: schemes which, in the main, depended upon the crafty old Drost's expert knowledge of high-explosives. "Ah! my dear Count!" exclaimed the wily old professor of chemistry in German, as he replaced his glass upon the table. "How marvellously clever is our Emperor! How he befooled and bamboozled these silly sheep of English. Listen to this!" and from his pocket-book he drew a large newspaper cutting--two columns of a London daily newspaper dated Wednesday, October 28, 1908. "What is that?" inquired the Kaiser's arch-spy, his eyebrows narrowing. "The interview given by the Emperor to a British peer in order to throw dust into the eyes of our enemies against whom we were rapidly preparing. Listen to the Emperor's clever reassurances in order to gain time." Then, readjusting his big round spectacles, he glanced down the columns and read in English the following sentences that had fallen from the Kaiser's lips: "You English are mad, mad, mad as English hares. What has come over you that you are so completely given over to suspicions unworthy of a great nation? What more can I do than I have done? My heart is set upon peace, and it is one of my dearest wishes to live on the best of terms with England. Have I ever been false to my word? Falsehood and prevarication are alien to my nature. My actions ought to speak for themselves, but you listen not to them, but to those who misinterpret and distort them. This is a personal insult, which I feel and resent!" Drost replaced the cutting upon the table, and both men burst into hilarious laughter. "Really, in the light of present events, those printed words must cause our dear friends, the English, considerable chagrin," declared Ortmann. "Yes. They now see how cleverly we have tricked them," said Drost with a grin. "That interview gave us an increased six years for preparation. Truly, our Emperor is great. He is invincible!" And both men raised their tall Bohemian glasses in honour of the Arch-Murderer of Europe. That little incident at table was significant of the feelings and intentions of the conspirators. "Your girl Ella is still very active, and that fellow Kennedy seems ever-watchful," Ortmann remarked presently in a decidedly apprehensive tone. "I know, of course, that your daughter would do nothing to harm you personally; but remember that Kennedy is a British naval officer, and that he might--from patriotic motives--well--" "Kill his prospective father-in-law--eh?" chimed in the Dutch pastor, with a light laugh. The Count hesitated for a second. Then he said: "Well, perhaps not exactly kill you, but he might make things decidedly unpleasant for us both, if he got hold of anything tangible." "Bah! Rest assured that he'll never get hold of anything," declared Drost. "I've had him out to Barnes to dinner once or twice lately, but he's quite in the dark." "Are you absolutely certain that he knows nothing of what is in progress in your laboratory upstairs!" queried Ortmann. "Are you absolutely certain that Ella has told him nothing?" "Quite--because she herself knows nothing." "If she knows nothing, then why are we both watched so closely by Kennedy?" asked Ortmann dubiously. "Bah! Your fancy--mere fancy!" declared the professor of chemistry. "I know you've been unduly suspicious for a long time, but I tell you that Ella and her lover are far too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble about our business." Ortmann shrugged his shoulders. He did not tell his friend Drost the true extent of his knowledge, for it was one of his main principles never to confide serious truths to anybody. By that principle he had risen in his Emperor's service to the high and responsible position he now occupied--the director of The Hidden Hand. As such, he commanded the services of many persons of both sexes in the United Kingdom. Some were persons who, having accepted German money or German favours in the pre-war days, were now called upon to dance as puppets of Germany while the Kaiser played the tune. Many of them, subjects of neutral countries, had been perfectly friendly to us, but since the war the relentless thumbscrew of blackmail had been placed upon them by Ernst von Ortmann, and they were compelled to do his bidding and act against the interests of Great Britain. Over the heads of most of them, men and women--especially the latter-- the wily Ortmann and his well-organised staff held documentary evidence of such a damning character that, if handed to the proper quarter, would either have caused their arrest and punishment, or, in the case of the fair sex, cause their social ostracism. Hence Ortmann held his often unwilling agents together with an iron hand which was both unscrupulous and drastic. Woe betide either man or woman who, having accepted Germany's good-will and favours before the war, now dared to refuse to do her dirty work. Truly, the Hidden Hand was that of the "mailed-fist" covered with velvet, full of double cunning and irresistible influence in quite unsuspected quarters. Old Theodore Drost was but a pawn in Germany's dastardly attack upon England, but a very valuable one, from his intimate knowledge of explosives. Moreover, as an inventor of death-dealing devices, he certainly had no equal in Europe. In order to discuss in secret a daring and terrible plot, the pair had lunched in company at Park Lane. At that same hour, on that same day, Flight-Commander Seymour Kennedy, in his naval uniform with the "pilot's wings," was on leave from a certain air-station on the South-East coast, and was seated opposite Ella Drost in the Cafe Royal, in Regent Street, discussing a lobster salad _tete-a-tete_. It was one of the favourite luncheon places of Drost's daughter. The revue in which she had been appearing and in which, by the way, Ortmann was financially interested in secret, had finished its season, and the theatre had closed its doors for the summer. Consequently Ella had taken a tiny riverside cottage near Shepperton-on-Thames, though she still kept open her pretty flat in Stamfordham Mansions, her faithful French maid, Mariette, being in charge. "You seem worried, darling," Kennedy whispered, as he bent across the table to her. "What's the matter?" "I've already told you." "But you really don't take it seriously, do you?" asked the well-known air-pilot. "Surely it's only a mere suspicion." "It is fortunate that I succeeded in obtaining for you an impression of the key of the laboratory," was the girl's reply. "Yes. It was. Your father never dreams that we know all that is in progress there. It's a real good stunt of yours to keep in with him, and stay at Barnes sometimes." "Well, I've told you what I ascertained the night before last. Ortmann was there with the others. There's a big _coup_ intended--a dastardly blow, as I have explained." And in the girl's eyes there showed a hard, serious expression, as she drew a long breath. It was quite plain to her lover that she was full of nervous apprehension, and that what she had related to him was a fact. Another deeply-laid plot was afoot, but one so subtle and so daring that Kennedy, with his cheerful optimism and his high spirits, could not yet fully realise its nature. Ella had, an hour before, told him a very remarkable story. At first, so extraordinary and improbable had it sounded, that he had been inclined to pooh-pooh the whole affair, but now, amid the clatter and bustle of that cosmopolitan restaurant, the same to-day as in the mid-Victorian days, he began to realise that the impression left upon his well-beloved, by the knowledge she had obtained, had been a distinctly sinister one. "Well, dearest," he said, again leaning across the little _table-a-deux_, "I'll go into the matter at once if you wish it, and we'll watch and wait." "Yes, do, Seymour," exclaimed the girl anxiously. "I'll help you. There is a deeply-laid plot in progress. Of that I'm quite certain-- more especially because Ortmann came to see dad yesterday morning and went to see him again to-day." "You overheard some of their conversation--eh?" "I did," was her open response. "And for that reason I am so full of fear." At nine o'clock that same night, in accordance with an appointment, Ella Drost stood upon the whitewashed kerb in Belgrave Square, at the corner of West Halkin Street. Darkness had already fallen. The London streets were gloomy because of the lighting order, and hardly a light showed from any house in the Square. For fully ten minutes she waited until, at last, from out of Belgrave Place, a car came slowly along, and pulled up at the spot where she stood. In a moment Ella had mounted beside her lover who, next second, moved off in the direction of Knightsbridge. "It's rather fortunate that we've met here, darling," were his first words. "Since we were together this afternoon I have been followed continuously. Had I called at Stamfordham Mansions, Ortmann would have had his suspicions confirmed. But I've successfully eluded them, and here we are." "I know--I feel sure that Ortmann suspects us. Why does he live as Mr Horton over at Wandsworth Common?" "Because he is so infernally clever," laughed the air-pilot, in his cheery, nonchalant way. Neither of them knew, up to that moment, anything more of Mr Henry Harberton, of Park Lane, save reading in the papers of his social distinction. Neither Kennedy nor his charming well-beloved had dreamed that Ortmann, alias Horton, patriotic Britannia-rule-the-Waves Englishman, was identical with that meteoric planet in the social firmament of London, Mr Henry Harberton, whose wealth was such that even in war-time he could give two-guinea-a-head luncheons to his friends at one or other of the half-dozen or so London restaurants which cater for such clients. Seymour Kennedy was driving the car swiftly, but Ella, nestling beside him, took no heed of the direction in which they were travelling. The night-wind blew cold and he, solicitous of her welfare, bent over and with his left hand drew up the collar of her Burberry. They were leaving London ere she became aware of it, travelling westward, branching at Hounslow upon the old road to Bath, the road of Dick Turpin's exploits in the good old days of cocked-hats, powder-and-patches, and three-bottle men. Passing through Slough, they crossed the river at Maidenhead and again at Henley, keeping on the ever ascending high-road over the Chilterns, to Nettlebed, until they ran rapidly down past Gould's Grove through Benson, and past Shillingford where, a short distance beyond, he pulled up and, opening a gate, placed the car in a meadow grey with mist. Afterwards the pair, leaving the high-road, turned into a path which led through the fields down to the river. Reaching it at a point not far from Day's Lock, they halted. Before them, between the pathway and the river's brink, there showed a lighted window obscured by a yellow holland blind, the window of a corrugated iron bungalow of some river enthusiast, the room being apparently lit by a paraffin lamp. Carefully, and treading upon tiptoe, they crept forward without a sound, and, approaching the square, inartistic window, halted and strained their ears to listen to the conversation in progress within. Words in German were being spoken. Ella listened, and recognised her father's voice. Ortmann was speaking, too, while other voices of strangers also sounded. What Seymour overheard through the thin wood-and-iron wall of the riverside bungalow quickly convinced him that Ella's suspicions were only too well founded. A desperate conspiracy to commit outrage was certainly being formed--a plot as daring and as subtle as any ever formed by the Nihilists in Russia, or the Mafia in Italy. The Germans, _par excellence_ the scientists of Europe, were out to win the war by frightfulness, just as thousands of years ago the Chinese won their wars by assuming horrible disguises and pulling ugly faces to bring bad luck upon their superstitious enemies. The Great War Lord of Germany, in order to save his throne and substantiate his title of All-Highest, had set loose his sorry dogs of depravity, degeneracy, and desolation. And he had planted in our island a clever and unscrupulous crew, headed by Ortmann, whose mission was, if possible, to wreck the Ship of State of Great Britain. The air-pilot listened to the conversation in amazement. He realised then how Ella had exercised a shrewder watchfulness than he had ever done, although he had believed himself so clever. Therefore, when she whispered, "Let's get away, dear, or we may be discovered," he obeyed her, and crawled off over the strip of gravel to the grass, after which both made their way back to the footpath. "Well?" asked the popular actress, as they strode along hand in hand to where they had left the car. "What's your opinion now--eh? Haven't you been convinced?" "Yes, darling. I can now see quite plainly that there is a plot on foot which, if we are patriots, you and I, we must scotch, at all hazards." "I agree entirely, Seymour," was the girl's instant reply. "I tried to warn you a month ago, but you were not convinced. To-day you are convinced--are you not? I am acting only for my dear dead mother's country, for, strictly speaking, being the daughter of a German, I am an alien enemy." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About two o'clock one morning, about a week later, the dark figure of a man in a shabby serge suit and golf-cap, treading noiselessly in rubber-shoes, crossed Hammersmith Bridge in the direction of Barnes and, passing along that wide open thoroughfare, paused for a moment outside the house of the Dutch pastor, Mr Drost. Then, finding himself unobserved, he slipped into the front garden and, bending, concealed himself in some bushes. He had waited there for ten minutes or so, watching the dark, silent house, when, slowly and noiselessly, the front door opened, and next moment Kennedy and Ella were face to face. The latter wore a pretty pale-blue dressing-gown, for she had just risen from bed, she having spent the last two days at her father's house. With a warning finger upon her lips, and with a small flash-lamp in her hand, she led her lover up three flights of stairs to the door of that locked room, which she silently opened with her duplicate key. "Father and the man Hans Rozelaar have been at work here nearly all day," she whispered, when at last they halted before the long deal table upon which stood Drost's chemical apparatus. Kennedy's shrewd eyes were quick to notice what was in progress in secret. With some curiosity he took up a tube of tin about a foot long and four inches in diameter. On examining it he saw that through the centre was a second tin tube of about an inch in diameter. Holding it as a telescope towards the light he could see through the inner tubes and noticed that near one end of it a small steel catch was protruding. Further and minute examination revealed that to the catch could be attached a time-fuse already concealed between the inner and outer tubes. "This is evidently some ingenious form of hand grenade," whispered Kennedy. "It's all ready for filling. But why, I wonder, should a tube run through the middle in this way?" He was pondering with it in his hand, when his gaze suddenly fell upon something else which was lying close to the spot where he found the tin tube. It was a thin ash walking-stick. On Kennedy taking it up it presented a peculiar feature, for as he grasped it there sounded a sharp metallic click. Then, to his surprise, he discovered that he had inadvertently released a spring in the handle, this in turn releasing four small steel points half-way down the stick. "Curious!" he whispered to his well-beloved, for Drost was sleeping below entirely unconscious of the intruders in his secret laboratory. "What connection can the stick have with the grenade--if not for the purpose of throwing?" He therefore placed the inner tube over the little knob of the stick, and found that it just fitted, so that with plenty of play it slid down as far as the projecting points which, after striking the little steel catch which would be connected with the fuse, allowed it to pass over freely and leave the stick. "Ah! I've got it!" he whispered excitedly. "The grenade can be carried in the pocket with perfect safety, until when required it is placed over the handle of the stick and whirled off. As it passes the projections on the stick the time-fuse is set for so many seconds, and the grenade automatically becomes a live one. A very pretty contrivance indeed!-- very pretty!" he added with a grin. "This, I must admit, does considerable credit to Ortmann, Drost and Company." Ella, who had been standing by, holding the electric torch, stood in wonder at the discovery. Truly, some of her father's inventions had been diabolical ones. Kennedy saw that the ash-stick had been finished and was in working order. All was complete, indeed, save the filling of the deadly grenade, the attaching of the fuse, and the painting of the bright tin. For fully five minutes the air-pilot stood in silence, deeply pondering. Then, as a sudden idea occurred to him, he said quickly: "I must take this stick, Ella. I'll be back again by four o'clock, and will leave it just outside the front door. You take it in, and replace it exactly as we found it." He lost no time. In five minutes he had crept from that dark house of mystery and death, and, carrying the stick, returned across Hammersmith Bridge. At ten minutes to four he was back again in Barnes and had left the suspicious-looking ash-stick against the front door, afterwards going to his rooms to snatch a few hours' sleep. Next day happened to be Sunday, but at noon on Monday Mr Merton Mansfield, one of the most active members of the Cabinet, as well as one of the most popular of Cabinet Ministers, presided at the unveiling of a number of captured German guns which had been drawn up in Hyde Park in order that the public might be afforded an opportunity of seeing the trophies of war in Flanders won by British pertinacity and pluck. Accompanying Merton Mansfield, the people's idol, the man in whom Great Britain trusted to see that all was well, and who was, at the same time, hated and feared by the Germans, were several other members of the Cabinet. The crowd outside the wire fence, within which stood the shrouded guns, was a large one, for some patriotic speeches were expected. Ella and Kennedy were among the spectators eagerly watching the movements of a thin-faced, well-dressed, middle-aged man, who wore an overcoat, in the left-hand pocket of which was something rather bulky, and who carried in his hand an ash-stick. The man's name was Hans Rozelaar, known to his friends by the English name of Rose. By the fellow's movements it was plain that he was quite unsuspicious of the presence of the daughter of his fellow-conspirator, Theodore Drost. Gradually he had worked himself through the crowd until he stood in the front row behind the wire which fenced off the guns with the Cabinet Ministers and their friends, and within ten yards or so of where stood Mr Merton Mansfield. Kennedy was beside Ella some distance away, watching breathlessly. It had been his first impulse to go to Scotland Yard and reveal what they had discovered, but after due consideration he saw that the best punishment for the conspirators was the one he had devised. But if it failed? What if that most deadly grenade was exploded in the group of Great Britain's leaders--the men who were working night and day, and working with all their might and intelligence, to crush the Hun effectively, even though so slowly. A roar of applause rose from the crowd as Merton Mansfield removed his hat preparatory to speaking. The short, stout, round-faced Cabinet Minister who, in the days of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's Premiership, had been so unpopular with the working-class, yet who had now come to the forefront as the saviour of our dear old England, smiled with pleasure at his hearty reception. The little group of England's greatest men, Cabinet Ministers and well-known politicians, with a sprinkling of men in khaki, clustered round him, as he commenced to address the assembly, to descant upon the heroic efforts of "French's contemptible little Army," of their great exploits, of their amazing achievements, and the staggering organisation of Lord Kitchener. "Here, before you, you have some small souvenirs--some small idea of the weapons which the unscrupulous fiends who are our enemies are using against our gallant troops. They, unfortunately, are not gallant soldiers, these Huns in modern clothing--they are pirates with the skull and crossbones borne upon the helmets of their crack regiments. Yet we shall win--I tell you that we shall win, be the time long or short, be the sacrifice great or small--we shall win because Right, Truth, and God's justice are with us! And I will here give you a message from the Prime Minister--who would have been here, if it were not for the fact that he is at this moment having audience of His Majesty the King." A great roar of applause greeted this announcement, when, suddenly, a loud explosion sounded, startling everyone and causing women to scream. The lovers, who had kept their eyes upon the man in the overcoat, saw a red flash, and saw him reel and fall to earth with his face blown away. They had seen how he had placed the grenade over his ash-stick, and how, a second later, he had sharply slung it across from right to left, intending the deadly bomb to land at Mr Merton Mansfield's feet. Instead, with its fuse set by the little points of steel protruding from the stick, it had, nevertheless, failed to pass from the stick, because of the small piece of thin wire which Seymour Kennedy had driven through just above the ferrule, on that night when he had afterwards left the stick at old Drost's front door. His quick intelligence had shown him that the empty grenade had already been tried upon the stick, and that when filled, and the fuse attached, it certainly would not be tested again. Hans Rozelaar had slung the grenade just as old Theodore Drost had instructed him, but it had remained fast at the end of the stick, and ere he could release it, it had exploded, blowing both his hands off and his features out of all recognition, though, very fortunately, injuring no one else. "Come, darling. We have surely seen enough!" whispered Seymour Kennedy softly to Ella, as they watched the great sensation caused by the self-destruction of the conspirator, and the hurry of the police towards the dead man. "The Ministers will very soon discover for themselves how narrowly they have escaped." And as they both turned away, Ella, looking fondly into her lover's face, remarked in a low voice: "Yes, indeed, Seymour. They certainly owe their safety to you!" CHAPTER FOUR. THE EXPLOSIVE NEEDLE. "Then you suspect that another plot is in progress, Ella?" "I feel confident of it. The Count is furious at the failure of the conspiracy against Mr Merton Mansfield. He came to see father last night. I did not gather much, as I had to get away to the theatre, but I overheard him suggest that some other method should be tried," replied Ella Drost. She was sitting in the dainty little drawing-room of the flat in Stamfordham Mansions, chatting with her airman lover. "Of course," he said. "Ortmann and your father were well aware that Merton Mansfield is still the strongest man in the whole Government, a marvellous organiser, and the really great man upon whom Britain has pinned her faith." "They mean to work some evil upon him," the girl said apprehensively. "I'm quite certain of it! Cannot we warn him?" "I did so. I wrote to him, urging him to take precautions, and declaring that a plot was in progress," said Kennedy. "I suppose his secretary had the letter and probably held it back in order not to disturb him. Secretaries have a habit of doing that." Ella, whose cigarette he had just lit, blew a cloud of blue smoke from her lips, and replied: "Well, if that's the case then it is exceedingly wrong. The greatest care should be taken of those who are leading us to victory. Ah! dearest," she added with a sigh, "you do not know how bitter I feel when I reflect that my own father is a German and, moreover, a most deadly enemy." "I know, darling, I know," the man responded. "That's the worst of it. To expose the organiser of these conspirators would be to send your own father to prison--perhaps to an ignominious end." "Yes. All we can do is to watch closely and thwart their devilish designs, as far as we are able," the girl said. "Unfortunately, I'll have to go back to the air-station to-night, but I'll try to come up again for the week-end." Disappointment overspread the girl's face, but a second later she declared: "In that case I shall go and stay with father over at Barnes, and endeavour to discover what is intended." Therefore, that night, after her work at the theatre, she went to Theodore Drost's house at Barnes, instead of returning to the flat at Kensington. As she always kept her room there and her visits seemed to delight old Drost, she was always able to keep in touch with Kennedy and so help to frustrate the evil machinations of her father. As the days passed she became more than ever confident that another deep-laid plot was in progress. Nor was she mistaken, for, truth to tell, Ortmann was having many long interviews with his clever catspaw, the man who posed as the plain and pious pastor of the Dutch Church, old Theodore Drost. An incident occurred about a week later which showed the trend of events. The old pastor called one day at that modest, dreary little house close by Wandsworth Common, where Count Ernst von Ortmann, the man who secretly directed the agents of Germany in England, lived as plain Mr Horton whenever he grew tired of his beautiful house in Park Lane. Leading, by the fact of his occupation a dual existence, it was necessary for his nefarious purposes that he should frequently disappear into South London, away from the fashionable friends who knew him as Mr Henry Harberton. The pair were seated together that evening, smoking and discussing the cause of the failure of Rozelaar and the reason of his death by his own bomb. "Ah! my dear Theodore," exclaimed the Count, in German, throwing himself back in the old wicker armchair in that cheaply furnished room. "Your machine was too elaborate." "No, you are mistaken, it was simplicity itself," Drost declared. "Could anybody have tampered with it, do you think?" "Certainly not. Nobody knew--nobody saw it except ourselves and Rozelaar," Drost said. "And we very nearly blew ourselves up with it during the test. Do you remember?" laughed Ortmann. "Remember! I rather think I do. It was, indeed, a narrow escape. We won't repeat it. I'll be more careful, I promise you!" Drost assured his paymaster. "Yet I cannot guess how Rozelaar lost his life." "Well, we need not trouble. His was not exactly a precious life, Theodore, was it? The fellow knew a little too much, so, for us, it is perhaps best that the accident should have happened." "It is not the first time that fatal accidents have happened to those who, having served Germany, are of no further use," remarked Drost grimly. And at his remark the crafty Count--the man who directed the German octopus in Britain--smiled, but remained silent. Though Ella, still at Barnes, kept both eyes and ears open during the day--compelled, of course, to go to the theatre each evening--yet she could discover no solid fact which might lead her to find out what was in progress. The Count came very often over to Barnes, and on two or three occasions was accompanied by a fair-haired young man whose real name was Schrieber, but who had changed it to Sommer, and declared himself to be a Swiss. Indeed, he had forged papers just as old Drost possessed. The fabrication of identification-papers--with photographs attached--became quite an industry in Germany after war had broken out, while many American passports were purchased from American "crooks" and fresh photographs cleverly superimposed. One afternoon the young man Schrieber called, remained talking alone with Drost for about ten minutes, and then left. Presently the old man entered the drawing-room wherein his daughter was seated writing a letter. In his hand he carried a china vase about fourteen inches high, the dark-blue ornamentation being very similar to a "willow-pattern" plate. It was shaped something like a Greek amphora, and quite of ordinary quality. "Ella, dear," said her father, handing her the vase, "I wish you could get one exactly like this. You'll be able to get it quite easily at one of the big stores in the West End. A friend of mine has a pair, and has broken one." "Certainly, dad," was the girl's reply. "I'm going out this afternoon, and I'll take it with me." That afternoon Ella Drost went to several shops until at last, at one in Oxford Street, she found the exact replica. They were in pairs, and she was compelled to buy both. Later on she took them to Barnes, but before doing so she called in at her own flat and there left the superfluous vase. Old Drost seemed highly delighted at securing the exact replica of the broken ornament. "Excellent!" he said. "Excellent! Really, my dear child, I thought that you would have had to get it made. And making things in war-time is such a very long process." "I had a little trouble, but I at last got a clue to where they had been bought, and there, sure enough, they had one pair still in stock." "Excellent! Excellent!" he grunted, and he carried off both the pattern vase and its companion to his little den where he usually did his writing. That same evening, while the taxi was at the door to take Ella to the theatre, the Count called. "Ah! Fraulein!" he cried, as he entered the dining-room where Ella stood ready dressed in her smart coat and hat, as became one who had been so successful in her profession and drew such a handsome salary, much to the envy of her less fortunate fellow-artistes. "Why--you're quite a stranger--always away at the theatre whenever I call. I took some friends from the club to see you the night before last. That new waltz-song of yours is really most delightful--so catchy," he added, speaking in German. "Do you like it?" asked the bright, athletic girl who led such a strange semi-Bohemian life, and was yet filled with constant suspicion concerning her father. "At first I did not like singing it, because I objected to some of the lines. But I see now that everyone seems attracted by it." "No, Fraulein Ella!" exclaimed the Count, with his exquisite courtesy. "The public are not attracted by the song, but by your own _chic_ and charm." "Now, really, Count," exclaimed Ella, "this is too bad of you! If one of my stall-admirers had said so I would forgive him. But, surely, you know me too well to think that I care for flattery from you. I have been too long on the stage, I assure you. To me applause is merely part of the show. I expect it, and smile and bow when the house claps. It does not fill me with the least personal pride, I assure you. When I first went on the stage it certainly did. But to-day, after being all these years before the public--" "All these years!" echoed Ortmann, interrupting her. "Why, you are not much more than twenty now, Ella!" "And think, I've already been twelve years on the stage--a life hard enough, I can tell you!" "Yes, I know," remarked the Count. "But you'll forget all about your friend Commander Kennedy some day, I expect, and marry a wealthy man." Ella's eyebrows contracted for a few seconds. "Well--perhaps," she said. "But I may yet marry Mr Kennedy, you know!" Count Ernst Ortmann smiled--a hard evil expression upon his heavy lips. He held Seymour Kennedy in distinct suspicion. Indeed, when Ella had gone and he was standing with old Drost in the dining-room, he remarked: "I still entertain very grave suspicions regarding that fellow Kennedy. Couldn't you keep Ella away from him? Could not we part them somehow? While they are in love a distinct danger exists. He may learn something at any moment. My information is that he is particularly shrewd at investigations, and he may suspect. If so, then the game might very easily be up." "Bah! Do not anticipate any such _contretemps_. He knows nothing--take that from me. We have nothing whatever to fear in that direction," Drost assured him. "If I thought so I should very soon take steps to part them." "How would you accomplish that?" Theodore Drost's narrow face--broad at the brow and narrow at the chin-- puckered in a smile. "It would not be at all difficult," he said, with a mysterious expression. "I have something upstairs which would very soon effect our purpose and leave no trace--if it were necessary." "But it _is_ necessary," the Count declared. "One day it may be," Drost said. "But not yet." "Your girl is in love with him, and I suppose you think it a pity to-- well, to spoil their romance, even in face of all that Germany has at stake!" remarked the Count, with an undisguised sneer. "Ah, my dear Drost! you pose as a Dutch pastor, but do you not remember our German motto: _Der beste prediger ist der Zeit_?" (Time is the best preacher.) "Yes, yes," replied the old man with the scraggy beard. "But please rely upon my wits. My eyes are open, and I assure you there is nothing whatever at present to fear." "Very well, Drost," Answered the Count. "I submit to your wider knowledge. But now that the girl has gone, we may as well go upstairs-- eh? You've, of course, seen in to-night's paper that Merton Mansfield is to address the munition-makers in the Midlands in a fortnight's time." Old Drost again smiled mysteriously, and said: "I knew that quite a fortnight ago. Schrieber has been north. He returned only last Tuesday." "Did you send him north?" "I did. He went upon a mission. As you know, I am generally well ahead with any plans I make." "Plans! What are they? Really, my dear Theodore, you are a perfect marvel of clever inventiveness!" Ella's father shrugged his shoulders, and in his deep guttural German replied: "I am only doing my duty as a good loyal son of our own Fatherland." "Well spoken," declared the Count. "There is a good and just reward awaiting you after the war, never fear! Our Emperor does not forget services rendered. Let us go upstairs--eh? I am anxious to learn what you suggest." The pair ascended the stairs to the carefully locked room in the roof, that long, well-equipped laboratory wherein Theodore Drost spent so many hours daily experimenting in the latest discovered high-explosives. After Drost had switched on the light he carefully closed the door, and then, crossing to a long deal cupboard where hung several cotton overalls to protect his clothes against the splash of acids, he took out his military gas-masks--those hideous devices with rubber mouth-pieces and mica eye-holes, as used by our men at the front. "It is always best to take precautions," Drost said, as he handed his companion and taskmaster a helmet. "You may find it a little stifling at first, but it is most necessary." Both put on the masks, after which Drost handed the Count a pair of rubber gloves. These Ortmann put on, watching Drost, who did the same. "It is a good job, Count, that we are alone in the house, otherwise I could do no work. The gas is heavy, and any escaping from here will fall to the basement. One fourteen-thousandth part in air, and the result must be fatal. There is no known antidote. Ah!" he laughed, "these poor, too-confiding English little dream of our latter-day discoveries--scientific discoveries by which we hold all the honours in the game of war." "Very well," grunted the Count. "Let us hope that our science is better than that of our enemies. But I confess that to-day I have doubts. These British have made most wonderful strides--the most amazing progress in their munitions and devices." While he spoke old Drost was, with expert hand, mixing certain compounds, grey and bright-green crystals, which he pounded in a mortar. Then, carefully weighing with his apothecary's scales several grammes of a fine white powder, he added it and, while the Count, still wearing his ugly mask, watched, mixed a measured quantity of water and placed the whole into a big glass retort which was already in a holder warmed by the pale-blue flame of a spirit-lamp. Suddenly Drost made a gesture to his companion, and while the liquid in the retort was bubbling, he attached to the narrow end of the retort an arrangement of bent glass tube, and proceeded to distil the liquid he had produced. This product, which fell drop by drop into a long test-tube, was of a bright-blue colour. Drop by drop fell that fatal liquid--fatal because it gave off a poison-gas against which no human being could exist for more than five seconds. "This," exclaimed Drost, his voice muffled by his mask, "is the most fatal of any gas that chemical science has yet discovered. It does not merely asphyxiate and leave bad symptoms afterwards, but it kills outright in a few seconds. It is absolutely deadly." The room had by that time become filled by a curious orange-coloured vapour--bright-orange--which to Ortmann's eyes was an extraordinary phenomenon. Had he not worn the protective mask he would have been instantly overwhelmed by an odour closely resembling that of cloves--a terribly fatal perfume, which would sweep away men like moths passing through the flame of a candle. "Well, my dear Drost," said the Count, "I know you will never rest until you've devised a means of carrying out our plans for the downfall of Merton Mansfield, and certainly you seem to have adopted some measure-- deadly though it may be--which is quite in accord with your ingenuity." He also spoke in a low, stifled voice from within his ugly mask. Drost nodded, and then into the marble mortar, in which he had mixed his devilish compounds, he poured something from a long blue glass-stoppered bottle, whereupon the place instantly became filled with volumes of grey smoke which, when it cleared, left the atmosphere perfectly clear--so clear, indeed, that both men removed their masks, sniffing, however, at the faint odour of cloves still remaining. Afterwards the old chemist took from the cupboard a small cardboard box which, on opening, contained, carefully packed in cotton wool, a short, stout, but hollow needle. Attached to it at one end was a small steel box about two inches broad and the same high. The box was perforated at intervals. "This is the little contrivance of which I spoke," said Drost gleefully, as he gazed upon it in admiration. "The explosive needle, when filled, and this little chamber, also properly charged, cannot fail to act." "I take it, my dear friend, that it will be automatic--eh?" remarked the Count, examining it with interest. Old Drost smiled, nodded, and replaced his precious contrivance in its box, after which both men left the laboratory, Drost carefully locking the door before descending the stairs to follow his companion. Both of them took a taxi to the fine house in Park Lane where Ortmann assumed the _role_ of society man. At ten o'clock a visitor was ushered in, and proved to be the young man whose real name was Schrieber. Apparently he had just returned from a journey, and had come straight from the station in order to make some secret report to Ortmann. When the three were closeted together the young German, who passed as a Swiss, produced from his pocket three small photographs showing the interior of a room taken from different angles, but always showing the fireplace. "Excellent!" declared Drost, as he examined all three prints beneath the strong light. "You have done splendidly." "Yes, all is in readiness. I have made friends with the maids, and when I return I shall be welcomed. No breath of suspicion will be aroused. We have now but to wait our time." And the three conspirators--men who were working so secretly, yet with such dastardly intent in the enemy's cause--laughed as they helped themselves to cigars from the big silver box. Nearly three weeks passed when, one day while Seymour Kennedy was sitting in Ella's pretty little drawing-room, he accidentally noticed the artistic blue-and-white vase, and remarking how unusual was the shape, his beloved related how it had come into her possession. Kennedy reflected for a few seconds, his brows knit in deep thought. "Curious that your father desired to match a vase like this! With what object, I wonder?" "He told me that he wanted it for a friend." "H'm! I wonder why his friend was so eager to match it?" was the air-pilot's remark. "And, again, why did he send you to buy it, when his friend could surely have done so?" Ella was silent. That question had never occurred to her. "I wonder if your father is making some fresh experiment? Have you been to the laboratory lately?" he inquired. "No, dear." "A secret visit there might be worth while," he suggested. "Meanwhile, the question of this vase excites my curiosity considerably. I can't help thinking that Ortmann is at the bottom of some other vile trickery. Their failure to kill Merton Mansfield has, no doubt, made them all the more determined to deal an effective _coup_." Some five days later it was announced in the London papers that Mr Merton Mansfield, the man in whom Great Britain placed her principal trust in securing victory, would, on the following Thursday, address a mass meeting of the munition workers in the great Midland town of G--. The object of the meeting was to urge greater enthusiasm in the prosecution of the war, and to induce the workers, in the national cause, to forego their holidays and thus keep up the output of heavy shells and high-explosives. Seymour Kennedy, who was in the mess at the time, read the paragraph, and then sat pondering. Next day he induced his commanding officer to give him leave, and he was soon in London making active inquiries. He found that Mr Merton Mansfield had been compelled to decline the invitation of Lord Heatherdale, and had arranged to stay the night at the Central Station Hotel at G--, as he would have to return to London by the first train next morning. Mr Merton Mansfield was an extremely busy man. No member of the Cabinet held greater responsibility upon his shoulders, and certainly no man held higher and stronger views of British patriotism. Any words from his lips were listened to eagerly, and carefully weighed, not only here, but in neutral countries also. Hence, at this great meeting he was expected to reveal one or two matters of paramount interest, and also make a further declaration of British policy. On the Tuesday night--two days before the meeting--Flight-Commander Kennedy slept at the Central Hotel in G--and next morning returned to London. Next night--or rather at early morning--Ella silently opened the front door of her father's house at Barnes, and her lover slipped in noiselessly, the pair afterwards ascending to the secret laboratory which his well-beloved opened with her duplicate key. Without much difficulty they opened the cupboard and examined the contents of the small cardboard box--discovering the curious-looking needle attached to the little perforated steel box. "This place smells of cloves--doesn't it?" whispered Seymour. "Yes, darling. I've smelt the same smell for some days. Father said he had upset a bottle of oil of cloves." "This is certainly a most curious apparatus!" Kennedy whispered, holding the needle in his hand. "See, this box is not a bomb. It is perforated to allow some perfume--or, more likely, a poison-gas--to escape. The needle is certainly an explosive one!" Further search revealed a small clockwork movement not much larger than that of a good-sized watch, together with a small bag of bird's sand. Having made a thorough search, they replaced things exactly as they had found them, and then Kennedy crept forth again into the broad thoroughfare called Castelnau. "Those devils mean mischief again!" he muttered to himself as he hurried across Hammersmith Bridge. "That explosive needle is, I can quite see, a most diabolical invention. Drost surely has the inventive brains of Satan himself!" At that same hour the young man Schrieber was seated with Ortmann in Park Lane, listening to certain instructions, until at last he rose to go. "And, remember--trust in nobody!" Ortmann urged. "If you perform this service successfully, our Fatherland will owe you a very deep debt of gratitude--one which I will personally see shall not be forgotten." At midday on Thursday Kennedy and Ella left St Pancras station for G--, arriving there three hours later, and taking rooms at the Central Hotel. As soon as Ella entered hers, she was astonished to see upon the mantelshelf a pair of the same blue-and-white vases as those her father had asked her to match! When, ten minutes later, she rejoined Kennedy in the lounge, she told him of her discovery. "Yes," was his reply. "They are the same in all the rooms--one of the fads of the proprietor. But," he added, "you must not be seen here. We don't know who is coming from London by the next train." For that reason Ella retired to her room and did not leave it for some hours, not indeed till her lover came to tell her that all was clear. By that time Mr Merton Mansfield had arrived, eaten a frugal dinner, and had gone to the meeting. "That young man Schrieber has arrived also," Kennedy told her. "He's never seen me, so he suspects nothing. He has also gone to the meeting, therefore we can go down and have something to eat." That night at eleven o'clock Mr Merton Mansfield returned, was cheered loudly by a huge crowd gathered outside the hotel, and waited below chatting for nearly half-an-hour before he retired to his room. The room was numbered 146--the best room of a suite on the first floor-- and to this room the young German, the catspaw of Ortmann, had gone about a quarter past eleven, gaining admission through the private sitting-room next door. On entering he, quick as lightning, took down one of the vases from the mantelshelf and replaced it by another exactly similar which he drew from beneath the light coat thrown over his arm. Then, carrying the vase with him concealed by his coat, he slipped quickly out again unobserved, not, however, before he had poured into the other vase some bird-sand so as to make them both of equal weight when the maid came to dust them on the morrow. The conspirators left nothing to chance. In that innocent-looking vase he had brought was one of the most diabolical contrivances ever invented by man's brain. To the explosive needle the tiny clock had been attached and set to strike at half-past two, an hour when the whole hotel would be wrapped in slumber. The effect of striking would be to explode the needle and thus break a thin glass tube of a certain liquid and set over a piece of sponge saturated by a second liquid. The mixing of the two liquids would produce that terribly deadly poison-gas which, escaping through the perforation, must cause almost instant death to any person sleeping in the room. Truly, it was a most diabolical death-trap. Ten minutes later Mr Merton Mansfield, quite unsuspicious, entered the room and retired to bed, an example followed by the assassin Schrieber, who had a room on the same corridor a little distance away. At nine o'clock next morning Seymour Kennedy, bright and spruce in his uniform, descended to the hall and inquired of the head-porter if Mr Merton Mansfield had left. "Mr Mansfield is an early bird, sir. He went away to London by the 6:47 train." The air-pilot turned upon his heel with a sigh of relief. Two hours later, however, while seated in the lounge with Ella, prior to returning to London, Kennedy noticed that there was much whispering among the staff. Of the porter he inquired the reason. "Well, sir," the man replied, "it seems that a maid on the first floor, on going into one of the rooms this morning, found a visitor dead in bed--Mr Sommer, a Swiss gentleman who arrived last night. The place smells strongly of cloves, and the poor girl has also been taken very ill, for the fumes in the place nearly asphyxiated her." Seymour again returned to Ella and told her what had occurred. "But how did you manage it?" she asked in a low whisper. "Well, after watching Schrieber put the vase in the room, I entered after him and replaced it by the vase you had bought, afterwards taking the one with the explosive needle to Schrieber's room and carrying away the superfluous one. The man must have glanced at the pair of vases on his mantelshelf before sleeping, but he, of course, never dreamed that he was gazing upon the infernal contrivance that he had placed in the Minister's room with his own hand." "I see," exclaimed Ella. "And, surely, he richly deserved his fate!" The deadly contrivance was found when the room was searched, but the police of G--still regard the affair as a complete and inexplicable mystery. CHAPTER FIVE. THE BRASS TRIANGLE. A bank of dense fog hung over the Thames early on that December morning. The bell of St Paul's Church, at Hammersmith, had struck two o'clock when across the long suspension-bridge a tall man in a black waterproof coat and black plush hat walked with a swing, smoking a cigarette, and passed hurriedly out into the straight broad thoroughfare of Castelnau. For some distance he proceeded, then suddenly he slackened pace, glanced at the luminous watch upon his wrist, and, a few moments later, halted against some railings, and, looking across the road, waited patiently opposite the house occupied by the pious Dutch pastor, the Reverend Theodore Drost. The house was in darkness, and there was not a sound in the street save the barking of a dog at the rear of a house in the vicinity. In patience, Flight-Commander Kennedy, for it was he, waited watchfully. He remained for a full quarter of an hour, ever and anon glancing at his watch, until, of a sudden, the front door opposite was opened noiselessly, and he saw the gleam of a flash-lamp. In a moment he had crossed the road and, ascending the steps, met his well-beloved. As he met her, he thought how strange it all seemed, what a romance it was. Here was this charming girl, whom the world only knew as a celebrated revue artiste, helping him to frustrate the criminal plans of her German father. Ella, standing at the door, whispered: "Hush!" And without a word Seymour Kennedy, treading tiptoe, slipped within. The house was familiar to him. He grasped the soft white hand of his well-beloved and, raising it to his lips, kissed it in homage. She was wearing a dainty purple and yellow kimono, her little feet thrust into red morocco Turkish slippers, which were noiseless, and, as she ascended the thickly-carpeted stairs, he followed her without uttering a word. Up they went, to the top floor. The door which faced them at the head of the stairs she unlocked with a key, and after they were both inside she closed the door and then switched on the light. The big chemical laboratory, which her father had established in secret in that long attic, presented the same scene as it had when he had visited it before at the invitation of his well-beloved. With such constant demands upon his inventive powers, it was necessary that the Prussian ex-professor should have the place fitted up with all the latest scientific appliances. "Well, Seymour!" the girl exclaimed at last. "Here you are! What do you think of these?" And, crossing to a side table, she indicated two well-worn attache-cases in brown leather, each about sixteen inches by eight, and three inches deep. One of them she opened, revealing a curious mechanism within, part of which was the movement of a cheap American clock. Her tall, good-looking companion, who was a skilled mechanic, examined both these innocent-looking little cases with keen interest, and then exclaimed: "Ah! I quite understand now! These are no doubt to be used in conjunction with explosives. They run for half an hour only, and then electrical contact is made into the explosive compound." "Exactly. See there, that row of tins of lubricating-oil. They are already filled with the high-explosive and in readiness." Kennedy bent and then saw, ranged below a bench on the opposite side of the laboratory, six tins of a certain well-known thick lubricating-oil used by motorists. "There is sufficient there, dear, to blow up the whole of Barnes," she declared. "Evidently this latest outrage is intended to be a serious one." "Ah!" sighed Kennedy. "It is a thousand pities, Ella, that your father is doing all this dastardly secret work for the enemy. Happily you, though his daughter, are taking measures to thwart his plans." "I am doing only what is my duty, dear," replied the girl in the kimono; "and with your aid I hope to upset this latest plot of Ortmann and his friends." "Have you seen Ortmann lately?" her lover asked. "No. He has been away somewhere in Holland--conferring with the German Secret Service, without a doubt. I heard father say yesterday, however, that he had returned to Park Lane." "Returned, in order to distribute more German money, I suppose?" "Probably. He must have spent many hundreds of thousands of pounds in the German cause both before the war and after it," replied the girl. The pair stood in the laboratory for some time examining some of the apparatus which old Drost, now sleeping below, had during that day been using for the manufacture of the explosive contained in those innocent-looking oil-cans. Kennedy realised, by the delicacy of the apparatus, how well versed the grey-haired old Prussian was in explosives, and on again examining the attache-cases with their mechanical contents, saw the cleverness with which the plot, whatever its object, had been conceived. What was intended? There was no doubt a conspiracy afoot to destroy some public building, or perhaps an important bridge or railway junction. This he pointed out to Ella, who, in reply, said: "Yes. I shall remain here and watch. I shall close up my flat, and send my maid on a holiday, so as to have excuse to remain here at home." "Right-ho! darling. You can always get at me on the telephone. You remain here and watch at this end, while I will keep an eye on Ortmann-- at least, as far as my flying duties will allow me." Thus it was arranged, and the pair, treading noiselessly, closed the door and, relocking it, crept softly down the stairs. In the dark hall Seymour took his well-beloved in his strong arms and there held her, kissing her passionately upon the brow. Then he whispered: "Good-night, my darling. Be careful that you are not detected watching." A moment later he had slipped out of the door and was gone. Hardly had the door closed when Ella was startled by a movement on the landing at the head of the stairs--a sound like a footstep. There was a loose board there, and it had creaked! Some one was moving. "Who's there?" she asked in apprehension. There was no reply. "Some one is up there," she cried. "Who is it?" Yet again there was no response. In the house there was the old servant and her father. Much puzzled at the noise, which she had heard quite distinctly, she crept back up the dark stairs and, finding no one, softly entered her father's room, to discover him asleep and breathing heavily. Then she ascended to the servant's room, but old Mrs Pennington was asleep. When she regained her own cosy room, which was, as always, in readiness for her, even though she now usually lived in the flat in Stamfordham Mansions, over in Kensington, she stood before the long mirror and realised how pale she was. That movement in the darkness had unnerved her. Some person had most certainly trodden upon that loose board, which she and her lover had been so careful to avoid. "I wonder!" she whispered to herself. "Can there have been somebody watching us?" If that were so, then her father and the chief of spies, the man Ortmann, would be on their guard. So, in order to satisfy herself, she took her electric torch and made a complete examination of the house, until she came to the small back sitting-room on the ground floor. There she found the blind drawn up and the window open. The discovery startled her. The person, whoever it could have been, must have slipped past her in the darkness and, descending the stairs, escaped by the way that entrance had been gained. Was it a burglar? Was it some one desirous of knowing the secrets of that upstairs laboratory? Or was it some person set to watch her movements? She switched on the electric light, which revealed that the room was a small one, with well-filled bookshelves and a roll-top writing-table set against the open window. Upon the carpet something glistened, and, stooping, she picked it up. It was a woman's curb chain-bracelet, the thin safety-chain of which was broken. Could the intruder have been a woman? Had the bracelet fallen from her wrist in her hurried flight? Or had it fallen from the pocket of a burglar who had secured it with some booty from a house in the vicinity? Ella looked out into the small garden, but the intruder had vanished. Therefore she closed the window, to find that the catch had been broken by the mysterious visitor, and then returned again to her room, where she once more examined the bracelet beneath the light. "It may give us some clue," she remarked to herself. "Yet it is of very ordinary pattern, and bears no mark of identification." Next day, without telling her father of her midnight discovery, she met Seymour Kennedy by appointment at the theatre, showed him what she had found, and related the whole story. "Strange!" he exclaimed. "Extraordinary! It must have been a burglar!" "Or a woman?" "But why should a woman break into your house?" "In order to watch me. Perhaps Ortmann or my father may have suspicions," replied the actress, arranging her hair before the big mirror. "I hope not, Ella. They are both the most daring and the most unscrupulous men in London." "And it is for us to outwit them in secret, dear," she replied, turning to him with a smile of sweet affection. In the days that followed, the mystery of the intruder became further increased by Ella making another discovery. In the garden, upon a thorn-bush against the wall, Mrs Pennington found a large piece of cream silk which had apparently formed part of the sleeve of a woman's blouse. She brought it to Ella, saying: "I've found this in the garden, miss. It looks as if some lady got entangled in the bush, and left part of 'er blouse behind--don't it? I wonder who's been in our garden?" Ella took it and, expressing little surprise, suggested that it might have been blown into the bush by the wind. It, however, at once confirmed her suspicion that the midnight visitor had been a woman. While Ella sang and danced nightly at the theatre, and afterwards drove home to Castelnau, to that house where upstairs was stored all that high-explosive, Seymour Kennedy maintained a watchful vigilance upon Ernst von Ortmann, the chief of enemy spies, and kept that unceasing watch over him, not only at the house at Wandsworth, but also at the magnificent mansion in Park Lane. To von Ortmann's frequent dinner-parties in the West End came the crafty and grave-faced old Drost, who there met other men of mysterious antecedents, adventurers who posed as Swiss, American, or Dutch, for that house was the headquarters of enemy activity in Great Britain, and from it extended many extraordinary and unexpected ramifications. That some great and desperate outrage was intended in the near future Kennedy was confident, as all the apparatus was ready. But of Drost's intentions he could discover nothing, neither could Ella. One cold night, while loitering in the darkness beside the railings of the Park, Kennedy saw Ortmann emerge from the big portico of his house and walk to Hyde Park Corner, where he hailed a taxi and drove down Grosvenor Gardens. Within a few moments Kennedy was in another taxi closely following. They crossed Westminster Bridge and turned to the right, in the direction of Vauxhall. Then, on arriving at Clapham Junction station, Kennedy, discerning Ortmann's destination to be the house in Park Road, Wandsworth Common, where at times he lived as the humble Mr Horton, the retired tradesman, he dismissed his taxi and walked the remainder of the distance. When he arrived before the house, he saw a light in Horton's room, and hardly had he halted opposite ere the figure of a man in a black overcoat and soft felt hat came along and ascended the steps to the door. It was the so-called Dutch pastor, Theodore Drost. The latter had not been admitted more than five minutes when another visitor, a short, thick-set bearded man, having the appearance of a workman, probably an engineer, passed by, hesitated, looked at the house inquiringly, and then went up the steps and rang the bell. He also quickly gained admission, and therefore it seemed plain that a conference was being held there that night. The bearded man was a complete stranger, hence Kennedy resolved to follow him when he reappeared, and try to establish his identity. Being known to Drost and Ortmann, it was always both difficult and dangerous for him to follow either too closely. But with a stranger it was different. Before twenty-four hours had passed, the Flight-Commander had ascertained a number of interesting facts. The bearded man was known as Arthur Cole, and was an electrician employed at one of the County Council power-stations. He lived in Tenison Street, close to Waterloo Station, and was a widower. Next day, on making further inquiry of shops in the vicinity, a woman who kept a newspaper-shop exclaimed: "I may be mistaken, sir, but I don't believe much in that there Mr Cole." "Why?" asked Kennedy quickly. "Well, 'e's lived 'ere some years, you know, and before the war I used to order for 'im a German newspaper--the Berliner-Something." "The _Berliner-Tageblatt_ it was, I expect." "Yes. That's the paper, sir," said the woman. "'E used to be very fond of it, till I couldn't get it any more." "Then he may be German?" The woman bent over the narrow counter of her small establishment and whispered: "I'm quite certain 'e is, sir." That night Seymour saw his well-beloved in the theatre between the acts, and told her the result of his inquiries. Then he returned to his vigil and watched the dingy house in Tenison Street, one of those drab London streets in which the sun never seems to shine. For three nights Kennedy remained upon constant vigil. On the fourth night, just as Ella was throwing off her stage dress at the conclusion of the show, she received a telegram which said: "Gone north. Return soon. Wait." It was unsigned, but she knew its sender. Four days she waited in eager expectation of receiving news. On the fifth night, just before she left for the theatre, Ortmann arrived to visit her father. She greeted him merrily, but quickly escaped from that detestable atmosphere of conspiracy, at the same time remembering that mysterious female intruder. Who could she have been? In the meantime Seymour Kennedy, who had obtained a few days' leave, had been living at the Central Hotel in that busy Lancashire town which must here be known as G--. To that town he had followed the man Cole and had constantly watched his movements. Cole had taken up his quarters at a modest temperance hotel quite close to the Central, which was the big railway terminus, and had been daily active, and had made several journeys to places in the immediate manufacturing outskirts of G--. At last he packed his modest Gladstone bag and returned to London, Kennedy, in an old tweed suit, travelling by the same train. On their arrival Kennedy took a taxi direct from Euston to the theatre. When Ella had sent her dresser out of the room upon an errand, he hurriedly related what had occurred. The man Cole had, he explained, met in G--a thin-faced, dark-haired young woman, apparently of his own social standing, a young woman of the working-class, who wore a brass war-badge in the shape of a triangle. The pair had been in each other's company constantly, and had been twice out to a manufacturing centre about six miles away, a place known as Rivertown. Briefly he related what he had observed and what he had discovered. Then he went out while she dressed, eventually driving with her to a snug little restaurant off Oxford Street, where they supped together. "Do you know, Ella," he asked in a low voice, as they sat in a corner, "now that we've established the fact that the man Cole has visited your father, and also that he is undoubtedly implicated in the forthcoming plot, can it be that this young woman whom he met in G--is the same who entered your father's house on the night of my visit there?" "I wonder!" she exclaimed. "Why should she go there?" "Out of curiosity, perhaps. Who knows? She's evidently on friendly terms with this electrician. Cole, who, if my information is correct, is no Englishman at all--but a German!" Ella reflected deeply. Then she answered: "Perhaps both the man and woman came there for the purpose either of robbery--or--" "No. They were probably suspicious of your father's manner, and came to examine the house." "But if they did not trust my father surely they would not be in active association with him, as you say they are," the girl argued. "True. But they might, nevertheless, have had their curiosity aroused." "And by so doing they may have seen us," she declared apprehensively. "I hope not." "And even if they did, they surely would not recognise us again," he exclaimed. "But," he added, "no time must be lost. You must take another brief holiday from the theatre, and see what we can do." "Very well," was the dancer's reply. "I'll see Mr Pettigrew to-morrow, and get a rest. It will give my understudy a chance." Over a fortnight went by. It was half-past five o'clock on a cold January evening when a trainful of merry-faced girl munition workers stood at the Central Station at G-- ready to start out to Rivertown to work on the night shift in those huge roaring factories where the big shells were being made. Each girl wore a serviceable raincoat and close-fitting little hat, each carried a small leather attache-case with her comb, mirror, and other little feminine toilet requisites, and each wore upon her blouse the brass triangle which denoted that she was a worker on munitions. Peering out from the window of one of those dingy third-class compartments was a young girl in a rather faded felt hat and a cheap navy-blue coat, while upon the platform, apparently taking notice of nobody, stood a tallish young man in a brown overcoat. The munition-girl was Ella Drost, and the man her lover, Seymour Kennedy. As the train at last moved out across the long bridge over the river, the pair exchanged glances, and then Ella, with her brass triangle on her blouse, sat back in the crowded carriage in thought, her little attache-case upon her knees, listening to the merry chat of her fellow-workers. Arrived at the station, she followed the crowd of workers to the huge newly-erected factory close by, a great hive of industry where, through night and day, Sunday and weekday, over eight thousand women made big shells for the guns at the front. At the entrance-gate each girl passed singly beneath the keen eyes of door-keepers and detectives, for no intruder was allowed within, it being as difficult for strangers to gain admission there as to enter the presence of the Prime Minister at Downing Street. The shifts were changing, and the day-workers were going off. Hence there was considerable bustle, and many of those lathes drilling and turning the great steel projectiles were, for the moment, still. Presently the night-workers began to troop in, each in her pale-brown overall with a Dutch cap, around the edge of which was either a red or blue band denoting the status of the worker, while the forewomen were distinctive in their dark-blue overalls. Some of the girls had exchanged their skirts for brown linen trousers. Those were the girls working the travelling cranes which, moving up and down the whole length of the factory, carried the shells from one lathe to another as they passed through the many processes between drilling and varnishing. Ella was among these latter, and certainly nobody who met her in her Dutch cap with its blue band, her linen overall jacket with its waistband, and her trousers, stained in places with oil, would have ever recognised her as the star of London revue. Lithely she mounted the straight steep iron ladder up to her lofty perch on the crane, and, seating herself, she touched the switch and began to move along the elevated rails over the heads of the busy workers below. The transfer of a shell from one lathe to another was accomplished with marvellous ease and swiftness. A girl below her lifted her hand as signal, whereupon Ella advanced over her, and let down a huge pair of steel grips which the lathe-worker placed upon the shell, at the same time releasing it from the lathe. Again she raised her hand, and the shell was lifted a few yards above her head and lowered to the next machine, where the worker there placed it in position, and then released it to undergo its next phase of manufacture. Such was Ella's work. In the fortnight she had been there she had become quite expert in the transfer of the huge shells, and, further, she had become much interested in her new life and its unusual surroundings In that great place the motive force of all was electricity. All those whirring lathes, drills, hammers, saws, cutting and polishing machines, cranes, everything in that factory, as well as the two other great factories in the near vicinity, were driven from the great electrical power-station close by. Now and then, as the night hours passed, though within all was bright and busy as day, Ella would give a glance at the woman working the crane opposite hers, a thin-faced, dark-haired young woman, who was none other than the mysterious friend of the man Cole, and whom she held in great suspicion. While Ella worked within the factory in order to keep a watchful eye, Seymour Kennedy watched with equal shrewdness outside. The days went past, but nothing suspicious occurred until one night Cole, who was again living at the temperance hotel, joined the munition-workers' train, being followed by Ella, who found that he had been engaged as an electrician in the power-house. Next day he met the thin-faced young woman, who was known to her fellow-workers as Kate Dexter, and they spent several hours together, at lunch and afterwards at a picture-house. But, friends as they were, when they left the Central Station they took care never to travel in the same carriage. So, to their fellow-workers, they were strangers. One afternoon, at half-past two, Kennedy, who was at the Central Hotel, called at Ella's lodgings and explained how he had seen her father walking in the street with Cole. "I afterwards followed them," he added, "and eventually found that your father is at the Grand Hotel." "Then mischief is certainly intended," declared the girl, her cheeks turning pale. "No doubt. They mean to execute the plot without any further delay. That's my opinion. It will require all our watchfulness and resource if we are to be successful." "Why not warn the police?" suggested the girl. "And, by doing so, you would most certainly send your father to a long term of penal servitude," was her lover's reply. "No. We must prevent it, and for your own sake allow your father a loophole for escape, though he certainly deserves none." Ella had once travelled in the same train as the woman Dexter, but the latter had not recognised her; nevertheless, from inquiries Kennedy had made in London, it seemed that a month before the woman had been living in London, and was a close friend of Cole's. She had only recently gone north to work on munitions, and had, like Ella, been instructed in the working of the electrical cranes. For three days Theodore Drost remained at the Grand Hotel, where he had several interviews with the electrician Cole, and while Ella kept out of the way by day and went to the works at night, her lover very cleverly managed to maintain a strict watch. More than once Ella had contrived to pass the door of the great power-station with its humming dynamos which gave movement to that huge mass of machinery in the three factories turning out munitions, and had seen the man Cole in his blue dungarees busily oiling the machinery. Once she had watched him using thick machine-oil from cans exactly similar to those she had seen stored beneath the table in her father's laboratory. Night after night Ella, working there aloft in her crane, waited and wondered. Indeed, she never knew from hour to hour whether the carefully laid plans of the conspirators might not result in some disastrous explosion, in which she herself might be a victim. But Kennedy reassured her that he was keeping an ever-watchful vigil, and she trusted him implicitly. As a matter of fact, one of the London detectives watching the place was a friend of his, and, without telling him the exact object of his visit, he was able to gain entrance to the works. Naturally the detective became curious, but Kennedy, who usually wore an old tweed suit and a seedy cap, promised to reveal all to him afterwards. About half-past one, on a wet morning, Ella had just stopped her crane when, at the entrance end of the building, she caught a glimpse of some one beckoning to her. It was her well-beloved. In a few moments she had clambered down, and, hurrying through the factory, joined him outside. "Did you travel with that woman Dexter to-night?" he inquired eagerly in a low whisper as they stood in the darkness. "Yes." "Did she carry her attache-case?" "Yes. She always does." "She did not have it when she went home yesterday morning, for she left it here--the case which your father prepared," he said. "She brought the second of the cases with her to-night." "Then both are here!" exclaimed Ella in excitement. "Both are now in the power-house. I saw her hand over the second one to Cole only a quarter of an hour ago. Let us watch." Then the pair crept on beneath the dark shadows through the rain to the great square building of red-brick which, constructed six months before, contained some of the finest and most up-to-date electrical plant in all the world. At last they gained the door, which stood slightly ajar. The other mechanics were all away in the canteen having their early morning meal, and the man Cole, outwardly an honest-looking workman, remained there in charge. Together they watched the man's movements. Presently he came to the door, opened it, and looked eagerly out. In the meantime, however, Kennedy and his companion had slipped round the corner, and were therefore out of view. Then, returning within, Cole went to a cupboard, and as they watched from their previous point of vantage they saw him unlock it, displaying the two little leather attache-cases within. Close to the huge main dynamo in the centre of the building there stood on the concrete floor six cans of lubricating-oil which, it was proved afterwards, were usually kept at that spot, and therefore were in no way conspicuous. Swiftly the man Cole drew a coil of fine wire from the cupboard, the ends being joined to the two attache-cases--so that if the mechanism of one failed, the other would act--and with quick, nimble fingers he joined the wire to that already attached to the six inoffensive-looking cans of "oil." The preparations did not occupy more than a minute. Then, seizing a can of petrol, he placed it beside the cans of high-explosive, in order to add fire to the explosion. Afterwards, with a final look at the wires, and putting his head into the cupboard, where he listened to make certain that the clockwork mechanism was in motion, he glanced at the big clock above. Then, in fear lest he should be caught there, he ran wildly out into the darkness ere they were aware of his intention. "Quick!" shouted Kennedy. "Rush and break those wires, Ella! I'll watch him!" Without a second's hesitation, the girl dashed into the power-house and frantically tore the wires from the cupboard and from the fastenings to the deadly attache-cases, and--as it was afterwards proved--only just in time to save herself, the building, and its mass of machinery from total destruction. Meanwhile, Kennedy had overtaken the man Cole, and closed desperately with him, both of them rolling into the mud. Just as Ella was running towards them a pistol-shot rang out. The fellow had drawn a revolver and in desperation had tried to shoot his captor, but instead, in Kennedy's strong grip, his hand was turned towards himself, and the bullet had struck his own face, entering his brain. In a few seconds the man Cole lay there dead. Was it any wonder that the Press made no mention of the affair? CHAPTER SIX. THE SILENT DEATH. In the yellow sunshine of a bright and cloudless autumn afternoon, Ella Drost descended from her motor-cycle at a remote spot where four roads crossed at a place called Pittsgate, about a mile and a half out from Goudhurst, in Kent, having travelled from London by way of Tunbridge Wells. In leather cap, leggings, mackintosh, and leather belt she presented a charming type of the healthy English sports-girl. Indeed, in that very garb one could buy picture postcards of her all over the kingdom, those who purchased them little dreaming that Stella Steele, who had for so many nights been applauded by the khaki crowds in the theatre, where she merrily danced in the revue "Half a Moment!" was the daughter of old Theodore Drost, the sworn enemy of Great Britain, the man who had for so long succeeded in misleading the alien authorities into the belief that he was a pious pastor of the Dutch Church. Certainly the man who posed as an ex-missionary from Sumatra, and who wore the shabby, broad-brimmed clerical hat and horn-rimmed glasses, had never once been suspected of treasonable acts, save by his daughter Ella and Seymour Kennedy. It was to meet Kennedy that Ella had motored down from London that day. The roads were rather bad, and both machine and rider were splashed with mud. Yet for that she cared nothing. Her mind was too full of the investigations upon which they were engaged. She took out a large scale map, unfolded it, and studied it carefully, apparently tracing a route with her finger. Then glancing at her wristlet-watch, she looked eagerly down the long, straight road upon her left--the road which led up from Eastbourne, through Mayfield and Wadhurst. Nobody was in sight, therefore she consoled herself with a cigarette which she took from her case, and again studied her map until, at last, she suddenly heard the pop-pop-pop of a motor-cycle approaching and saw Seymour, his body bent over the handles, coming up the hill at a rattling pace. In a few minutes he had pulled up, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her fondly, expressing regret if he were late. "Eastbourne is further off than I expected, darling," he added. "Well?" he asked eagerly. "Nothing particular has happened since we parted on Thursday," replied the girl. "Father has been several times to see Mr Horton in Wandsworth, and last night dined with Mr Harberton in Park Lane." "Ah! What would the public think if they knew that Count Ernst von Ortmann, who pulls the fingers of the Hidden Hand in our midst, Henry Harberton of Park Lane, and Mr Horton of Wandsworth, were one and the same person, eh?" exclaimed the man, who, though not in uniform, revealed his profession by his bearing. "One day it will be known, dear," said the girl. "And then there will be an end to my father. The Count will believe that my father has betrayed him." "Why do you anticipate that?" "Because only the night before last, when Ortmann called, I overheard him remark to my father that he was the only person who knew his secret, and warning him against any indiscretion, and of the fate which Germany would most certainly meet out to him if any _contretemps_ occurred." "Yes," remarked the air-pilot reflectively. "I suppose that if the authorities really did arrest the inoffensive and popular Mr Harberton, the latter would, no doubt, revenge himself most bitterly upon your father." "Of that I'm perfectly certain, dear. Often I am tempted to relinquish my efforts to combat the evil they try to work against England, and yet the English are my own people--and also yours." "You're a thorough brick, Ella. There's not a girl in all the kingdom who has run greater risks than your dear self, or been more devoted to the British cause. Why, a dozen times you've walked fearlessly into danger, when you might have been blown to atoms by their infernal bombs." "No, no," she laughed. "Don't discuss it here. I've only done what any other girl in my place would have done. Come," she added. "Let's get on and carry out the plan we arranged." "Right-ho!" he replied. "That's the road," he added, pointing straight before him. "According to the map, there's a wood a little way up, where the road forks. We take the left road, skirt another wood past a farm called Danemore, then over a brook, and it's the first house we come to on the right--with another wood close behind it." "Very well," answered the girl. "You'll have a breakdown close to the house--eh?" "That's the arrangement," he laughed, and next minute he was running beside his machine, and was soon away, followed by his mud-bespattered well-beloved. Off they both sped, first down a steep slope, and then gradually mounting through a thick wood where the brown leaves were floating down upon the chilly wind. They passed the farm Kennedy had indicated, crossed the brook by a bumpy, moss-grown bridge, and suddenly the man threw up his hand as a signal that he was pulling-up, and, slowing down, alighted, while his engine gave forth a report like a pistol-shot. Ella, too, dismounted, and saw they were before a good-sized, well-kept farmhouse, which stood a short distance back from the road, surrounded by long red-brick outbuildings. The report had brought out an old farm-hand--a white-bearded old fellow, who was scanning them inquisitively. Both Ella and her lover were engaged in intently examining the latter's machine, looking very grave, and exchanging exclamations of despair. Kennedy opened a bag of tools and, with a cigarette in his mouth, commenced an imaginary repair, with one eye upon the adjacent house. This lasted for about a quarter-of-an-hour. In the meantime a woman, evidently the farmer's wife, had come out to view the strangers, and had returned indoors. "I think it's now about time we might go in," the air-pilot whispered to his companion, whereupon both of them entered the gate and passed up the rutty drive to the house. "I wonder if you could lend me a heavy hammer?" asked the motor-cyclist in distress of the pleasant, middle-aged woman who opened the door. "Why, certainly, sir. Would the coal-hammer do?" she asked. "Fine!" was the man's reply. "I'm so sorry to trouble you, but I've broken down, and I'm on my way to London." "I'm very sorry, sir," exclaimed the woman, who fetched a heavy hammer from her kitchen. "Would the young lady care to come in and wait?" "Oh, thanks. It's awfully good of you," said Ella. "The fact is I am a little fagged, and if I may sit down I shall be so grateful." "Certainly, miss. Just come in both of you for a moment," and she led the way into a homely well-furnished room with a great open hearth where big logs were burning with a pleasant smell of smouldering beech. "What a comfortable room you have here!" Kennedy remarked, looking at the thick Turkey carpet upon the floor, and the carved writing-table in the window. "Yes, sir. This is a model dairy-farm. It belongs to Mr Anderson-James, who lives in Tunbridge Wells, and who comes here for week-ends sometimes, and for the shooting. I expect him here to-night. My husband farms for him, and I look after the place as housekeeper." "A model farm!" exclaimed Ella. "Oh! I'd so much like to see it. I wonder if your husband would allow me?" "He'd be most delighted, miss." "Stevenson is my name, and this is my friend Mr Kershaw," Ella said, introducing herself. "My name is Dennis," replied the comely farmer's wife with a pleasant smile. "This is called Furze Down Farm, and Mr Anderson-James is a solicitor in Tunbridge Wells. So now you know all about us," and the woman, in her big white apron, laughed merrily. Kennedy and the girl exchanged glances. "Well," he said, "I'll go out and try to put the machine right. It won't take very long, I hope. If I can't--well, we must go back by train. Where's the nearest station, Mrs Dennis?" "Well--Paddock Wood is about two miles," was her reply. "If you can't get your motor right my husband will put it into a cart and drive you over there. It's the direct line to London." "Thanks so much," he said, and went out, leaving Ella to rest in the cosy, well-furnished room which the solicitor from Tunbridge Wells occupied occasionally through the week-ends. "Mr Anderson-James keeps this place as a hobby. He's retired from practice," the woman went on, "and he likes to come here for fresh air. When you've rested I'll show you round the houses--if you're interested in a dairy-farm." "I'm most interested," declared the girl. "I don't want to rest. I'd rather see the farm, if it is quite convenient to you to show it to me." "Oh, quite, miss," was the woman's prompt response. She came from Devonshire, as Ella had quickly detected, and was an artist in butter-making, the use of the mechanical-separator, and the management of poultry. The pair went out at once and, passing by clean asphalt paths, went to the range of model cowhouses, each scrupulously clean and well-kept. Then to the piggeries, the great poultry farm away in the meadows, and, lastly, into the white-tiled dairy itself, where four maids in white smocks and caps were busy with butter, milk, and cream. Ranged along one side of the great dairy were about thirty galvanised-iron chums of milk, ready for transport, and Ella, noting them, asked their destination. "Oh! They go each night to the training-camp at B--. They go out in two lots, one at midnight, and one at two o'clock in the morning." "Oh, so you supply the camp with milk, do you?" "Yes. Before the war all our milk went up to London Bridge by train each night, but now we supply the two camps. There are fifty thousand men in training there, they say. Isn't it splendid!" added the woman, the fire of patriotism in her eyes. "There's no lack of pluck in the dear old country." "No, Mrs Dennis. All of us are trying to do our bit," Ella said. "Does the Army Service Corps fetch the milk?" "No, miss. They used to, but for nearly six weeks we've sent it in waggons ourselves. The camp at B--is ten miles from here, so it comes rather hard on the horses. It used to go in motor-lorries. Old Thomas, the man bending down over there," and she pointed across the farm-yard, "he drives the waggon out at twelve, and Jim Jennings--who only comes of an evening--does the late delivery." "But the road is rather difficult from here to the camp, isn't it?" asked the girl, as though endeavouring to recollect. "Yes. That's just it. They have to go right round by Shipborne to avoid the steep hill." Five minutes later they were in the comfortable farm-house again, and, after a further chat, Ella went forth to see how her companion was progressing. The repair had been concluded--thanks to the coal-hammer! Ella took it back, thanked the affable Mrs Dennis, and, five minutes later, the pair were on their way to London, perfectly satisfied with the result of their investigations. On that same evening, while Kennedy and Ella were having a light dinner together at the Piccadilly Grill before she went to the theatre, the elusive Ortmann called upon old Theodore Drost at the dark house at Castelnau, on the Surrey side of Hammersmith Bridge. He came in a taxi, and accompanying him was a grey-haired, tall, and rather lean man, who carried a heavy deal box with leather handle. Drost welcomed them, and all three ascended at once to that long attic, the secret workshop of the maker of bombs. The man who posed as a pious Dutch missionary switched on the light, disclosing upon the table a number of small globes of thin glass which, at first, looked like electric light bulbs. They, however, had no metal base, the glass being narrowed at the end into a small open tube. Thus the air had not been exhausted. "This is our friend, Doctor Meins," exclaimed Ortmann, introducing his companion, who, a few minutes later, unlocked the box and brought out a large brass microscope of the latest pattern, which he screwed together and set up at the further end of the table. Meanwhile from another table at the end of the long apartment old Drost, with a smile of satisfaction upon his face, carried over very carefully a wooden stand in which stood a number of small sealed glass tubes, most of which contained what looked like colourless gelatine. "We want to be quite certain that the cultures are sufficiently virulent," remarked Ortmann. "That is why I have brought Professor Meins, who, as you know, is one of our most prominent bacteriologists, though he is, of course, naturalised as a good Englishman, and is in general practice in Hampstead under an English name." The German professor, smiling, took up one of the hermetically sealed tubes, broke it, and from it quickly prepared a glass microscope-slide, not, however, before all three had put on rubber gloves and assumed what looked very much like gas-helmets, giving the three conspirators a most weird appearance. Then, while the Professor was engaged in focussing his microscope, Drost, his voice suddenly muffled behind the goggle-eyed mask, exhibited to Ortmann one of the glass bombs already prepared for use. It was about the size of a fifty-candle-power electric bulb, and its tube having been closed by melting the glass, it appeared filled with a pale-yellow vapour. "That dropped anywhere in a town would infect an enormous area," Drost explained. "The glass is so thin that it would pulverise by the small and almost noiseless force with which it would explode." "It could be dropped by hand--eh?" asked Ortmann. "And nobody would be the wiser." "No, if dropped by hand it would, no doubt, infect the person who dropped it. The best way will be to drop it from a car." "At night?" "No. In daylight--in a crowded street. It would then be more efficacious--death resulting within five days to everyone infected." "Terrible!" exclaimed the Kaiser's secret agent--the man of treble personality. "Yes. But it is according to instructions. See here!" and he took up what appeared to be a small bag of indiarubber--like a child's air-ball that had been deflated. "This acts exactly the same when filled, only the case is soluble. One minute after touching water or, indeed, any liquid, it dissolves, and thus releases the germs!" "_Gott_!" gasped Ortmann. "You are, indeed, a dealer in bottled death, my dear Theodore. Truly, you've been inventing some appalling things for our dear friends here--eh?" The man with the scraggy beard, who was a skilled German scientist, though he posed as a Dutch pastor, smiled evilly, while at that moment the man Meins, who had his eye upon the microscope, beckoned both of them forward to look. Ortmann obeyed, and placing his eye upon the tiny lens, saw in the brightly reflected light colonies of the most deadly bacilli yet discovered by German science--the germs of a certain hitherto unknown disease, against which there was no known remedy. The fifth day after infection of the human system death inevitably resulted. "All quite healthy!" declared the great bacteriologist from behind his mask. "What would our friends think if they knew the means by which they came into this country--eh?" Drost laughed, and, crossing to a cupboard, took out a fine Ribston-pippin apple. This he cut through with his pen-knife, revealing inside, where the core had been removed, one of the tiny tubes secreted. "They came like this from our friends in a certain neutral country," he laughed. From tube after tube Meins took and examined specimens, finding all the cultures virulent except one, which he placed aside. Then, turning to Drost, he gave his opinion that their condition was excellent. "But be careful--most scrupulously careful of yourself, and of whoever lives here with you--your family and servants. The bacteria are so easily carried in the air, now that we have opened the tubes." "Never fear," replied the muffled voice of Ella's father. "I shall be extremely careful. But what is your opinion regarding this?" he added, showing the professor one of the tiny bags of the soluble substance. Meins examined it closely. Obtaining permission, he cut out a tiny piece with scissors and placed it beneath his powerful microscope. Presently he pronounced it excellent. "I see that it is impervious. If it is soluble, as you say, then you certainly need have no fear of failure," he said, with a benign smile. Then he set to work to reseal the tubes he had opened, while Drost, with a kind of syringe, sprayed the room with some powerful germ-destroyer. Ten minutes later the pair had descended the stairs, while old Drost had switched off the light and locked the door of the secret laboratory wherein reposed the germs of a terrible disease known only to the enemies of Great Britain--a fatal malady which Germany intended to sow broadcast over the length and breadth of our land. For an hour they all three sat discussing the diabolical plot which would disseminate death over a great area of the United Kingdom, for Germany had many friends prepared to sacrifice their own lives for the Fatherland, and it was intended that those glass and rubber bombs should be dropped in all quarters to produce an epidemic of disease such as the world had never before experienced. Old Theodore Drost, installed in his comfortable dining-room again, opened a long bottle of Berncastler "Doctor"--a genuine bottle, be it said, for few who have sipped the "Doctor" wine of late have taken the genuine wine, so many fabrications did Germany make for us before the war. "But I warn you to be excessively careful," the professor said to Drost. "Your daughter comes here sometimes, does she not? Do be careful of her. Place powerful disinfectants here--all over the house--in every room," he urged; "although I have plugged the tubes with cotton wool properly treated to prevent the escape of the infection into the air, yet one never knows." "Ella is not often here," her father replied. "She is still playing in `Half a Moment!'; besides, she is rehearsing a new revue. So she, happily, has no time to come and see me." "But, for your own safety, and your servant's, do be careful," Meins urged. "To tell you the honest truth, I almost fear to remove my mask-- even now." "But there's surely no danger down here?" asked Drost eagerly. "There is always danger with such a terribly infectious malady. It is fifty times more fatal than double pneumonia. It attacks the lungs so rapidly that no remedy has any chance. Professor Steinwitz, of Stettin, discovered it." "And is there no remedy?" "None whatsoever. Its course is rapid--a poisoning of the whole pulmonary system, and it's even more contagious than small-pox." Then they removed their masks and drank to "The Day" in their German wine. Six nights later Stella Steele had feigned illness--a strain while on her motor-cycle, and her understudy was taking her part in "Half a Moment!" much to the disappointment of the men in khaki, who had seated themselves in the stalls to applaud her. Among the men on leave many had had her portrait upon a postcard--together with a programme in three-colour print--in their dug-outs in Flanders, for Stella Steele was "the rage" in the Army, and among the subalterns any who had ever met her, or who had "known her people," were at once objects of interest. In the darkness on a road with trees on either side--the road which runs from Tonbridge to Shipborne, and passes between Deene Park and Frith Wood--stood Kennedy and Ella. They had ridden down from London earlier in the evening and placed their motorcycles inside a gate which led into the forest on the left side of the road. They waited in silence, their ears strained, but neither uttered a word. Kennedy had showed his well-beloved the time. It was half-past one in the morning. Of a sudden, a motor-car came up the hill, a closed car, which passed them swiftly, and then, about a quarter-of-a-mile further on, came to a halt. Presently they heard footsteps in the darkness and in their direction there walked three men. The moon was shining fitfully through the clouds, therefore they were just able to distinguish them. The trio were whispering, and two of them were carrying good-sized kit-bags. They came to the gate where, inside, Ella and Kennedy had hidden their cycles, and there halted. That they were smoking Kennedy and his companion knew by the slight odour of tobacco that reached them. For a full quarter-of-an-hour they remained there, chatting in low whispers. "I wonder who they are?" asked Ella, bending to her lover's ear. "Who knows?" replied the air-pilot. "At any rate, we'll have a good view from here. You were not mistaken as to the spot?" "No. I heard it discussed last night," was the girl's reply. Then, a moment later, there was a low sound of wheels and horses' hoofs climbing the hill from the open common into that stretch of road darkened by the overhanging trees. Ella peered forth and saw a dim oil lamp approaching, while the jingling of the harness sounded plain as the horses strained at their traces. Onward they came, until when close to the gate where the three men lay in waiting, one of the latter flashed a bright light into the face of the old man who was driving the waggon, and shouted: "Stop! _Stop_!" The driver pulled up in surprise, dazzled by the light, but the next second another man had flung into his face a mixture of cayenne pepper and chemicals by which, in an instant, he had become blinded and stupefied, falling back into his seat inert and helpless. Then Ella and Kennedy, creeping up unnoticed by the three in their excitement, saw that they had mounted into the waggon, which was loaded with milk-churns--the waggon driven nightly from Furze Down Farm to the great camp at B--, carrying the milk for the morning. Upon these chums the three set swiftly to work, opening each, dropping in one of those soluble bombs, and closing them. The bombs they took from the two kit-bags they had carried from the car. They were engaged in carrying out one of the most dastardly plots ever conceived by Drost and his friends--infecting the milk supply of the great training-camp! Kennedy was itching to get at them and prevent them, but he saw that, by knowledge gained, he would be in a position to act more effectively than if he suddenly alarmed them. Therefore the pair stood by until they had finished their hideous work of filling each chum with the most deadly and infectious malady known to medical science. Presently, when they had finished, the old driver, still insensible, was lifted from his seat, carried into the wood, and there left, while one of the conspirators--who they could now see was dressed as a farm-hand, and would no doubt pose as a new labourer from Furze Down--took his place and drove on as though nothing had happened, leaving the other two to make their way back to the car. When the red rear-light of the waggon was receding, Kennedy and Ella followed it, for it did not proceed at much more than walking pace. They walked along in silence till they saw the two men re-enter the car, leaving their companion to deliver the milk at the camp. Evidently a fourth man had been waiting in the car for, as soon as they were in, the man who drove turned the car, which went back in the direction it had come, evidently intending to meet the second waggon, which was due to come up an hour afterwards. No doubt the same programme would be repeated, and the fourth man would drive the second car to the adjacent camp. As soon, however, as the car had got clear away, Kennedy and his well-beloved ran to their motorcycles, mounted them, and in a short time had passed in front of the milk-waggon ere it could get down into Shipborne village. Putting their motors against a fence, they waited until the waggon came up, when Kennedy stepped into the road, and flashing an electric lamp on to the driver's face, at the same time fired a revolver point-blank at him. This gave the fellow such a sudden and unexpected scare that he leaped down from the waggon and, next moment, had disappeared into the darkness, while Ella rushed to the horses' heads and stopped them. "That's all right!" laughed Kennedy. "Have you got your thick gloves on?" "Yes, dear." "Well, be careful that not a drop of milk goes over your hands or feet. There's lots of time to pitch it all out on the roadway." Then climbing into the waggon the pair, by a pre-arranged plan, began to open the chums and turn their contents out of the waggon until the whole wet roadway was white with milk, which soaked into the ground and ran into the gutters and down the drains: for, fortunately, being near Shipborne, the footpaths on either side were drained, and by that any chance of infection later would, they knew, be minimised. Each chum they turned upon its side until not a drain of milk remained within, and then, leading the horses to graze on the grass at the roadside, the pair sped swiftly back along the road in the direction the car had taken. About five miles away they found the conspirators' car upon the side of the road without any occupant. They were waiting for the second waggon. Without ado, Kennedy mounted into it, started it, and drew it out into the middle of the road, which at that point was upon a steep gradient. Then, taking a piece of blind-cord from his pocket, he swiftly tied up the steering-wheel and, jumping out, started the car down the hill. Away it flew at furious speed, gathering impetus as it went. For a few moments they could hear it roaring along until, suddenly, there was a terrific crash. "That's upset their plans, I know," he laughed to Ella. "We'll go and investigate in a moment, and watch the fun." This they did later on, finding the car turned turtle at the bottom of the hill, with three men standing around it in dismay. Kennedy inquired what had happened, but neither would say much. Yet, while they stood there, the second milk-laden waggon approached, passed, and went onward, its sleepy driver taking no notice of the five people at the roadside. For half-an-hour Kennedy and Ella remained there in pretence of endeavouring to right the car, until they knew that the waggon, with its contents, was well out of harm's way. Then they remounted and returned to London, having, by their ingenious investigations and patient watching, saved the lives of thousands of Great Britain's gallant boys in khaki. Two days later Theodore Drost was taken suddenly ill with symptoms which puzzled his local doctor at Barnes. He spoke to Ortmann over the telephone, but the latter dared not risk a visit to Castelnau. Ella also heard from her father over the telephone when, that night, she returned to Stamfordham Mansions at the end of the "show." She, knowing all she did, regarded a visit there as too dangerous, but rang up Kennedy at his air-station and guardedly informed him of the situation. Five days later Theodore Drost lay dead of a malady to which the bespectacled doctor at Barnes gave a name upon his certificate, but of which he was really as ignorant as his own chauffeur. But the curious part of the affair was that while Drost lay dead in the house, and the night before his burial, a mysterious fire broke out which gutted the place, a fact which no doubt must have been a great mystery to Ortmann and his friends. The Metropolitan Fire Brigade still entertain very grave suspicions that it was due to an incendiary because of its fierceness; yet who, they ask themselves, could have had any evil design upon the property of the poor dead Dutch pastor? The End. 
33996	----	The Spy in Black BY J. STORER CLOUSTON AUTHOR OF 'THE LUNATIC AT LARGE,' ETC. William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London 1917 _ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_ BY THE SAME AUTHOR. TWO'S TWO. THE LUNATIC AT LARGE. THE ADVENTURES OF M. D'HARICOT. OUR LADY'S INN. GAR-MISCATH. THE PRODIGAL FATHER. THE PEER'S PROGRESS. HIS FIRST OFFENCE. CONTENTS. PART I. THE NARRATIVE OF LIEUTENANT VON BELKE (OF THE GERMAN NAVY). TOC I. THE LANDING II. NIGHT IN THE RUINED HOUSE III. BEHIND THE WALL IV. THE NAILS V. WAITING ETOC PART II. A FEW CHAPTERS BY THE EDITOR. TOC I. THE PLEASANT STRANGER II. THE CHAUFFEUR III. ON THE CLIFF IV. MR DRUMMOND'S VISITOR V. ON THE MAIL BOAT VI. THE VANISHING GOVERNESS ETOC PART III. LIEUTENANT VON BELKE'S NARRATIVE RESUMED. TOC I. THE MEETING II. TIEL'S STORY III. THE PLAN IV. WHAT HAPPENED ON SUNDAY V. A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE VI. THE VISITOR VII. AT NIGHT VIII. THE DECISION IX. ON THE SHORE ETOC PART IV. LIEUTENANT VON BELKE'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED. TOC I. WEDNESDAY II. THURSDAY III. THURSDAY NIGHT IV. FRIDAY ETOC PART V. A FEW CONCLUDING CHAPTERS BY THE EDITOR, TOC I. TIEL'S JOURNEY II. THE LADY III. THE EMPTY ENVELOPE ETOC PART I. THE NARRATIVE OF LIEUTENANT VON BELKE (OF THE GERMAN NAVY) I. THE LANDING. If any one had been watching the bay that August night (which, fortunately for us, there was not), they would have seen up till an hour after midnight as lonely and peaceful a scene as if it had been some inlet in Greenland. The war might have been waging on another planet. The segment of a waning moon was just rising, but the sky was covered with clouds, except right overhead where a bevy of stars twinkled, and it was a dim though not a dark night. The sea was as flat and calm as you can ever get on an Atlantic coast--a glassy surface, but always a gentle regular bursting of foam upon the beach. In a semicircle the shore rose black, towering at either horn (and especially on the south) into high dark cliffs. I suppose a bird or two may have been crying then as they were a little later, but there was not a light nor a sign of anything human being within a hundred miles. If one of the Vikings who used to live in those islands had revisited that particular glimpse of the moon, he could never have guessed that his old haunts had altered a tittle. But if he had waited a while he would have rubbed his eyes and wondered. Right between the headlands he would have seen it dimly:--a great thing that was not a fish rising out of the calm water, and then very stealthily creeping in and in towards the southern shore. When we were fairly on the surface I came on deck and gazed over the dark waters to the darker shore, with--I don't mind confessing it now--a rather curious sensation. To tell the truth, I was a little nervous, but I think I showed no sign of it to Wiedermann. "You have thought of everything you can possibly need?" he asked in a low voice. "Everything, sir, I think," I answered confidently. "No need to give you tips!" he said with a laugh. I felt flattered--but still my heart was beating just a little faster than usual! In we crept closer and closer, with the gentlest pulsation of our engines that could not have been heard above the lapping of the waves on the pebbles. An invisible gull or two wheeled and cried above us, but otherwise there was an almost too perfect stillness. I could not help an uncomfortable suspicion that _someone_ was watching. _Someone_ would soon be giving the alarm, _someone_ would presently be playing the devil with my schemes. It was sheer nonsense, but then I had never played the spy before--at least, not in war-time. Along the middle of the bay ran a beach of sand and pebbles, with dunes and grass links above, but at the southern end the water was deep close inshore, and there were several convenient ledges of rock between the end of this beach and the beginning of the cliffs. The submarine came in as close as she dared, and then, without an instant's delay, the boat was launched. Wiedermann, myself, two sailors, and the motor-bicycle just managed to squeeze in, and we cautiously pulled for the ledges. The tide was just right (we had thought of everything, I must say that), and after a minute or two's groping along the rocks, we found a capital landing. Wiedermann and I jumped ashore as easily as if it had been a quay, and my bicycle should have been landed without a hitch. How it happened I know not, but just as the sailors were lifting it out, the boat swayed a little and one of the clumsy fellows let his end of it slip. A splash of spray broke over it; a mere nothing, it seemed at the time, and then I had hold of it and we lifted it on to the ledge. Wiedermann spoke sharply to the man, but I assured him no harm had been done, and between us we wheeled the thing over the flat rocks, and pulled it up to the top of the grass bank beyond. "I can manage all right by myself now," I said. "Good-bye, sir!" He gave my hand a hard clasp. "This is Thursday night," he said. "We shall be back on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights, remember." "The British Navy and the weather permitting!" I laughed. "Do not fear!" said he. "I shall be here, and we shall get you aboard somehow. Come any one of those nights that suits _him_." "That suits him?" I laughed. "Say rather that suits Providence!" "Well," he repeated, "I'll be here anyhow. Good luck!" We saluted, and I started on my way, wheeling my bicycle over the grass. I confess, however, that I had not gone many yards before I stopped and looked back. Wiedermann had disappeared from the top of the bank, and in a moment I heard the faint sounds of the boat rowing back. Very dimly against the grey sea I could just pick out the conning tower and low side of the submarine. The gulls were still crying, but in a more sombre key, I fancied. So here was I, Conrad von Belke, lieutenant in the German Navy, treading British turf underfoot, cut off from any hope of escape for three full days at least! And it was not ordinary British turf either. I was on the holy of holies, actually landed on those sacred, jealously-guarded islands (which, I presume, I must not even name here), where the Grand Fleet had its lair. As to the mere act of landing, well, you have just seen that there was no insuperable difficulty in stepping ashore from a submarine at certain places, if the conditions were favourable and the moment cunningly chosen; but I proposed to penetrate to the innermost sanctuary, and spend at least three days there--a very different proposition! I had been chosen for this service for three reasons: because I was supposed to be a cool hand in what the English call a "tight place"; because I could talk English not merely fluently, but with the real accent and intonation--like a native, in fact; and I believe because they thought me not quite a fool. As you shall hear, there was to be one much wiser than I to guide me. He was indeed the brain of this desperate enterprise, and I but his messenger and assistant. Still, one wants a messenger with certain qualities, and as it is the chief object of this narrative to clear my honour in the eyes of those who sent me, I wish to point out that they deliberately chose me for this job--I did not select myself--and that I did my best. It was my own idea to take a motor-bicycle, but it was an idea cordially approved by those above me. There were several obvious advantages. A motor-cyclist is not an uncommon object on the roads even of those out-of-the-way islands, so that my mere appearance would attract no suspicion; and besides, they would scarcely expect a visitor of my sort to come ashore equipped with such an article. Also, I would cover the ground quickly, and, if it came to the worst, might have a chance of evading pursuit. But there was one reason which particularly appealed to me: I could wear my naval uniform underneath a suit of cyclist's overalls, and so if I were caught might make a strong plea to escape the fate of a spy; in fact, I told myself I was not a spy,--simply a venturesome scout. Whether the British would take the same view of me was another question! Still, the motor-cycle did give me a chance. My first task was to cover the better part of twenty miles before daybreak and join forces with "him" in the very innermost shrine of this sanctuary--or rather, on the shore of it. This seemed a simple enough job; I had plenty of time, the roads, I knew, were good, nobody would be stirring (or anyhow, ought to be) at that hour, and the arrangements for my safe reception were, as you shall hear, remarkably ingenious. If I once struck the hard main road, I really saw nothing that could stop me. The first thing was to strike this road. Of course I knew the map by heart, and had a copy in my pocket as a precaution that was almost superfluous, but working by map-memory in the dark is not so easy when one is going across country. The grassy bank fell gently before me as the land sloped down from the cliffs to the beach, and I knew that within a couple of hundred yards I should find a rough road which followed the shore for a short way, and then when it reached the links above the beach, turned at right angles across them to join the highroad. Accordingly I bumped my motor-cycle patiently over the rough grass, keeping close to the edge of the bank so as to guide myself, and every now and then making a detour of a few yards inland to see whether the road had begun. The minutes passed, the ground kept falling till I was but a little above the level of the glimmering sea, the road ought to have begun to keep me company long ago, but never a sign of it could I find. Twice in my detours I stumbled into what seemed sand-holes, and turned back out of them sharply. And then at last I realised that I had ceased to descend for the last hundred yards or more, and in fact must be on the broad stretch of undulating sea links that fringed the head of the bay. But where was my road? I stopped, bade myself keep quite cool and composed, and peered round me into the night. The moon was farther up and it had become a little lighter, but the clouds still obscured most of the sky and it was not light enough to see much. Overhead were the stars; on one hand the pale sea merged into the dark horizon; all around me were low black hummocks that seem to fade into an infinity of shadows. The gulls still cried mournfully, and a strong pungent odour of seaweed filled the night air. I remember that pause very vividly. I should have been reckless enough to light a cigarette had I not feared that our submarine might still be on the surface, and Wiedermann might see the flash and dub me an idiot. I certainly needed a smoke very badly and took some credit to myself for refraining (though perhaps I ought really have given it to Wiedermann). And then I decided to turn back, slanting, however, a little away from the sea so as to try and cut across the road. A minute or two later I tumbled into a small chasm and came down with the bicycle on top of me. I had found my road. The fact was that the thing, though marked on the large-scale map as a road of the third, fourth, or tenth quality (I forget which), was actually nothing more or less than three parallel crevasses in the turf filled with loose sand. It was into these crevasses that I had twice stumbled already. Now with my back to the sea and keeping a yard or two away from this wretched track, but with its white sand to guide me, I pushed my motor-cycle laboriously over the rough turf for what seemed the better part of half an hour. In reality I suppose it was under ten minutes, but with the night passing and that long ride before me, I never want a more patience-testing job. And then suddenly the white sand ceased. I stepped across to see what was the matter, and found myself on a hard highroad. It was a branch of the main road that led towards the shore, and for the moment I had quite forgotten its existence. I could have shouted for joy. "Now," I said to myself, "I'm off!" And off I went, phut-phut-phutting through the cool night air, with a heart extraordinarily lightened. That little bit of trouble at the start had made the rest of the whole wild enterprise seem quite simple now that it was safely over. I reached the end of this branch, swung round to the right into the highroad proper and buzzed along like a tornado. The sea by this time had vanished, but I saw the glimmer of a loch on my left, and close at hand low walls and dim vistas of cultivated fields. A dark low building whizzed by, and then a gaunt eerie-looking standing stone, and then came a dip and beyond it a little rise in the ground. As I took this rise there suddenly came upon me a terrible sinking of the heart. Phut-phut! went my cycle, loudly and emphatically, and then came a horrible pause. Phut! once more; then two or three feeble explosions, and then silence. My way stopped; I threw over my leg and landed on the road. "What the devil!" I muttered. I had cleaned the thing, oiled it, seen that everything was in order; what in heaven's name could be the matter? And then with a dreadful sensation I remembered that wave of salt water. II. NIGHT IN THE RUINED HOUSE. You may smile to think of a sailor being dismayed by a splash of salt water; but not if you are a motor-cyclist! Several very diabolical consequences may ensue. In the middle of that empty road, in that alien land, under the hostile stars, I took my electric torch and endeavoured to discover what was the matter. From the moment I remembered the probable salt, wet cause of my mishap I had a pretty hopeless feeling. At the end of ten minutes I felt not merely quite hopeless, but utterly helpless. Helpless as a child before a charging elephant, hopeless as a man at the bottom of an Alpine crevasse. Ignition, carburettor, what had been damaged? In good daylight it might take me an hour or two first to discover and then to mend. By the radiance of my torch I would probably spend a night or two, and be none the wiser. And meantime the precious dark hours were slipping away, and scattered all over the miles of country lay foemen sleeping--nothing but foes. I was in a sea-girt isle with but one solitary friend, and he was nearly twenty miles away, and I had the strictest orders not to approach him save under the cover of darkness. Enough cause for a few pretty black moments, I think you will allow. And then I took myself by the scruff of the neck and gave myself a hearty shake. Had I been picked for this errand because I was a coward or a resourceless fool? No! Well, then, I must keep my head and use my wits, and if I could not achieve the best thing, I must try to do the second best. I ran over all the factors in the problem. Firstly, to wait in the middle of that road trying to accomplish a job which I knew perfectly well it was a thousand chances to one against my managing, was sheer perverse folly. Secondly, to leave my cycle in a ditch and try to cover the distance on my own two legs before daybreak was a physical impossibility. My cycle being one of the modern kind with no pedals, I could not even essay the dreadful task of grinding it along with my feet. Therefore I could not reach my haven to-night by any conceivable means. On the other hand, I would still be expected to-morrow night, for our plans were laid to allow something for mischances; so if I could conceal myself and my cycle through the coming day, all might yet be well. Therefore I must devise some plan for concealing myself. Logic had brought me beautifully so far, but now came the rub--Where was I to hide? These islands, you may or may not know, are to all practical purposes treeless and hedgeless. They have many moors and waste places, but of an abominable kind for a fugitive--especially a fugitive with a motor-cycle. The slopes are long and usually gentle and quite exposed; ravines and dells are few and far between and farther still to reach. Caves and clefts among the rocks might be found no doubt, but I should probably break my neck looking for them in the dark. Conceive of a man with a motor-bicycle looking for a cave by starlight! And then a heaven-sent inspiration visited me. On board we had of course maps with every house marked, however small, and who lived in it, and so on. We do things thoroughly, even though at the moment there may not be any apparent reason for some of the details. I blessed our system now, for suddenly in my mind's eye I saw a certain group of farm buildings marked "ruinous and uninhabited." And now where the devil was it? My own pocket map of course had no such minute details and I had to work my memory hard. And then in a flash I saw the map as distinctly as if it had really been under my eye instead of safely under the Atlantic. "I have a chance still!" I said to myself. By the light of my torch I had a careful look at my small map, and then I set forth pushing my lifeless cycle. To get to my refuge I had to turn back and retrace my steps (or perhaps I should rather say my revolutions) part way to the shore till I came to a road branching southwards, roughly parallel to the coast. It ascended continuously and pretty steeply, and I can assure you it was stiff work pushing a motor-cycle up that interminable hill, especially when one was clad for warmth and not for exercise. Dimly in the waxing moonlight I could see low farm buildings here and there, but luckily not a light shone nor a dog barked from one of them. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the sea, now quite distinct and with a faint sheen upon its surface, widening and widening as I rose. But I merely glanced at it enviously and concentrated my attention on the task of finding my "ruinous and uninhabited" farm. I twice nearly turned off the road too soon, but I did find it at last--a low tumble-down group of little buildings some two hundred yards or so off the road on the right, or seaward side. Here the cultivated fields stopped, and beyond them the road ascended through barren moorland. My refuge was, in fact, the very last of the farms as one went up the hill. It lay pretty isolated from the others, and there was a track leading to it that enabled me to push my cycle along fairly comfortably. "I might have come to a much worse place!" I said to myself hopefully. Though there was not a sign of life about the place, and not a sound of any kind, I still proceeded warily, as I explored the derelict farm. I dared not even use my torch till I had stooped through an open door, and was safely within one of the buildings. When I flashed it round me I saw then that I stood in a small and absolutely empty room, which might at one time have been anything from a parlour to a byre, but now seemed consecrated to the cultivation of nettles. It had part of a roof overhead, and seemed as likely to suit my purpose as any other of the dilapidated group, so I brought my cycle in, flattened a square yard or two of nettles, and sat down on the floor with my back against the wall. And then I lit a cigarette and meditated. "My young friend," I said to myself, "you are in an awkward position, but, remember, you have been in awkward positions before when there were no such compensating advantages! Let us consider these advantages and grow cheerful. You are privileged to render your country such a service as few single Germans have been able to render her--if this plan succeeds! If it fails, your sacrifice will not be unknown or unappreciated. Whatever happens, you will have climbed a rung or two up the ladder of duty, and perhaps of fame." This eloquence pleased my young friend so much that he lit another cigarette. "Consider again," I resumed, "what an opportunity you have been unexpectedly presented with for exhibiting your resourcefulness and your coolness and your nerve! If it had not been for that wave of salt water your task would have been almost too simple. Your own share of the enterprise would merely have consisted in a couple of easy rides on a motor-cycle, and perhaps the giving of a few suggestions, or the making of a few objections, which would probably have been brushed aside as worthless. Now you have really something to test you!" This oration produced a less exhilarating effect. In fact, it set me to wondering very gravely how I could best justify this implied tribute to my powers of surmounting difficulties. Till the day broke all I had to do was to sit still, but after that--what? I pondered for a few minutes, and then I came to the conclusion that an hour or two's sleep would probably freshen my wits. I knew I could count on waking when the sun rose, and so I closed my eyes, and presently was fast asleep. When I awoke, it was broad daylight. Looking first through the pane-less window and then through the gap in the roof, I saw that it was a grey, still morning that held promise of a fine day, though whether that was to my advantage or disadvantage I did not feel quite sure. Nobody seemed to be stirring yet about the houses or fields, so I had still time for deliberation before fate forced my hand. First of all, I had a look round my immediate surroundings. I was well sheltered, as all the walls were standing, and there was most of a roof over my head (the last being a point of some importance in case any aircraft chanced to make a flight in this direction). It is true that the door was gone, but even here I seemed fortunate, for another small building, also dilapidated-looking but in somewhat better condition, stood right opposite the open doorway and hid it completely. This little building still had a dishevelled door which stood closed, and for a moment I half thought of changing my shelter and taking possession of it; and then I decided that where fate had directed my steps, there should I abide. The next thing obviously was to overhaul my motor-cycle, and this I set about at once, though all the time my thoughts kept working. In the course of an hour or so I had located the trouble in the carburettor and put it right again, and I had also begun to realise a few of the pros and cons of the situation. I now ate a few sandwiches, had a pull at my flask, lit a cigarette, and put the case to myself squarely. "With a motor-cycle, the whole island at my disposal, and daylight in which to search it through, I can surely find a hiding-place a little farther removed from inquisitive neighbours," I said to myself. "So the sooner I am off the better." But then I answered back-- "On the other hand it may take me some hours to find a better spot than this, and a man tearing about the country on a motor-cycle is decidedly more conspicuous in the early morning than in the middle of the day or the afternoon when cyclists are natural objects. "But again, if I do think of leaving this place I certainly ought not to be seen in the act of emerging from a ruinous house pushing my cycle--not, at least, if I wish to be considered a normal feature of the landscape. I have a chance of escaping now unobserved; shall I have such a chance later in the day?" Finally I decided to compromise. I should stay where I was till the hour when all the farmers had their midday meal. Then I might well hope to slip out unobserved, and thereafter scour the country looking for the ideal hiding-place without attracting any particular attention. But whatever merits this scheme may have had were destined never to be tested. From my seat amid the nettles I could see right through the open door, and my eyes all this while were resting on the glimpse of grey building outside. All at once I held my breath, and the hand that was lifting a cigarette to my lips grew rigid. A thin wisp of smoke was rising from the chimney. III. BEHIND THE WALL. "Ruinous" these farm buildings certainly were; but "uninhabited"--obviously not quite! I rose stealthily and crossed to the door, and just as I reached it the door of the other house began to open. I stepped back and peered round the corner for quite a minute before anything more happened. My neighbour, whoever he was, seemed unconscionably slow in his movements. And then a very old, bent, and withered woman appeared, with a grey shawl about her head. As she looked slowly round her, first to one side and then to the other, I cautiously drew back; but even as I did so I knew it was too late. A wisp of smoke had given us both away. This time it was a trail from my cigarette which I could see quite plainly drifting through the open door. I heard her steps coming towards me, and then her shadow filled the doorway. There was nothing for it but taking the bull by the horns. "Good morning!" I said genially. She did not start. She did not speak. She just stared at me out of as unpleasant-looking a pair of old eyes as I have ever looked into. I suspected at once why the old crone lived here by herself; she did not look as if she would be popular among her neighbours. "I think it is going to be a fine day," I continued breezily. She simply continued to stare; and if ever I saw suspicion in human eyes, I saw it in hers. "What do you think yourself?" I inquired with a smile. "I have no doubt you are more weatherwise than I." Then at last she spoke, and I thought I had never heard a more sinister remark. "Maybe it will be a fine day for some," she replied. "I hope I may be one of them!" I said as cheerfully as possible. She said not one word in reply, and her silence completed the ominous innuendo. It struck me that a word of explanation would be advisable. "My bicycle broke down," I said, "and I took the liberty of bringing it in here to repair it." Her baleful gaze turned upon my hapless motor-cycle. "What for did you have to mend it in here?" she inquired; very pertinently, I could not but admit. "It was the most convenient place I could find," I replied carelessly. "To keep it from the rain maybe?" she suggested. "Well," I admitted, "a roof has some advantages." "Then," said she, "you've been here a long while, for there's been no rain since I wakened up." "But I didn't say I came here for shelter," I said hastily. She stared at me again for a few moments. "You're saying first one thing and then the other," she pronounced. I felt inclined to tell her that she had missed her vocation. What a terrible specimen of the brow-beating, cross-examining lawyer she would have made! However, I decided that my safest line was cheerful politeness. "Have it your own way, my good dame!" I said lightly. Her evil eyes transfixed me. "You'll be a foreigner," she said. "A foreigner!" I exclaimed; "why on earth should you think that?" "You're using queer words," she replied. "What words?" I demanded. "Dame is the German for an old woman," said she. This astonishing philological discovery might have amused me at another time, but at this moment it only showed me too clearly how her thoughts were running. "Well," said I, "if it's German, I can only say it is the first word of that beastly language I've ever spoken!" Again I was answered by a very ominous silence. It occurred to me very forcibly that the sooner I removed myself from this neighbourhood the better. "Well," I said, "my bicycle is mended now, so I had better be off." "You had that," she agreed. "Good-bye!" I cried as I led my cycle out, but she never spoke a syllable in reply. "Fate has not lost much time in forcing my hand!" I said to myself as I pushed my motor-cycle along the track towards the highroad. I thought it wiser not to look round, but just before I reached the road I glanced over my left shoulder, and there was the old woman crossing the fields at a much brisker pace than I should have given her credit for, and heading straight for the nearest farm. My hand was being forced with a vengeance. Instinctively I should liked to have turned uphill and got clear of this district immediately, but I was not sure how my cycle would behave itself, and dared not risk a stiff ascent to begin with. So I set off at top speed down the road I had come the night before, passing the old crone at a little distance off, and noticing more than one labourer in the fields or woman at a house door, staring with interest at this early morning rider. When the news had spread of where he had come from, and with what language he interlarded his speech, they might do something more than stare. There was a telegraph-office not at all far away. As I sped down that hill and swung round away from the sea at the foot, I did a heap of quick thinking. As things had turned out I dared not make for any place of concealment far off the highroads. Now that there was a probability of the hue and cry being raised, or at least of a look-out being kept for me, the chances of successfully slipping up the valley of some burn without any one's notice were enormously decreased. I had but to glance round at the openness of the countryside to realise that. No; on the highroads I could at least run away, but up in the moors I should be a mere trapped rat. Then I had the bright thought of touring in zigzag fashion round and round the island, stopping every here and there to address an inhabitant and leave a false clue, so as to confuse my possible pursuers. But what about my petrol? I might need every drop if I actually did come to be chased. So I gave up that scheme. Finally, I decided upon a plan which really seems to me now to be as promising as any I could think of. About the least likely place to look for me would be a few miles farther along the same road that ran past my last night's refuge, in the opposite direction from that in which people had seen me start. I resolved to make a detour and then work back to that road. I had arrived at this decision by the time I reached the scene of last night's mishap. Fortunately my cycle was running like a deer now, and I swept up the little slope in a few seconds and sped round the loch, opening up fresh vistas of round-topped heather hills and wide green or brown valleys every minute. At a lonely bit of the road I jumped off, studied my map afresh, and then dashed on again. Presently a side road opened, leading back towards the coast, and round the corner I sped; but even as I did so the utter hopelessness of my performance struck me vividly--that is to say, if a really serious and organised hunt for me were to be set afoot. For the roadside was dotted with houses, often at considerable intervals it is true, but then all of them had such confoundedly wide views over that open country. There was a house or two at the very corner where I turned, and I distinctly saw a face appearing at a window to watch me thunder past. The noise these motor-cycles make is simply infernal! It was then that I fell into the true spirit for such an adventure. Since the chances were everywhere against me _if_ my enemies took certain steps, well then, the only thing to do was to hope they did not take them and dismiss that matter from my mind. I was taking the best precautions I could think of, and the cooler I kept and better spirits I was in, the more likely would luck be to follow me. For luck is a discerning lady and likes those who trust her. Accordingly, the sun being now out and the morning beautifully fine, I decided to enjoy the scenery and make the most of a day ashore. My first step was to ease up and ride just as slowly as I could, and then I saw at once that I was doing the wisest thing in every way. I made less noise and less dust, and was altogether much less of a phenomenon. And this encouraged me greatly to keep to my new resolution. "If I leave it all to luck, she will advise me well!" I said to myself. I headed coastwards through a wide marshy valley with but few houses about, and in a short time saw the sea widening before me and presently struck the road I was seeking. At the junction I obeyed an impulse, and, jumping off my cycle, paused to survey the scenery. A fertile vale fell from where I stood, down to a small bay between headlands. It was filled with little farms, and all at once there came over me an extraordinary impression of peacefulness and rest. Could it actually be that this was a country at war; that naval war, indeed, was very very close at hand, and beneath those shining waters a submarine might even now be stealing or a loose mine drifting? The wide, sunshiny, placid atmosphere of the scene, with its vast expanse of clear blue sky, larks singing high up and sea-birds crying about the shore, soothed my spirits like a magician's wand. I mounted and rode on again in an amazingly pleasant frame of mind for a spy within a hair's-breadth of capture, and very probably of ignominious death. Up a long hill my engine gently throbbed, with moorland on either side that seemed to be so desolated by the gales and sea spray that even heather could scarcely flourish. I meant to stop and rest by the wayside, but after a look at the map I thought on the whole I had better put another mile or two between me and the lady with the baleful eyes. At the top I had a very wide prospect of inland country to the left, a treeless northern-looking scene, all green and brown with many lakes reflecting the sunshine. A more hopeless land to hide in I never beheld, and I was confirmed in my reckless resolution. Chance alone must protect me. Down a still steeper hill I rode, only now amid numberless small farms and with another bay shining ahead. The road ran nearly straight into the water and then bent suddenly and followed the rim of the bay, with nothing but empty sea-links on the landward side. The farms were left behind, a mansion-house by the shore was still a little distance ahead, and there was not a living soul in sight as I came to a small stone-walled enclosure squeezed in between the road and the beach below. I jumped off, led my cycle round this and laid it on the ground, and then seated myself with my back against the low wall of loose stones and my feet almost projecting over the edge of the steep slope of pebbles that fell down to the sand. I was only just out of sight, but unless any one should walk along the beach, out of sight I certainly was, and it struck me forcibly that ever since I had given myself up to luck, every impulse had been an inspiration. If I were conducting the search for myself, would I ever dream of looking for the mysterious runaway behind a wall three feet high within twenty paces of a public road and absolutely exposed to a wide sweep of beach? "No," I told myself, "I certainly should not!" There I sat for hour after hour basking in the sunshine, and yet despite my heavy clothing kept at a bearable temperature by gentle airs of cool breeze off the sea. The tide, which was pretty high when I arrived, crept slowly down the sands, but save for the cruising and running of gulls and little piping shore-birds, that was all the movement on the beach. Not a soul appeared below me all that time. The calm shining sea remained absolutely empty except once for quarter of an hour or so when a destroyer was creeping past far out. To the seaward there was not a hint of danger or the least cause for apprehension. On the road behind me I did hear sounds several times, which I confess disturbed my equanimity much more than I meant to let them. Once a motor-car buzzed past, and not to hold my breath as the sound swelled so rapidly and formidably was more than I could achieve. The jogging of a horse and trap twice set me wondering, despite myself, whether there were a couple of men with carbines aboard. But the slow prolonged rattling and creaking of carts was perhaps the sound that worried me most. They took such an interminable time to pass! I conceived a very violent distaste for carts. I do take some credit to myself that not once did I yield to the temptation to peep over my wall and see who it was that passed along the road. I did not even turn and try to peer through the chinks in the stones, but simply sat like a limpet till the sounds had died completely away. The only precaution I took was to extinguish my cigarette if I chanced at the moment to be smoking. In the course of my long bask in that sun bath I ate most of my remaining sandwiches and a cake or two of chocolate, but kept the remainder against emergencies. At last as the sun wore round, gradually descending till it shone right into my eyes, and I realised that the afternoon was getting far through, hope began to rise higher and higher. It actually seemed as if I were going to be allowed to remain within twenty yards of a highroad till night fell. "And then let them look for me!" I thought. I don't think my access of optimism caused me to make any incautious movement. I know I was not smoking, in fact it must simply have been luck determined to show me that I was not her only favourite. Anyhow, when I first heard a footstep it was on the grass within five yards of me, and the next moment a man came round the corner of the wall and stopped dead short at the sight of me. He was a countryman, a small farmer or hired man, I should judge--a broad-faced, red-bearded, wide-shouldered, pleasant-looking fellow, and he must have been walking for some distance on the grass by the roadside, though what made him step the few yards out of his way to look round the corner of the wall, I have never discovered to this day. Possibly he meant to descend to the beach at that point. Anyhow there he was, and as we looked into one another's eyes for a moment in silence I could tell as surely as if he had said the words that he had heard the story of the suspicious motor-cyclist. IV. THE NAILS. "A fine afternoon," I remarked, without rising, and I hope without showing any sign of emotion other than pleasure at making an acquaintance. "Aye," said he, briefly and warily. This discouraging manner was very ominous, for the man was as good-natured and agreeable-looking a fellow as I ever met. "The weather looks like keeping up," I said. He continued to look at me steadily, and made no answer at all this time. Then he turned his back to me very deliberately, lifted his felt hat, and waved it two or three times round his head, evidently to some one in the distance. I saw instantly that mischief was afoot and time precious, yet the fellow was evidently determined and stout-hearted, besides being physically very powerful, and it would never do to rouse his suspicions to the pitch of grappling with me. Of course I might use my revolver, but I had no wish to add a civilian's death to the other charge I might have to face before that sun had set. Suddenly luck served me well again by putting into my head a well-known English cant phrase. "Are you often taken like that?" I inquired with a smile. He turned round again and stared blankly. I imitated the movement of waving a hat, and laughed. "Or is it a family custom?" I asked. He was utterly taken aback, and looked rather foolish. I sat still and continued to smile at him. And then he broke into a smile himself. "I was just waving on a friend," he explained, and I could detect a note of apology in his voice. For the moment he was completely hoodwinked. How long it would last Heaven knew, but I clearly could not afford to imitate Mr Asquith, and "wait and see." "Oh," I said with a laugh, "I see!" And then I glanced at my wristlet watch, and sprang to my feet with an exclamation. "By Jove, I'll be late!" I said, and picking up my cycle wheeled it briskly to the road, remarking genially as I went, "the days are not so long as they were!" I never saw a man more obviously divided in mind. Was I the suspicious person he fancied at first? Or was I an honest and peaceable gentleman? Meanwhile I had cast one brief but sufficient glance along the road. Just at the foot of the steep hill down which I had come in the morning a man was mounting a motor-cycle. Beside him stood one or two others--country folk, so far as I could judge at the distance, and piecing things together, it seemed plain that my friend had lately been one of the party, and that the man they had been gossiping with was a motor-cyclist in search of me, who had actually paused to make inquiries within little over a quarter of a mile from where I sat. Quite possibly he had been there for some time, and almost certainly he would have ridden past without suspecting my presence if it had not been for the diabolical mishap of this chance encounter. I had planted my cycle on the road, and was ready to mount before my friend had made up his mind what to do. Even then his procedure luckily lacked decision. "Beg pardon, sir--!" he began, making a step towards me. "Good evening!" I shouted, and the next instant the engine had started, and I was in my saddle. Even then my pursuer had got up so much speed that he must surely have caught me had he not stopped to make inquiry of my late acquaintance. I was rounding a corner at the moment, and so was able to glance over my shoulder and see what was happening. The cyclist was then in the act of remounting, and I noted that he was in very dark clothes. It might or might not have been a uniform, but I fancied it was. Anyhow, I felt peculiarly little enthusiasm for making his acquaintance. On I sped, working rapidly up to forty miles an hour, and quite careless now of any little sensation I might cause. I had sensations myself, and did not grudge them to other people. The road quickly left the coast and turned directly inland, and presently it began to wind along the edge of a long reedy stretch of water, with a steep bank above it on the other side. The windings gave me several chances of catching a glimpse of my pursuer, and I saw that I was gaining nothing; in fact, if anything he was overhauling me. "I'll try them!" I said to myself. "Them" were nails. Wiedermann had done me no more than justice in assuming I had come well provided against possible contingencies. Each of my side-pockets had a little packet of large-headed, sharp-pointed nails. I had several times thrown them experimentally on the floor of my cabin, and found that a gratifying number lay point upwards. I devoutly prayed they would behave as reasonably now. This stretch of road was ideal for their use--narrow, and with not a house to give succour or a spectator to witness such a very suspicious performance, I threw a handful behind me, and at the next turn of the road glanced round to see results. The man was still going strong. I threw another handful and then a third, but after that the road ran straight for a space, and it was only when it bent to the right round the head of the loch that I was able to see him again. He had stopped far back, and was examining his tyres. The shadows by this time were growing long, but there were still some hours before darkness would really shelter me, and in the meantime what was I to do with myself, and where to turn? Judging from the long time that had elapsed between my discovery in the early morning and the appearance of this cyclist at the very place which I had thought would be the last where they would seek me, the rest of the island had probably been searched and the hue and cry had died down by this time. So for some time I ought to be fairly safe anywhere: until, in fact, my pursuer had reached a telegraph office, and other scouts had then been collected and sent out. And if my man was an average human being, he would certainly waste a lot of precious time in trying to pump up his tyres or mend them before giving it up as a bad job and walking to a telegraph office. That, in fact, was what he did, for in this open country I was able a few minutes later to see him in the far distance still stopping by that loch shore. But though I believe in trusting to chance, I like to give myself as many chances as possible. I knew where all the telegraph offices were, and one was a little nearer him than I quite liked. So half a mile farther on, at a quiet spot on a hill, I jumped off and swarmed up one of the telegraph-posts by the roadside, and then I took out of my pocket another happy inspiration. When I came down again, there was a gap in the wire. There was now quite a good chance that I might retain my freedom till night fell, and if I could hold out so long as that--well, we should see what happened then! But what was to be done in the meantime? A strong temptation assailed me, and I yielded to it. I should get as near to my night's rendezvous as possible, and try to find some secluded spot there. It was not perhaps the very wisest thing to risk being seen there by daylight and bring suspicion on the neighbourhood where I meant to spend two or three days; but you will presently see why I was so strongly tempted. So great, in fact, was the temptation that till I got there I hardly thought of the risk. I rode for a little longer through the same kind of undulating, loch-strewn inland country, and then I came again close to the sea. But it was not the open sea this time. It was a fairly wide sound that led from the ocean into a very important place, and immediately I began to see things. What things they were precisely I may not say, but they had to do with warfare, with making this sound about as easy for a hostile ship to get through, whether above the water or below, as a pane of glass is for a bluebottle. As I rode very leisurely, with my head half turned round all the while, I felt that my time was not wasted if I escaped safely, having seen simply what I now noted. For my eye could put interpretations on features that would convey nothing to the ordinary traveller. Gradually up and up a long gentle incline I rode, with the sound falling below me and a mass of high dark hills rising beyond it. Behind me the sun was now low, and my shadow stretched long on the empty road ahead. For it was singularly empty, and the country-side was utterly peaceful; only at sea was there life--with death very close beside it. And now and then there rose at intervals a succession of dull, heavy sounds that made the earth quiver. I knew what they meant! Then came a dip, and then a very steep long hill through moorland country. And then quite suddenly and abruptly I came to the top. It was a mere knife-edge, with the road instantly beginning to descend steeply on the other side, but I did not descend with the road. I jumped off and stared with bated breath. Ahead of me and far below, a wide island-encircled sheet of water lay placid and smiling in the late afternoon sunshine. Strung along one side of it were lines of grey ships, with a little smoke rising from most of their funnels, but lying quite still and silent--as still and silent as the farms and fields on shore. Those distant patches of grey, with the thin drifts of smoke and the masts encrusted with small grey blobs rising out of their midst, those were the cause of all my country's troubles. But for them peace would have long since been dictated and a mightier German Empire would be towering above all other States in the world. How I hated--and yet (being a sailor myself) how I respected them! One solitary monster of this Armada was slowly moving across the land-locked basin. Parallel to her and far away moved a tiny vessel with a small square thing following her at an even distance, and the sun shining on this showed its colour red. Suddenly out of the monster shot a series of long bright flashes. Nothing else happened for several seconds, and then almost simultaneously "Boom! boom! boom!" hit my ear, and a group of tall white fountains sprang up around the distant red target. The Grand Fleet of England was preparing for "The Day"! I knew the big vessel at a glance; I knew her, at least, as one of a certain four, and for some moments I watched her gunnery practice, too fascinated to stir. I noted how the fall of her shells was spread--in fact I noted several things; and then it occurred to me abruptly that I stood a remarkably good chance of having a wall at my back and a handkerchief over my eyes if I lingered in this open road much longer. And the plea that I was enjoying the excellent gun-practice made by H.M.S. _Blank_ would scarcely be accepted as an extenuating circumstance! I glanced quickly round, and then I realised how wonderfully luck was standing by me. At the summit of that hill there were naturally no houses, and as the descending road on either side made a sharp twist almost immediately, I stood quite invisible on my outlook tower. The road, moreover, ran through a kind of neck, with heather rising on either side; and in a moment I had hauled my cycle up the bank on the landward side, and was out of sight over the edge, even should any traveller appear. After a few minutes' laborious dragging of my cycle I found myself in a small depression in the heather, where, by lying down, I could remain quite out of sight unless some one walked right into me--and it seemed improbable that any one should take such a promenade with the good road so close at hand. By raising myself on my knees I could command the same engrossing view I had seen from the road, only I now also saw something of the country that sloped down to the sea; and with a thrill of exultation I realised that this prospect actually included our rendezvous. V. WAITING. What I saw when I cautiously peered over the rim of that little hollow was (beginning at the top) a vast expanse of pale-blue sky, with fleecy clouds down near the horizon already tinged with pink reflections from the sunset far off behind my back. Then came a shining glimpse of the North Sea; then a rim of green islands, rising on the right to high heather hills; then the land-locked waters and the grey ships now getting blurred and less distinct; then some portions of the green land that sloped up to where I lay; and among these fields, and not far away from me, the steep roof and gable-top of a grey, old-fashioned house. It was the parish manse, the pacific abode of the professional exponent and exemplar of peace--the parish minister; and yet, curiously enough, it was that house which my eyes devoured. The single ship had now ceased firing and anchored with her consorts, the fleet had grown too indistinct to note anything of its composition, and there was nothing to distract my attention from the house. I looked at it hard and long and studied the lie of the ground between it and me, and then I lay down on a couch of soft heather and began to think. So far as I could see I had done nothing yet to draw suspicion to this particular spot, for no one at all seemed to have seen me, but it was manifest that there would be a hard and close hunt for the mysterious motor-cyclist on the morrow. I began to half regret that I had cut that telegraph wire and advertised myself so patently for what I was. Now it was quite obvious that for some days to come motor-cycling would be an unhealthy pastime in these islands. Even at night how many ears would be listening for my "phut-phut-phut," and how many eyes would be scanning the dark roads? A few judiciously placed and very simple barricades--a mere bar on two uprights, with a sentry beside each--and what chance would I have of getting back to that distant bay, especially as I had just been seen so near it? "However," I said to myself, "that is looking too far ahead. It was not my fault I brought this hornet's nest about my ears. Just bad luck and a clumsy sailor!" Just then I heard something approaching on the road below me, and in a minute or two it became unmistakably the sound of a horse and trap. At one place I could catch a glimpse of this road between the hummocks of heather, and I raised myself again and looked out. In a moment the horse and trap appeared and I got a sensation I shall not soon forget. Not that there seemed to the casual passer-by anything in the least sensational about this equipage. He would merely have noticed that it contained, besides the driver, a few articles of luggage and a gentleman in a flat-looking felt hat and an overcoat--both of them black. This gentleman was sitting with his back to me (he was in a small waggonette), but I could scarcely doubt who it was. But only arriving to-night! Curiosity and anxiety so devoured me that I ran a little risk. Getting out of my hollow, I crawled forward on my hands and knees till I could catch a glimpse of the side road leading to that house; and there I lay flat on my face and watched. Down the steep hill the horse proceeded at a walk, and what between my impatience to make sure, and my consciousness of my own rashness in quitting even for a moment my sheltered hollow, I passed a few very uncomfortable minutes. The light by this time was failing fast, but it was quite clear enough to see (or be seen), and at last I caught one more glimpse of that horse and trap--turning off the road just where I expected. And then I was crawling back with more haste than dignity. It was "him"! And he had only arrived to-night. If it had not been for my accident, in what a nice dilemma I should have been landed! Never did I bless any one more fervently than that awkward sailor who had let my cycle slip, and as for the wave of salt water which wet it, it seemed to have sprung from the age of miracles. The trouble of my discovery and its possible consequences still remained, but I thought little enough of that now, so thankful did I feel for what had _not_ happened. And then I stretched myself out again on the heather, waiting with all the patience I could muster for the falling of night. PART II. A FEW CHAPTERS BY THE EDITOR I. THE PLEASANT STRANGER. It was in July of that same year that the Rev. Alexander Burnett was abashed to find himself inadvertently conspicuous. He had very heartily permitted himself to be photographed in the centre of a small group of lads from his parish who had heard their country's call and were home in their khaki for a last leave-taking. Moreover, the excellence of the photograph and the undeniably close resemblance of his own portrait to the reflection he surveyed each morning when shaving, had decidedly pleased him. But the appearance of this group, first as an illustration in a local paper and then in one that enjoyed a very wide circulation indeed, embarrassed him not a little. For he was a modest, publicity-avoiding man, and also he felt he ought to have been in khaki too. Not that Mr Burnett had anything really to reproach himself with, for he was in the forties, some years above military age. But he was a widower without a family, who had already spent fifteen years in a sparsely inhabited parish in the south-east of Scotland not very far from the Border; and ever since he lost his wife had been uneasy in mind and a little morbid, and anxious for change of scene and fresh experiences. He was to get them, and little though he dreamt it, that group was their beginning. Indeed, it would have taken as cunning a brain to scent danger in the trifling incidents with which his strange adventure began as it took to arrange them. And Mr Burnett was not at all cunning, being a simple, quiet man. In appearance he was rather tall, with a clean-shaven, thoughtful face, and hair beginning to turn grey. A few days later a newspaper arrived by post. He had received several already from well-meaning friends, each with that group in it, and he sighed as he opened this one. It was quite a different paper, however, with no illustrations, but with a certain page indicated in blue pencil, and a blue pencil mark in the margin of that page. What his attention was called to was simply the announcement that the Rev. Mr Maxwell, minister of the parish of Myredale, had been appointed to another charge, and that there was now a vacancy there. Mr Burnett looked at the wrapper, but his name and address had been typewritten and gave him no clue. He wondered who had sent him the paper, and then his thoughts naturally turned to the vacant parish. He knew that it lay in a certain group of northern islands, which we may call here the Windy Isles, and he presumed that the stipend would not be great. Still, it was probably a better living than his own small parish, and as for its remoteness, well, he liked quiet, out-of-the-way places, and it would certainly be a complete change of scene. He let the matter lie in the back of his mind, and there it would very likely have remained but for a curious circumstance on the following Sunday. His little parish church was seldom visited by strangers, and when by any chance one did appear, the minister was very quickly conscious of the fact. He always took stock of his congregation during the first psalm, and on this Sabbath his experienced eye had noted a stranger before the end of the opening verse. A pleasant-looking gentleman in spectacles he appeared to be, and of a most exemplary and devout habit of mind. In fact, he hardly once seemed to take his spectacled gaze off the minister's face during the whole service; and Mr Burnett believed in giving his congregation good measure. It was a fine day, and when service was over the minister walked back to his manse at a very leisurely pace, enjoying the sunshine after a week of showery weather. The road he followed crossed the river, and as he approached the bridge he saw the same stranger leaning over the parapet, smoking a cigar, and gazing at the brown stream. Near him at the side of the road was drawn up a large dark-green touring car, which apparently the gentleman had driven himself, for there was no sign of a chauffeur. "Good day, sir!" said the stranger affably, as the minister came up to him. "Lovely weather!" Mr Burnett, nothing loath to hear a fresh voice, stopped and smiled and agreed that the day was fine. He saw now that the stranger was a middle-sized man with a full fair moustache, jovial eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and a rosy healthy colour; while his manner was friendliness itself. The minister felt pleasantly impressed with him at once. "Any trout in this stream?" inquired the stranger. Mr Burnett answered that it was famed as a fishing river, at which the stranger seemed vastly interested and pleased, and put several questions regarding the baskets that were caught. Then he grew a little more serious and said-- "I hope you will pardon me, sir, for thanking you for a very excellent sermon. As I happened to be motoring past just as church was going in I thought I'd look in too. But I assure you I had no suspicion I should hear so good a discourse. I appreciated it highly." Though a modest man, Mr Burnett granted the stranger's pardon very readily. Indeed, he became more favourably impressed with him than ever. "I am very pleased to hear you say so," he replied, "for in an out-of-the-way place like this one is apt to get very rusty." "I don't agree with you at all, sir," said the stranger energetically, "if you'll pardon my saying so. In my experience--which is pretty wide, I may add--the best thinking is done in out-of-the-way places. I don't say the showiest, mind you, but the _best_!" Again the minister pardoned him without difficulty. "Of course, one needs a change now and then, I admit," continued the stranger. "But, my dear sir, whatever you do, don't go and bury yourself in a crowd!" This struck Mr Burnett as a novel and very interesting way of putting the matter. He forgot all about the dinner awaiting him at the manse, and when the stranger offered him a very promising-looking cigar, he accepted it with pleasure, and leaned over the parapet beside him. There, with his eyes on the running water, he listened and talked for some time. The stranger began to talk about the various charming out-of-the-way places in Scotland. It seemed he was a perfervid admirer of everything Scottish, and had motored or tramped all over the country from Berwick to the Pentland Firth. In fact, he had even crossed the waters, for he presently burst forth into a eulogy of the Windy Islands. "The most delightful spot, sir, I have ever visited!" he said enthusiastically. "There is a peacefulness and charm, and at the same time something stimulating in the air I simply can't describe. In body and mind I felt a new man after a week there!" The minister was so clearly struck by this, and his interest so roused, that the stranger pursued the topic and added a number of enticing details. "By the way," he exclaimed presently, "do you happen to know a fellow-clergyman there called Maxwell? His parish is--let me see--Ah, Myredale, that's the name." This struck Mr Burnett as quite extraordinary. "I don't know him personally," he began. "A very sensible fellow," continued the stranger impetuously. "He told me his parish was as like heaven as anything on this mortal earth!" "He has just left it," said Mr Burnett. The stranger seemed surprised and interested. "What a chance for some one!" he exclaimed. Mr Burnett gazed thoughtfully through the smoke of his cigar into the brown water of the river below him. "I have had thoughts of making a change myself," he said slowly. "But of course they might not select me even if I applied for Myredale." "In the Scottish Church the custom is to go to the vacant parish to preach a trial sermon, isn't it?" inquired the stranger. The minister nodded. "A system I disapprove of, I may say," said he. "I quite agree with you," said the stranger sympathetically. "Still, so long as that is the system, why not try your luck? Mind you, I talk as one who knows the place, and knows Mr Maxwell and his opinion of it. You'll have an enviable visit, whatever happens." "It is a very long way," said Mr Burnett. "Don't they pay your expenses!" "Yes," admitted the minister. "But then I understand that those islands are very difficult for a stranger to enter at present. The naval authorities are extremely strict." The stranger laughed jovially. "My dear sir," he cried, "can you imagine even the British Navy standing between a Scotch congregation and its sermon! You are the one kind of stranger who will be admitted. All you have to do is to get a passport--and there you are!" "Are they difficult to get?" The stranger laughed again. "I know nothing about that kind of thing," said he. "I'm a Lancashire lad, and the buzz of machinery is my game; but I can safely say this: that _you_ will have no difficulty in getting a passport." Mr Burnett again gazed at the water in silence. Then he looked up and said with a serious face-- "I must really tell you, sir, of a very remarkable coincidence. Only a few days ago some unknown friend sent me a copy of a newspaper with a notice of this very vacancy marked in it!" The Lancashire lad looked almost thunder-struck by this extraordinary disclosure. "Well, I'm hanged!" he cried--adding hurriedly, "if you'll forgive my strong language, sir." "It seems to me to be providential," said Mr Burnett in a low and very serious voice. With equal solemnity the stranger declared that though not an unusually good man himself, this solution had already struck him forcibly. At this point the minister became conscious of the distant ringing of a bell, and recognised with a start the strident note of his own dinner bell swung with a vigorous arm somewhere in the road ahead. He shook hands cordially with the stranger, thanked him for the very interesting talk he had enjoyed, and hurried off towards his over-cooked roast. The stranger remained for a few moments still leaning against the parapet. His jovial face had been wreathed in smiles throughout the whole conversation; he still smiled now, but with rather a different expression. II. THE CHAUFFEUR. Mr Burnett was somewhat slow in coming to decisions, but once he had taken an idea to do a thing he generally carried it out. In the course of a week or ten days he had presented himself as a candidate for the vacant church of Myredale, and made arrangements for appearing in the pulpit there on a certain Sunday in August. He was to arrive in the islands on the Thursday, spend the week-end in the empty manse, preach on Sunday, and return on Monday or Tuesday. His old friend Mr Drummond in Edinburgh, hearing of the plan, invited him to break his journey at his house, arriving on Tuesday afternoon, and going on by the North train on Wednesday night. Accordingly, he arranged to have a trap at the manse on Tuesday afternoon, drive to Berwick and catch the Scotch express, getting into Edinburgh at 6.15. He was a reticent man, and in any case had few neighbours to gossip with, so that as far as he himself knew, the Drummonds alone had been informed of all these details. But he had in the manse a very valuable domestic, who added to her more ordinary virtues a passion for conversation. On the Saturday afternoon before he was due to start, he was returning from a walk, when he caught a glimpse of a man's figure disappearing into a small pine wood at the back of his house, and when his invaluable Mary brought him in his tea, he inquired who her visitor had been. "Oh, sic a nice young felly!" said Mary enthusiastically. "He's been a soger, wounded at Mons he was, and walking to Berwick to look for a job." Though simple, the minister was not without some sad experience of human nature, particularly the nature of wounded heroes, tramping the country for jobs. "I hope you didn't give him any money," said he. "He never askit for money!" cried Mary. "Oh, he was not that kind at a'! A maist civil young chap he was, and maist interested to hear where you were gaun, and sic like." The minister shook his head. "You told him when I was leaving, and all about it, I suppose?" "There was nae secret, was there?" demanded Mary. Mr Burnett looked at her seriously. "As like as not," said he; "he just wished to know when the man of the house would be away. Mind and keep the doors locked, Mary, and if he comes back, don't let him into the kitchen whatever cock-and-bull story he tells." He knew that Mary was a sensible enough woman, and having given her this warning, he forgot the whole incident--till later. Tuesday was fine and warm, a perfect day on which to start a journey, and about mid-day Mr Burnett was packing a couple of bags with a sense of pleasant anticipation, when a telegram arrived. This was exactly how it ran:-- "My friend Taylor motoring to Edinburgh to-day. Will pick you and luggage up at Manse about six, and bring you to my house. Don't trouble reply, assume this suits, shall be out till late. DRUMMOND." "There's no answer," said Mr Burnett with a smile. He was delighted with this change in his programme, and at once countermanded his trap, and ordered Mary to set about making scones and a currant cake for tea. "This Mr Taylor will surely be wanting his tea before he starts," said he, "though it's likely he won't want to waste too much time over it, or it will be dark long before we get to Edinburgh. So have everything ready, Mary, but just the infusing of the tea." Then with an easy mind, feeling that there was no hurry now, he sat down to his early dinner. As he dined he studied the telegram more carefully, and it was then that one or two slight peculiarities struck him. They seemed to him very trifling, but they set him wondering and smiling a little to himself. He knew most of the Drummonds' friends, and yet never before had he heard of an affluent motor-driving Mr Taylor among them. Still, there was nothing surprising about that, for one may make a new friend any day, and one's old friends never hear of him for long enough. The really unusual features about this telegram were its length and clearness and the elaborate injunctions against troubling to answer it. Robert Drummond was an excellent and Christian man, but he had never been remarkable for profuse expenditure. In fact, he guarded his bawbees very carefully indeed, and among other judicious precautions he never sent telegrams if he could help it, and when fate forced his hand, kept very rigorously within the twelve-word limit. His telegrams in consequence were celebrated more for their conciseness than their clarity. Yet here he was sending a telegram thirty-four words long, apart from the address and signature, and spending halfpenny after halfpenny with reckless profusion to make every detail explicit! Particularly curious were the three clauses all devoted to saving Mr Burnett the trouble of replying. Never before had Mr Drummond shown such extraordinary consideration for a friend's purse, and it is a discouraging feature of human nature that even the worthy Mr Burnett felt more puzzled than touched by his generous thoughtfulness. "Robert Drummond never wrote out that wire himself," he concluded. "He must just have told some one what he wanted to say, and they must have written it themselves. Well, we'll hope they paid for it too, or Robert will be terrible annoyed." The afternoon wore on, and as six o'clock drew near, the minister began to look out for Mr Taylor and his car. But six o'clock passed, and quarter-past six, and still there was no sign of him. The minister began to grow a little worried lest they should have to do most of the journey in the dark, for he was an inexperienced motorist, and such a long drive by night seemed to him a formidable and risky undertaking. At last at half-past six the thrum of a car was heard, and a few minutes later a long, raking, dark-green touring car dashed up to the door of the modest manse. The minister hurried out to welcome his guest, and then stopped dead short in sheer astonishment. Mr Taylor was none other than the Lancashire lad. On his part, Mr Taylor seemed almost equally surprised. "Well, I'm blowed!" he cried jovially. "If this isn't the most extraordinary coincidence! When I got Robert Drummond's note, and noticed the part of the country you lived in, I wondered if you could possibly be the same minister I'd met; but it really seemed too good to be true! Delighted to meet you again!" He laughed loud and cheerfully, and wrung the minister's hand like an old friend. Mr Burnett, though less demonstrative, felt heartily pleased, and led his guest cordially into the manse parlour. "You'll have some tea before you start, I hope?" he inquired. "Ra-ther!" cried Mr Taylor. "I've a Lancashire appetite for tea! Ha, ha, ha!" "Well, I'll have it in at once," said the minister, ringing the bell, "for I suppose we ought not to postpone our start too long." "No hurry at all, my dear fellow," said Mr Taylor, throwing himself into the easiest chair the minister possessed. "I mean to have a jolly good tuck in before I start!" At that moment Mr Burnett remembered that this time he had seen a chauffeur in the car. He went hospitably out of the room and turned towards the front door. But hardly had he turned in that direction when he heard Mr Taylor call out-- "Hallo! Where are you going?" And the next moment he was after the minister and had him by the arm just as they reached the open front door. Mr Burnett ever afterwards remembered the curious impression produced on him by the note in Mr Taylor's voice, and that hurried grip of the arm. Suspicion, alarm, a note of anger, all seemed to be blended. "I--I was only going to ask your driver to come and have a cup of tea in the kitchen," stammered the embarrassed minister. "My dear sir, he doesn't want any; I've asked him already!" said Mr Taylor. "I assure you honestly I have!" Mr Burnett suffered himself to be led back wondering greatly. He had caught a glimpse of the chauffeur, a clean-shaven, well-turned-out man, sitting back in his seat with his cap far over his eyes, and even in that hurried glance at part of his face he had been struck with something curiously familiar about the man; though whether he had seen him before, or, if not, who he reminded him of, he was quite unable to say. And then there was Mr Taylor's extraordinary change of manner the very moment he started to see the chauffeur. He could make nothing of it at all, but for some little time afterwards he had a vague sense of disquiet. Mr Taylor, on his part, had recovered his cheerfulness as quickly as he had lost it. "Forgive me, my dear Mr Burnett," he said earnestly, yet always with the rich jolly note in his voice. "I must have seemed a perfect maniac. The truth is, between ourselves, I had a terrible suspicion you were going to offer my good James whisky!" "Oh," said the minister. "Is he then--er--an abstainer?" Mr Taylor laughed pleasantly. "I wish he were! A wee drappie is his one failing; ha, ha! I never allow my chauffeur to touch a drop while I'm on the road, Mr Burnett--never, sir!" Mr Burnett was slow to suspect ill of any one, but he was just as slow in getting rid of a suspicion. With all his simplicity, he could not but think that Mr Taylor jumped extraordinarily quickly to conclusions and got excited on smaller provocation than any one he had ever met. Over his first cup of tea he sat very silent. In the meantime the sociable Mary had been suffering from a sense of disappointment. Surely the beautiful liveried figure in the car would require his tea and eggs like his master? For a little she sat awaiting his arrival in the kitchen, with her cap neatly arranged, and an expectant smile. But gradually disappointment deepened. She considered the matter judicially. Clearly, she decided, Mr Burnett had forgotten the tradition of hospitality associated with that and every other manse. And then she decided that her own duty was plain. She went out of the back door and round the house. There stood the car, with the resplendent figure leaning back in his seat, his cap still over his eyes, and his face now resting on his hand, so that she could barely see more than the tip of his nose. He heard nothing of her approach till she was fairly at his side, and in her high and penetrating voice cried-- "Will ye not be for a cup of tea and an egg to it, eh?" The chauffeur started, and Mary started too. She had seen his face for an instant, though he covered it quickly, but apparently quite naturally, with his hand. "No, thanks," he said brusquely, and turned away his eyes. Mary went back to the kitchen divided between annoyance at the rebuff and wonder. The liveried figure might have been the twin-brother of the minister. III. ON THE CLIFF. Gradually Mr Burnett recovered his composure. His guest was so genial and friendly and appreciative of the scones and the currant cake that he began to upbraid himself for churlishness in allowing anything like a suspicion of this pleasant gentleman to linger in his mind. There remained a persistent little shadow which he could not quite drive away, but he conscientiously tried his best. As for Mr Taylor, there never was a jollier and yet a more thoughtful companion. He seemed to think of every mortal thing that the minister could possibly need for his journey. "Got your passport?" he inquired. "Yes," said the minister. "I am carrying it in my breast-pocket. It ought to be safe there." "The safest place possible!" said Mr Taylor cordially. "It's all in order, I presume, eh?" Mr Burnett took the passport out of his pocket and showed it to him. His guest closely examined the minister's photograph which was attached, went through all the particulars carefully, and pronounced everything in order, as far as an ignorant outsider like himself could judge. "Of course," he said, "I'm a business man, Mr Burnett, and I can tell when a thing looks businesslike, though I know no more about what the authorities require and why they ask for all these particulars than you do. It's all red tape, I suppose." As a further precaution he recommended his host to slip a few letters and a receipted bill or two into his pocket-book, so that he would have a ready means of establishing his identity if any difficulty arose. Mr Burnett was somewhat surprised, but accepted his guest's word for it, as a shrewd Lancashire lad, that these little tips were well worth taking. By this time the evening was falling, and at length Mr Taylor declared himself ready for the road. He had drunk four cups of tea, and hurried over none of them. For a moment Mr Burnett half wondered if he had any reason for delaying their start, but immediately reproached himself for harbouring such a thought. Indeed, why should he think so? There seemed nothing whatever to be gained by delay, with the dusk falling so fast and a long road ahead. The minister's rug and umbrella and two leather bags were put into the car, he and Mr Taylor got aboard, and off they went at last. Mr Burnett had another glance at the chauffeur, and again was haunted by an odd sense of familiarity; but once they had started, the view of his back in the gathering dusk suggested nothing more explicit. Presently they passed a corner, and the minister looked round uneasily. "What road are you taking?" he asked. "We're going to join the coast road from Berwick," said Mr Taylor. "Isn't that rather roundabout?" Mr Taylor laughed jovially. "My good James has his own ideas," said he. "As a matter of fact, I fancy he knows the coast road and isn't sure of the other. However, we needn't worry about that. With a car like this the difference in time will be a flea-bite!" He had provided the minister with another excellent cigar, and smoking in comfort behind a glass wind-screen, with the dim country slipping by and the first pale star faintly shining overhead, the pair fell into easy discourse. Mr Taylor was a remarkably sympathetic talker, the minister found. He kept the conversation entirely on his companion's affairs, putting innumerable questions as to his habits and way of life, and indeed his whole history, and exhibiting a flattering interest in his answers. Mr Burnett said to himself at last, with a smile, that this inquiring gentleman would soon know as much about him as he knew himself. Once or twice the minister wondered how fast they were really going. They did not seem to him to be achieving any very extraordinary speed, but possibly that was only because the big car ran so easily. In fact, when he once questioned his companion, Mr Taylor assured him that actually was the explanation. It was thus pretty dark when they struck the coast road, and it grew ever darker as they ran northward through a bare, treeless country, with the cliff edge never far away and the North Sea glimmering beyond. They had reached an absolutely lonely stretch of road that hugged the shore closely when the car suddenly stopped. "Hallo!" exclaimed Mr Taylor, "what's up?" The chauffeur half-turned round and said in a low voice-- "Did you see that light, sir?" "Which light?" The chauffeur pointed to the dark stretch of turf between them and the edge of the cliffs. "Just there, sir. I saw it flash for a second. I got a glimpse of some one moving too, sir." Mr Taylor became intensely excited. "A spy signalling!" he exclaimed. "Looks like it, sir," said the chauffeur. Mr Taylor turned to the minister with an eager, resolute air. "Our duty's clear, Mr Burnett," said he. "As loyal subjects of King George--God bless him!--we've got to have a look into this!" With that he jumped out and stood by the open door, evidently expecting the minister to follow. For a moment Mr Burnett hesitated. A vague sense that all was not well suddenly affected him. "Do not go!" something seemed to say to him. And yet as a man and a loyal subject how could he possibly decline to assist in an effort to foil the King's enemies? Reluctantly he descended from the car, and once he was on the road, Mr Taylor gave him no time for further debate. "Come on!" he whispered eagerly; and then turning to the chauffeur, "come along too, James!" Close by there was a gate in the fence, and they all three went through this and quietly crossed the short stretch of grass between the road and the cliffs, Mr Taylor and the minister walking in front and the chauffeur following close at their heels. Now that the car was silent, they could hear the soft lapping of the water at the cliff foot, but that and the fall of their feet on the short crisp turf were the only sounds. Mr Burnett peered hard into the darkness, but he could see absolutely nothing. All at once he realised that they were getting very close to the brink, and that if there were any one in front they would certainly be silhouetted against the sky. There could not possibly be any use in going further; why then did they continue to advance? At that a clear and terrifying instinct of danger seized him. He turned round sharply, and uttered one loud ringing cry. He was looking straight into the chauffeur's face, and it seemed as though he were looking into his own, distorted by murderous intention. Above it the man's hand was already raised. It descended, and the minister fell on the turf with a gasp. He knew no more of that night's adventure. IV. MR DRUMMOND'S VISITOR. Upon a secluded road in the quiet suburb of Trinity stood the residence of Mr Robert Drummond. It was a neat unpretentious little villa graced by a number of trees and a clinging Virginia creeper, and Mr Drummond was a neat unpretentious little gentleman, graced by a number of virtues, and a devoted Mrs Drummond. From the upper windows of his house you could catch a glimpse of the castled and templed hills of Edinburgh on the one side, and the shining Forth and green coasts of Fife on the other. The Forth, in fact, was close at hand, and of late Mr Drummond had been greatly entertained by observing many interesting movements upon its waters. He had looked forward to exhibiting and expounding these features to his friend Mr Burnett, and felt considerably disappointed when upon the morning of the day when the minister should have come, a telegram arrived instead. It ran-- "Unavoidably prevented from coming to stay with you. Shall explain later. Many regrets. Don't trouble reply. Leaving home immediately. "BURNETT." As Mr Drummond studied this telegram he began to feel not only disappointed but a trifle critical. "Alec Burnett must have come into a fortune!" he said to himself. "Six words--the whole of threepence--wasted in telling me not to reply! As if I'd be spending my money on anything so foolish. I never saw such extravagance!" On the following morning Mr Drummond was as usual up betimes. He had retired a year or two before from a responsible position in an insurance office, but he still retained his active business habits, and by eight o'clock every morning of the summer was out and busy in his garden. It still wanted ten minutes to eight, and he was just buttoning up his waistcoat when he heard the front-door bell ring. A minute or two later the maid announced that Mr Topham was desirous of seeing Mr Drummond immediately. "Mr Topham?" he asked. "He's a Navy Officer, sir," said the maid. Vaguely perturbed, Mr Drummond hurried downstairs, and found in his study a purposeful-looking young man, with the two zigzag stripes on his sleeve of a lieutenant in the Royal Naval Reserve. "Mr Drummond?" he inquired. "The same," said Mr Drummond, firmly yet cautiously. "You expected a visit from a Mr Burnett yesterday, I believe?" "I had been expecting him till I got his wire." "His wire!" exclaimed Lieutenant Topham. "Did he telegraph to you?" "Yes: he said he couldn't come." "May I see that telegram?" Caution had always been Mr Drummond's most valuable asset. "Is it important?" he inquired. "Extremely," said the lieutenant a trifle brusquely. Mr Drummond went to his desk and handed him the telegram. He could see Topham's eyebrows rise as he read it. "Thank you," he said when he had finished. "May I keep it?" Without waiting for permission, he put it in his pocket, and with a grave air said-- "I am afraid I have rather serious news to give you about Mr Burnett." "Dear me!" cried Mr Drummond. "It's not mental trouble, I hope? That was a queer wire he sent me!" "He didn't send you that wire," said Lieutenant Topham. "What!" exclaimed Mr Drummond. "Really--you don't say so? Then who did?" "That's what we've got to find out." The lieutenant glanced at the door, and added-- "I think we had better come a little farther away from the door." They moved to the farther end of the room and sat down. "Mr Burnett has been knocked on the head and then nearly drowned," said the lieutenant. Mr Drummond cried aloud in horror. Topham made a warning gesture. "This is not to be talked about at present," he said in a guarded voice. "The facts simply are that I'm in command of a patrol-boat, and last night we were off the Berwickshire coast when we found your friend in the water with a bad wound in his head and a piece of cord tied round his feet." "You mean some one had tried to murder him?" cried Mr Drummond. "It looked rather like it," said Topham drily. "And him a minister too!" gasped Mr Drummond. "So we found later." "But you'd surely tell that from his clothes!" "He had no clothes when we found him." "No clothes on! Then do you mean----" "We took him straight back to the base," continued the lieutenant quickly, "and finally he came round and was able to talk a little. Then we learned his name and heard of you, and Captain Blacklock asked me to run up and let you know he was safe, and also get you to check one or two of his statements. Mr Burnett is naturally a little light-headed at present." Mr Drummond was a persistent gentleman. "But do you mean you found him with no clothes on right out at sea?" "No; close under the cliffs." "Did you see him fall into the water?" "We heard a cry, and picked him up shortly afterwards," said the lieutenant, rather evasively, Mr Drummond thought. "However, the main thing is that he will recover all right. You can rest assured he is being well looked after." "I'd like to know more about this," said Mr Drummond with an air of determination. "So would we," said Topham drily, "and I'd just like to ask you one or two questions, if I may. Mr Burnett was on his way to the Windy Islands, I believe?" "He was. He had got all his papers and everything ready to start to-night." "You feel sure of that?" "He wrote and told me so himself." Lieutenant Topham nodded in silence. Then he inquired-- "Do you know a Mr Taylor?" "Taylor? I know a John Taylor----" "Who comes from Lancashire and keeps a motor-car?" "No," said Mr Drummond. "I don't know that one. Why?" "Then you didn't send a long telegram to Mr Burnett yesterday telling him that Mr Taylor would call for him in his motor-car and drive him to your house?" "Certainly not!" cried Mr Drummond indignantly. "I never sent a long telegram to any one in my life. I tell you I don't know anything about this Mr Taylor or his motor-car. If Mr Burnett told you that, he's light-headed indeed!" "Those are merely the questions Captain Blacklock asked me to put," said the lieutenant soothingly. "Is he the officer in command of the base?" demanded Mr Drummond a little fiercely. "No," said Topham briefly; "Commander Blacklock is an officer on special service at present." "Commander!" exclaimed Mr Drummond with a menacing sniff. "But you just called him Captain." "Commanders get the courtesy title of Captain," explained the lieutenant, rising as he spoke. "Thank you very much, Mr Drummond. There's only one thing more I'd like to say----" "Ay, but there are several things I'd like to say!" said Mr Drummond very firmly. "I want to know what's the meaning of this outrage to my friend. What's your theory?" Before the war Lieutenant Topham had been an officer in a passenger liner, but he had already acquired in great perfection the real Navy mask. "It seems rather mysterious," he replied--in a most unsuitably light and indifferent tone, Mr Drummond considered. "But surely you have _some_ ideas!" The Lieutenant shook his head. "We'll probably get to the bottom of it sooner or later." "A good deal later than sooner, I'm afraid," said Mr Drummond severely. "You've informed the police, I presume." "The affair is not in my hands, Mr Drummond." "Then whose hands is it in?" "I have not been consulted on that point." Ever since the war broke out Mr Drummond's views concerning the Navy had been in a state of painful flux. Sometimes he felt a genuine pride as a taxpayer in having provided himself with such an efficient and heroic service; at other times he sadly suspected that his money had been wasted, and used to urge upon all his acquaintance the strong opinion that the Navy should really "do something"--and be quick about it too! Lieutenant Topham depressed him greatly. There seemed such an extraordinary lack of intelligent interest about the fellow. How differently Nelson would have replied! "Well, there's one thing I absolutely insist upon getting at the bottom of," he said resolutely. "I am accused of sending a long telegram to Mr Burnett about a Mr Taylor. Now I want to know the meaning of that!" Lieutenant Topham smiled, but his smile, instead of soothing, merely provoked the indignant householder. "Neither you nor Mr Burnett are accused of sending telegrams. We only know that you received them." "Then who sent them, I'd like to know?" "That, no doubt, will appear in time. I must get back now, Mr Drummond; but I must first ask you not to mention a word to any one of this--in the meantime anyhow." The householder looked considerably taken aback. He had anticipated making a very pleasant sensation among his friends. "I--er--of course shall use great discretion----" he began. Lieutenant Topham shook his head. "I am directed to ask you to tell _nobody_." "Of course Mrs Drummond----" "Not even Mrs Drummond." "But this is really very high-handed, sir! Mr Burnett is a very old friend of mine----" The Lieutenant came a step nearer to him, and said very earnestly and persuasively-- "You have an opportunity, Mr Drummond, of doing a service to your country by keeping absolute silence. We can trust you to do that for England, surely?" "For Great Britain," corrected Mr Drummond, who was a member of a society for propagating bagpipe music and of another for commemorating Bannockburn,--"well, yes, if you put it like that--Oh, certainly, certainly. Yes, you can trust me, Mr Topham. But--er--what am I to say to Mrs Drummond about your visit?" "Say that I was sent to ask you to keep your lights obscured," suggested the lieutenant with a smile. "Capital!" said the householder. "I've warned her several times about the pantry window. That will kill two birds with one stone!" "Good morning, sir. Thank you very much," said the lieutenant. Mr Drummond was left in a very divided state of mind regarding the Navy's competence, Mr Burnett's sanity, and his own judgment. V. ON THE MAIL BOAT. A procession came down the long slope at the head of the bay. Each vehicle but one rumbled behind a pair of leisurely horses. That one, a car with a passenger and his luggage, hooted from tail to head of the procession, and vanished in the dust towards the pier. The sea stretched like a sheet of brilliant glass right out across the bay and the firth beyond to the great blue island hills, calm as far as the eye could search it; on the green treeless shores, with their dusty roads and their dykes of flagstones set on edge, there was scarcely enough breeze to stir the grasses. "We shall have a fine crossing," said the passengers in the coaches to one another. They bent round the corner of the bay and passed the little row of houses, pressed close beneath the high grassy bank, and rumbled on to the pier. The sentries and the naval guard eyed the passengers with professional suspicion as they gathered in a cue to show their passports, and then gradually straggled towards the mail boat. But there was one passenger who was particularly eyed; though if all the glances toward her were prompted by suspicion, it was well concealed. She was a girl of anything from twenty-two to twenty-five, lithe, dressed to a miracle, dark-haired, and more than merely pretty. Her dark eyebrows nearly meeting, her bright and singularly intelligent eyes, her firm mouth and resolute chin, the mixture of thoughtfulness in her expression and decision in her movements, were not the usual ingredients of prettiness. Yet her features were so fine and her complexion so clear, and there was so much charm as well as thought in her expression, that the whole effect of her was delightful. Undoubtedly she was beautiful. She was clearly travelling alone, and evidently a stranger to those parts. No one on the pier or steamer touched a hat or greeted her, and from her quick looks of interest it was plain that everything was fresh to her. The string of passengers was blocked for a moment on the narrow deck, and just where she paused stood a tall man who had come aboard a minute or two before. He took his eyes discreetly off her face, and they fell upon her bag. There on the label he could plainly read, "Miss Eileen Holland." Then she passed on, and the tall man kept looking after her. Having piled her lighter luggage on a seat in a very brisk and business-like fashion, Miss Holland strolled across the deck and leaned with her back against the railings and her hands in the pockets of her loose tweed coat, studying with a shrewd glance her fellow-passengers. They included a number of soldiers in khaki, on leave apparently; several nondescript and uninteresting people, mostly female; and the tall man. At him she glanced several times. He was very obviously a clergyman of some sort, in the conventional black felt hat and a long dark overcoat; and yet though his face was not at all unclerical, it seemed to her that he was not exactly the usual type. Then she saw his eyes turn on her again, and she gazed for some minutes at the pier just above their heads. The cable was cast off and the little steamer backed through the foam of her own wake, and wheeling, set forth for the Isles. For a while Miss Holland watched the green semicircle slowly receding astern and the shining waters opening ahead, and then turned to a more practical matter. Other passengers were eyeing the laden deck-seat. "I'm afraid my things are in your way," she said, and crossing the deck took up a bag and looked round where to put it. The clergyman was beside her in a stride. "Allow me. I'll stow it away for you," he said. He spoke with a smile, but with an air of complete decision and quiet command, and with a murmur of thanks she yielded the bag almost automatically. As he moved off with it, it struck her that here was a clergyman apparently accustomed to very prompt obedience from his flock. They had been standing just aft of the deck-house, and with the bag in his hand he passed by this to where a pile of lighter luggage had been arranged on the deck. As he went he looked at the bag curiously, and then before putting it down he glanced over his shoulder. The lady was not in sight, and very swiftly but keenly he studied it more closely. It was a suit-case made of an unusual brown, light material. Turning one end up quickly he read on a little plate this assurance by the makers, "Garantirt echt Vulcanfibre." And then slowly, and apparently rather thoughtfully, he strolled back. "You'll find it among the other luggage, just beyond the deck-house," he said, and then with an air of sudden thought added, "Perhaps I ought to have put it with your other things, wherever they are." "I have practically nothing else," said she, "except a trunk in the hold." "You are travelling very light," he remarked. "That wasn't a very substantial suit-case." For a moment she seemed to be a little doubtful whether to consider him a somewhat forward stranger. Then she said with a frank smile-- "No; it was made in Germany." As she spoke he glanced at her with a curious sudden intensity, that might have been an ordinary trick of manner. "Oh," he said with a smile. "Before the war, I presume?" "Yes," she answered briefly, and looked round her as though wondering whether she should move. But the clergyman seemed oblivious to the hint. "Do you know Germany well?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "Do you?" He nodded. "Yes, pretty well--as it was before the war, of course. I had some good friends there at one time." "So had I," she said. "All in the past tense now," said he. "I suppose so," she answered; "yet I sometimes find it hard to believe that they are all as poisoned against England and as ignorant and callous as people think. I can't picture some of my friends like that!" She seemed to have got over her first touch of resentment. There was certainly an air of good-breeding and even of distinction about the man, and after all, his extreme assurance sat very naturally on him. It had an unpremeditated matter-of-course quality that made it difficult to remain offended. "It is hard to picture a good many things," he said thoughtfully. "Were you long in Germany?" She told him two years, and then questioned him in return; but he seemed to have a gift for conveying exceedingly little information with an air of remarkable finality--as though he had given a complete report and there was an end of it. On the other hand, he had an equal gift for putting questions in a way that made it impossible not to answer without churlishness. For his manner never lacked courtesy, and he showed a flattering interest in each word of her replies. She felt that she had never met a man who had put her more on her mettle and made her instinctively wish more to show herself to advantage. Yet she seemed fully capable of holding her own, for after half an hour's conversation it would have been remarkably difficult to essay a biographical sketch of Miss Eileen Holland. She had spent a number of years abroad, and confessed to being a fair linguist; she was going to the Islands "to stay with some people"; and she had previously done "a little" war work--so little, apparently, that she had been advised to seek a change of air, as her companion observed with a smile. "Anyhow, I have not done enough," she said with a sudden intensity of suppressed feeling in her voice. The keen-faced clergyman glanced at her quickly, but said nothing. A minute or two later he announced that he had some correspondence to look over, and thereupon he left her with the same air of decision instantly acted on with which he had first addressed her. He passed through the door of the deck-house, and she got a glimpse of his head going down the companion. Her face remained quite composed, but in her eyes there seemed to be the trace of a suggestion that she was unused to see gentlemen quit her side quite so promptly. A few minutes later she went down herself to the ladies' cabin. Coming out, the foot of the companion was immediately opposite, and beyond stretched the saloon. At the far end of this sat the clergyman, and at the sight of him Miss Holland paused for a moment at the foot of the ladder and looked at him with a face that seemed to show both a little amusement and a little wonder. He sat quite by himself, with a bundle of papers on the table at his elbow. One of these was in his hand, and he was reading it with an air of extraordinary concentration. He had carelessly pushed back his black felt hat, and what arrested her was the odd impression this produced. With his hat thus rakishly tilted, all traces of his clerical profession seemed mysteriously to have vanished. The white dog-collar was there all right, but unaided it seemed singularly incapable of making him into a conventional minister. Miss Holland went up on deck rather thoughtfully. The little mail boat was now far out in the midst of a waste of waters. The ill-omened tideway was on its best behaviour; but even so, there was a constant gentle roll as the oily swell swung in from the Atlantic. Ahead, on the starboard bow, loomed the vast island precipices; astern the long Scottish coast faded into haze. One other vessel alone was to be seen--a long, low, black ship with a single spike of a mast and several squat funnels behind it. An eccentric vessel this seemed; for she first meandered towards the mail boat and then meandered away again, with no visible business on the waters. The girl moved along the deck till she came to the place where her suit-case had been stowed. Close beside it were two leather kit-bags, and as she paused there it was on these that her eyes fell. She looked at them, in fact, very attentively. On each were the initials "A.B.", and on their labels the legend, "The Rev. Alex. Burnett." She came a step nearer and studied them still more closely. A few old luggage-labels were still affixed, and one at least of these bore the word "Berwick." Miss Holland seemed curiously interested by her observations. A little later the clergyman reappeared, and approached her like an old acquaintance. By this time they were running close under the cliffs, and they gazed together up to the dizzy heights a thousand feet above their heads, where dots of sea-birds circled hardly to be distinguished by the eye, and then down to the green swell and bursting foam at the foot of that stupendous wall. In the afternoon sun it glowed like a wall of copper. For a few minutes both were instinctively silent. There was nothing to be said of such a spectacle. Then Miss Holland suddenly asked-- "Do you live near the sea?" "Not very," he answered with his air of finality. But this time she persisted. "What is your part of the country?" "Berwickshire," he said briefly. "Do you happen to know a minister there--a Mr Burnett?" she inquired. "That is my own name," he said quietly. "Mr Alexander Burnett?" He nodded. "That is very funny," she said. "There must be two of you. I happen to have stayed in those parts and met the other." There seemed to be no expression at all in his eyes as they met hers; nor did hers reveal anything. Then he looked round them quietly. There were several passengers not far away. "It would be rather pleasant in the bows," he suggested. "Shall we move along there for a little?" He made the proposal very courteously, and yet it sounded almost as much a command as a suggestion, and he began to move even as he spoke. She started too, and exchanging a casual sentence as they went, they made their way forward till they stood together in the very prow with the bow wave beneath their feet, and the air beating cold upon their faces,--a striking solitary couple. "I'm wondering if yon's a married meenister!" said one of their fellow-passengers--a facetious gentleman. "It's no' his wife, anyhow!" grinned his friend. A little later the wit wondered again. "I'm wondering how long thae two are gaun tae stand there!" he said this time. The cliffs fell and a green sound opened. The mail boat turned into the sound, opening inland prospects all the while. A snug bay followed the sound, with a little grey-gabled town clinging to the very wash of the tide, and a host of little vessels in the midst. Into the bay pounded the mail boat and up towards the town, and only then did the gallant minister and his fair acquaintance stroll back from the bows. The wag and his friend looked at them curiously, but they had to admit that such a prolonged flirtation had seldom left fewer visible traces. They might have been brother and sister, they both looked so indifferent. The gangway shot aboard, and with a brief hand-shake the pair parted. A few minutes later Miss Holland was being greeted by an elderly gentleman in a heavy ulster, whilst the minister was following a porter towards a small waggonette. VI. THE VANISHING GOVERNESS. The house of Breck was a mansion of tolerable antiquity as mansions went in the islands, and several curious stories had already had time to encrust it, like lichen on an aged wall. But none of them were stranger than the quite up-to-date and literally true story of the vanishing governess. Richard Craigie, Esq., of Breck, the popular, and more or less respected, laird of the mansion and estate, was a stout grey-bearded gentleman, with a twinkling blue eye, and one of the easiest-going dispositions probably in Europe. His wife, the respected, and more or less popular, mistress of the mansion, was lean and short, and very energetic. Their sons were employed at present like everybody else's sons, and do not concern this narrative. But their two daughters, aged fifteen and fourteen, were at home, and do concern it materially. It was only towards the end of July that Mrs Craigie thought of having a governess for the two girls during the summer holidays. With a letter in her hand, she bustled into Mr Craigie's smoking-room, and announced that her friend Mrs Armitage, in Kensington, knew a lady who knew a charming and well-educated girl-- "And who does she know?" interrupted her husband. "Nobody," said Mrs Craigie. "She is the girl." "Oh!" said the laird. "Now I thought that she would surely know another girl who knows a woman, who knows a man----" "Richard!" said his wife. "Kindly listen to me!" It had been her fate to marry a confirmed domestic humourist, but she bore her burden stoically. She told him now simply and firmly that the girl in question required a holiday, and that she proposed to give her one, and in return extract some teaching and supervision for their daughters. "Have it your own way, my dear. Have it your own way," said he. "It was economy yesterday. It's a governess to-day. Have you forced the safe?" "Which safe?" demanded the unsuspecting lady. "At the bank. I've no more money of my own, I can tell you. However, send for your governess--get a couple of them as you're at it!" The humourist was clearly so pleased with his jest that no further debate was to be apprehended, and his wife went out to write the letter. Mr Craigie lit his sixteenth pipe since breakfast and chewed the cud of his wit very happily. A fortnight later he returned one evening in the car, bringing Miss Eileen Holland, with her trunk and her brown suit-case. "My hat, Selina!" said he to his wife, as soon as the girls had led Miss Holland out of hearing, "that's the kind of governess for me! You don't mind my telling her to call me Dick, do you? It slipped out when she was squeezing my hand." "I don't mind you're being undignified," replied Mrs Craigie in a chilly voice, "but I do wish you wouldn't be vulgar." As Mr Craigie's chief joys in life were entertaining his daughters and getting a rise out of his wife, and as he also had a very genuine admiration for a pretty face, he was in the seventh heaven of happiness, and remained there for the next three days. Pipe in mouth, he invaded the schoolroom constantly and unseasonably, and reduced his daughters to a state of incoherent giggling by retailing to Miss Holland various ingenious schemes for their corporal punishment, airing humorous fragments of a language he called French, and questioning their instructor on suppositious romantic episodes in her career. He thought Miss Holland hardly laughed as much as she ought; still, she was a fine girl. At table he kept his wife continually scandalised by his jocularities; such as hoarsely whispering, "I've lost my half of the sixpence, Miss Holland," or repeating, with a thoughtful air, "Under the apple-tree when the moon rises--I must try and not forget the hour!" Miss Holland was even less responsive to these sallies, but he enjoyed them enormously himself, and still maintained she was a fine girl. Mrs Craigie's opinion of her new acquisition was only freely expressed afterwards, and then she declared that clever though Miss Holland undoubtedly was, and superior though she seemed, she had always suspected that something was a little wrong somewhere. She and Mr Craigie had used considerable influence and persuasion to obtain a passport for her, and why should they have been called upon to do this (by a lady whom Mrs Armitage admitted she had only met twice), simply to give a change of air to a healthy-looking girl? There was something behind _that_. Besides, Miss Holland was just a trifle too good-looking. That type always had a history. "My wife was plain Mrs Craigie before the thing happened," observed her husband with a twinkle, "but, dash it, she's been Mrs Solomon ever since!" It was on the fourth morning of Miss Holland's visit that the telegram came for her. Mr Craigie himself brought it into the schoolroom and delivered it with much facetious mystery. He noticed that it seemed to contain a message of some importance, and that she failed to laugh at all when he offered waggishly to put "him" up for the night. But she simply put it in her pocket and volunteered no explanation. He went away feeling that he had wasted a happy quip. After lunch Mrs Craigie and the girls were going out in the car, and Miss Holland was to have accompanied them. It was then that she made her only reference to the telegram. She had got a wire, she said, and had a long letter to write, and so begged to be excused. Accordingly the car went off without her. Not five minutes later Mr Craigie was smoking a pipe and trying to summon up energy to go for a stroll, when Miss Holland entered the smoking-room. He noticed that she had never looked so smiling and charming. "Oh, Mr Craigie," she said, "I want you to help me. I'm preparing a little surprise!" "For the girls?" "For all of you!" The laird loved a practical jest, and scented happiness at once. "I'm your man!" said he. "What can I do for you?" "I'll come down again in half an hour," said she. "And then I want you to help me to carry something." She gave him a swift bewitching smile that left him entirely helpless, and hurried from the room. Mr Craigie looked at the clock and decided that he would get his stroll into the half-hour, so he took his stick and sauntered down the drive. On one side of this drive was a line of huddled wind-bent trees, and at the end was a gate opening on the highroad, with the sea close at hand. Just as he got to the gate a stranger appeared upon the road, walking very slowly, and up to that moment concealed by the trees. He was a clergyman, tall, clean-shaved, and with what the laird afterwards described as a "hawky kind of look." There was no haughtiness whatever about the laird of Breck. He accosted every one he met, and always in the friendliest way. "A fine day!" said he heartily. "Grand weather for the crops, if we could just get a wee bit more of rain soon." The clergyman stopped. "Yes, sir," said he, "it is fine weather." His manner was polite, but not very hearty, the laird thought. However, he was not easily damped, and proceeded to contribute several more observations, chiefly regarding the weather prospects, and tending to become rapidly humorous. And then he remembered his appointment in the smoking-room. "Well," said he, "good day to you! I must be moving, I'm afraid." "Good day," said the stranger courteously, and moved off promptly as he spoke. "I wonder who will that minister be?" said Mr Craigie to himself as he strolled back. "It's funny I never saw the man before. And I wonder, too, where he was going?" And then it occurred to him as an odd circumstance that the minister had started to go back again, not to continue as he had been walking. "That's a funny thing," he thought. He had hardly got back to his smoking-room when Miss Holland appeared, dressed to go out, in hat and tweed coat, and dragging, of all things, her brown suit-case. It seemed to be heavily laden. She smiled at him confidentially, as one fellow-conspirator at another. "Do you mind giving me a hand with this?" said she. "Hullo!" cried the laird. "What's this--an elopement? Can you not wait till I pack my things too? The minister's in no hurry. I've just been speaking to him." It struck him that Miss Holland took his jest rather seriously. "The minister?" said she in rather an odd voice. "You've spoken to him?" "He was only asking if I had got the licence," winked Mr Craigie. The curious look passed from her face, and she laughed as pleasantly as he could wish. "I'll take the bag myself," said the laird. "Oh, it's no weight for me. I used to be rather a dab at throwing the hammer in my day. But where am I to take it?" "I'll show you," said she. So out they set, Mr Craigie carrying the suit-case, and Miss Holland in the most delightful humour beside him. He felt he could have carried it for a very long way. She led him through the garden and out into a side lane between the wall and a hedge. "Just put it down here," she said. "And now I want you to come back for something else, if you don't mind." "Mind?" said the laird gallantly. "Not me! But I'm wondering what you are driving at." She only smiled, but from her merry eye he felt sure that some very brilliant jest was afoot, and he joked away pleasantly as they returned to the house. "Now," she said, "do you mind waiting in the smoking-room for ten minutes or so?" She went out, and Mr Craigie waited, mystified but happy. He waited for ten minutes; he waited for twenty, he waited for half an hour, and still there was no sign of the fascinating Miss Holland. And then he sent a servant to look for her. Her report gave Mr Craigie the strongest sensation that had stirred that good-natured humourist for many a day. Miss Holland was not in her room, and no more, apparently, were her belongings. The toilette table was stripped, the wardrobe was empty; in fact, the only sign of her was her trunk, strapped and locked. Moving with exceptional velocity, Mr Craigie made straight for the lane beyond the garden. The brown suit-case had disappeared. "Well, I'm jiggered!" murmured the baffled humourist. Very slowly and soberly he returned to the house, lit a fresh pipe, and steadied his nerves with a glass of grog. When Mrs Craigie returned, she found him sufficiently revived to jest again, though in a minor key. "To think of the girl having the impudence to make me carry her luggage out of the house for her!" said he. "Gad, but it was a clever dodge to get clear with no one suspecting her! Well, anyhow, my reputation is safe again at last, Selina." "Your reputation!" replied Mrs Craigie in a withering voice. "For what? Not for common-sense anyhow!" "You're flustered, my dear," said the laird easily. "It's a habit women get into terrible easy. You should learn a lesson from Miss Eileen Holland. Dashed if I ever met a cooler hand in my life!" "And what do you mean to do about it?" demanded his wife. "Do?" asked Mr Craigie, mildly surprised. "Well, we might leave the pantry window open at night, so that she can get in again if she's wanting to; or----" "It's your duty to inform the authorities, Richard!" "Duty?" repeated the laird, still more surprised. "Fancy me starting to do my duty at my time of life!" "Anyhow," cried Mrs Craigie, "we've still got her trunk!" "Ah," said Mr Craigie, happily at last, "so we have! Well, that's all right then." And with a benign expression the philosopher contentedly lit another pipe. PART III. LIEUTENANT VON BELKE'S NARRATIVE RESUMED I. THE MEETING. As the dusk rapidly thickened and I lay in the heather waiting for the signal, I gave myself one last bit of good advice. Of "him" I was to meet, I had received officially a pretty accurate description, and unofficially heard one or two curious stories. I had also, of course, had my exact relationship to him officially defined. I was to be under his orders, generally speaking; but in purely naval matters, or at least on matters of naval detail, my judgment would be accepted by him. My last word of advice to myself simply was to be perfectly firm on any such point, and permit no scheme to be set afoot, however tempting, unless it was thoroughly practical from the naval point of view. From the rim of my hollow there on the hillside I could see several of the farms below me, as well as the manse, and I noted one little sign of British efficiency--no glimmer of light shown from any of their windows. At sea a light or two twinkled intermittently, and a searchlight was playing, though fortunately not in my direction. Otherwise land and water were alike plunged in darkness. And then at last one single window of the manse glowed red for an instant. A few seconds passed, and it shone red again. Finally it showed a brighter yellow light twice in swift succession. I rose and very carefully led my cycle over the heather down to the road, and then, still pushing it, walked quickly down the steep hill to where the side road turned off. There was not a sound save my footfall as I approached the house. A dark mass loomed in front of me, which I saw in a moment to be a garden wall with a few of the low wind-bent island trees showing above it. This side road led right up to an iron gate in the wall, and just as I got close enough to distinguish the bars, I heard a gentle creak and saw them begin to swing open. Beyond, the trees overarched the drive, and the darkness was profound. I had passed between the gate-posts before I saw or heard anything more. And then a quiet voice spoke. "It is a dark night," it said in perfect English. "Dark as pitch," I answered. "It was darker last night," said the voice. "It is dark enough," I answered. Not perhaps a very remarkable conversation, you may think; but I can assure you my fingers were on my revolver, just in case one single word had been different. Now I breathed freely at last. "Herr Tiel?" I inquired. "Mr Tiel," corrected the invisible man beside me. I saw him then for the first time as he stepped out from the shelter of the trees and closed the gate behind me--a tall dim figure in black. "I'll lead your cycle," he said in a low voice, as he came back to me; "I know the way best." He took it from me, and as we walked side by side towards the house he said-- "Permit me, Mr Belke, to give you one little word of caution. While you are here, forget that you can talk German! _Think_ in English, if you can. We are walking on a tight-rope, not on the pavement. _No_ precaution is excessive!" "I understand," I said briefly. There was in his voice, perfectly courteous though it was, a note of command which made one instinctively reply briefly--and obediently. I felt disposed to be favourably impressed with my ally. He left me standing for a moment in the drive while he led my motor-cycle round to some shed at the back, and then we entered the house by the front door. "My servant doesn't spend the night here," he explained, "so we are safe enough after dark, as long as we make no sound that can be heard outside." It was pitch-dark inside, and only when he had closed and bolted the front door behind us, did Tiel flash his electric torch. Then I saw that we stood in a small porch which opened into a little hall, with a staircase facing us, and a passage opening beside it into the back of the house. At either side was a door, and Tiel opened that on the right and led me into a pleasant, low, lamp-lit room with a bright peat fire blazing and a table laid for supper. I learned afterwards that the clergyman who had just vacated the parish had left hurriedly, and that his books and furniture had not yet followed him. Hence the room, and indeed the whole house, looked habitable and comfortable. "This is the place I have been looking for for a long time!" I cried cheerfully, for indeed it made a pleasant contrast to a ruinous farm or the interior of a submarine. Tiel smiled. He had a pleasant smile, but it generally passed from his face very swiftly, and left his expression cool, alert, composed, and a trifle dominating. "You had better take off your overalls and begin," he said. "There is an English warning against conversation between a full man and a fasting. I have had supper already." When I took off my overalls, I noticed that he gave me a quick look of surprise. "In uniform!" he exclaimed. "It may not be much use if I'm caught," I laughed, "but I thought it a precaution worth taking." "Excellent!" he agreed, and he seemed genuinely pleased. "It was very well thought of. Do you drink whisky-and-soda?" "You have no beer?" He smiled and shook his head. "I am a Scottish divine," he said, "and I am afraid my guests must submit to whisky. Even in these little details it is well to be correct." For the next half-hour there was little conversation. To tell you the truth I was nearly famished, and had something better to do than talk. Tiel on his part opened a newspaper, and now and then read extracts aloud. It was an English newspaper, of course, and I laughed once or twice at its items. He smiled too, but he did not seem much given to laughter. And all the while I took stock of my new acquaintance very carefully. In appearance Adolph Tiel was just as he had been described to me, and very much as my imagination had filled in the picture: a man tall, though not very tall, clean-shaved, rather thin, decidedly English in his general aspect, distinctly good-looking, with hair beginning to turn grey, and cleverness marked clearly in his face. What I had not been quite prepared for was his air of good-breeding and authority. Not that there was any real reason why these qualities should have been absent, but as a naval officer of a country whose military services have pretty strong prejudices, I had scarcely expected to find in a secret-service agent quite this air. Also what I had heard of Tiel had prepared me to meet a gentleman in whom cleverness was more conspicuous than dignity. Even those who professed to know something about him had admitted that he was a bit of a mystery. He was said to come either from Alsace or Lorraine, and to be of mixed parentage and the most cosmopolitan experience. One story had it that he served at one period of his very diverse career in the navy of a certain South American State, and this story I very soon came to the conclusion was correct, for he showed a considerable knowledge of naval affairs. Even when he professed ignorance of certain points, I was inclined to suspect he was simply trying to throw doubt upon the reports which he supposed I had heard, for rumour also said that he had quitted the service of his adopted country under circumstances which reflected more credit on his brains than his honesty. In fact, my informants were agreed that Herr Tiel's brains were very remarkable indeed, and that his nerve and address were equal to his ability. He was undoubtedly very completely in the confidence of my own Government, and I could mention at least two rather serious mishaps that had befallen England which were credited to him by people who certainly ought to have known the facts. Looking at him attentively as he sat before the fire studying 'The Scotsman' (the latest paper to be obtained in those parts), I thought to myself that here was a man I should a very great deal sooner have on my side than against me. If ever I had seen a wolf in sheep's clothing, it seemed to me that I beheld one now in the person of Adolph Tiel, attired as a Scottish clergyman, reading a solid Scottish newspaper over the peat fire of this remote and peaceful manse. And, to complete the picture, there sat I arrayed in a German naval uniform, with the unsuspecting Grand Fleet on the other side of those shuttered and curtained windows. The piquancy of the whole situation struck me so forcibly that I laughed aloud. Tiel looked up and laid down his paper, and his eyebrows rose inquiringly. He was not a man who wasted many words. "We are a nice pair!" I exclaimed. I seemed to read approval of my spirit in his eye. "You seem none the worse of your adventures," he said with a smile. "No thanks to you!" I laughed. Again he gave me that keen look of inquiry. "I landed on this infernal island last night!" I explained. "The deuce you did!" said he. "I was afraid you might, but as things turned out I couldn't get here sooner. What did you do with yourself?" "First give me one of those cigars," I said, "and then I'll tell you." He handed me the box of cigars and I drew up an easy-chair on the other side of the fire. And then I told him my adventures, and as I was not unwilling that this redoubtable adventurer should see that he had a not wholly unworthy accomplice, I told them in pretty full detail. He was an excellent listener, I must say that for him. With an amused yet appreciative smile, putting in now and then a question shrewd and to the point, he heard my tale to the end. And then he said in a quiet manner which I already realised detracted nothing from the value of his approval-- "You did remarkably well, Mr Belke. I congratulate you." "Thank you, Mr Tiel," I replied. "And now may I ask you your adventures?" "Certainly," said he. "I owe you an explanation." II. TIEL'S STORY. "How much do you know of our scheme?" asked Tiel. I shrugged my shoulders. "Merely that you were going to impersonate a clergyman who was due to come here and preach this next Sunday. How you were going to achieve this feat I wasn't told." He leaned back in his chair and sucked at his pipe, and then he began his story with a curious detached air, as though he were surveying his own handiwork from the point of view of an impartial connoisseur. "The idea was distinctly ingenious," said he, "and I think I may also venture to claim for it a little originality. I won't trouble you with the machinery by which we learn things. It's enough to mention that among the little things we did learn was the fact that the minister of this parish had left for another charge, and that the parishioners were choosing his successor after the Scottish custom--by hearing a number of candidates each preach a trial sermon." He broke off and asked, "Do you happen to have heard of Schumann?" "You don't mean the great Schumann?" "I mean a certain gentleman engaged in the same quiet line of business as myself. He is known of course under another name in England, where he is considered a very fine specimen of John Bull at his best--a jovial, talkative, commercial gentleman with nice spectacles like Mr Pickwick, who subscribes to all the war charities and is never tired of telling his friends what he would do with the Kaiser if he caught him." I laughed aloud at this happy description of a typical John Bull. "Well," he continued, "I suggested to Schumann the wild idea--as it seemed to us at first--of getting into the islands in the guise of a candidate for the parish of Myredale. Two days later Schumann came to me with his spectacles twinkling with excitement. "'Look at this!' said he. "He showed me a photograph in an illustrated paper. It was the portrait of a certain Mr Alexander Burnett, minister of a parish in the south of Scotland, and I assure you that if the name 'Adolph Tiel' had been printed underneath, none of my friends would have questioned its being my own portrait. "'The stars are fighting for us!' said Schumann. "'They seem ready to enlist,' I agreed. "'How shall we encourage them?' said he. "'I shall let you know to-morrow,' I said. "I went home and thought over the problem. From the first I was convinced that the only method which gave us a chance of success was for this man Burnett to enter voluntarily as a candidate, make all the arrangements himself--including the vital matter of a passport--and finally start actually upon his journey. Otherwise, no attempt to impersonate him seemed to me to stand any chance of success. "Next day I saw Schumann and laid down these conditions, and we set about making preliminary inquiries. They were distinctly promising. Burnett's parish was a poor one, and from what we could gather, he had already been thinking for some time past of making a change. "We began by sending him anonymously a paper containing a notice of the vacancy here. That of course was just to set him thinking about it. The next Sunday Schumann motored down to his parish, saw for himself that the resemblance to me was actually quite remarkable, and then after service made the minister's acquaintance. Imagine the good Mr Burnett's surprise and interest when this pleasant stranger proved to be intimately acquainted with the vacant parish of Myredale, and described it as a second Garden of Eden! Before they parted Schumann saw that the fish was hooked. "The next problem was how to make the real Burnett vanish into space, and substitute the false Burnett without raising a trace of suspicion till my visit here was safely over. Again luck was with us. We sent an agent down to make inquiries of his servant a few days before he started, and found that he was going to spend a night with a friend in Edinburgh on his way north." Tiel paused to knock the ashes out of his pipe, and I remarked-- "At first sight I confess that seems to me to complicate the problem. You would have to wait till Burnett had left Edinburgh, wouldn't you?" Tiel smiled and shook his head. "That is what we thought ourselves at first," said he, "but our second thoughts were better. What do you think of a wire to Burnett from his friend in Edinburgh telling him that a Mr Taylor would call for him in his motor-car: plus a wire to the friend in Edinburgh from Mr Burnett regretting that his visit must be postponed?" "Excellent!" I laughed. "Each wire, I may add, contained careful injunctions not to reply. And I may also add that the late Mr Burnett was simplicity itself." I started involuntarily. "The 'late' Mr Burnett! Do you mean----" "What else could one do with him?" asked Tiel calmly. "Both Schumann and I believe in being thorough." Of course this worthy pair were but doing their duty. Still I was glad to think they had done their dirty work without my assistance, It was with a conscious effort that I was able to ask calmly-- "How did you manage it?" "Mr Taylor, with his car and his chauffeur, called at the manse. The chauffeur remained in the car, keeping his face unostentatiously concealed. Mr Taylor enjoyed the minister's hospitality till the evening had sufficiently fallen. Then we took him to Edinburgh by the coast road." Tiel paused and looked at me, as though to see how I was enjoying the gruesome tale. I am afraid I made it pretty clear that I was not enjoying it in the least. The idea of first partaking of the wretched man's hospitality, and then coolly murdering him, was a little too much for my stomach. Tiel, however, seemed rather amused than otherwise with my attitude. "We knocked him on the head at a quiet part of the road, stripped him of every stitch of clothing, tied a large stone to his feet, and pitched him over the cliff," he said calmly. "And his clothes----," I began, shrinking back a little in my chair. "Are these," said Tiel, indicating his respectable-looking suit of black. Curiously enough this was the only time I heard the man tell a tale of this sort, and in this diabolical, deliberate, almost flippant way. It was in marked contrast to his usually brief, concise manner of speaking. Possibly it was my reception of his story that discouraged him from exhibiting this side of his nature again. I certainly made no effort to conceal my distaste now. "Thank God, I am not in the secret service!" I said devoutly. "I understand you are in the submarine service," said Tiel in a dry voice. "I am--and I am proud of it!" "Have you never fired a torpedo at an inoffensive merchant ship?" "That is very different!" I replied hotly. "It is certainly more wholesale," said he. I sprang up. "Mr Tiel," I said, "kindly understand that a German naval officer is not in the habit of enduring affronts to his service!" "But you think a German secret-service agent should have no such pride?" he inquired. "I decline to discuss the question any further," I said stiffly. For a moment he seemed exceedingly amused. Then he saw that I was in no humour for jesting on the subject, and he ceased to smile. "Have another cigar?" he said, in a quiet matter-of-fact voice, just as though nothing had happened to ruffle the harmony of the evening. "You quite understand what I said?" I demanded in an icy voice. "I thought the subject was closed," he replied with a smile, and then jumping up he laid his hand on my arm in the friendliest fashion. "My dear Belke," said he, "we are going to be shut up together in this house for several days, and if we begin with a quarrel we shall certainly end in murder. Let us respect one another's point of view, and say no more about it." "I don't know what you mean by 'one another's point of view,'" I answered politely but coldly. "So far as I am aware there is only one point of view, and I have just stated it. If we both respect that, there will be no danger of our quarrelling." He glanced at me for a moment in an odd way, and then said merely-- "Well, are you going to have another cigar, or would you like to go to bed?" "With your permission I shall go to bed," I said. He conducted me through the hall and down the passage that led to the back premises. At the end rose a steep and narrow stair. We ascended this, and at the top found a narrow landing with a door at either end of it. "This is your private flat," he explained in a low voice. "The old house, you will see, has been built in two separate instalments, which have separate stairs and no communication with one another on the upper landing. These two rooms are supposed to be locked up and not in use at present, but I have secured their keys." He unlocked one of the doors, and we entered the room. It was square, and of quite a fair size. On two sides the walls sloped attic-wise, in a third was a fireplace and a window, and in the fourth two doors--the second opening into a large cupboard. This room had simple bedroom furniture, and also a small table and a basket chair. When we entered, it was lit only by a good fire, and pervaded by a pleasant aroma of peat smoke. Tiel lighted a paraffin lamp and remarked-- "You ought to be quite comfortable here." Personally, I confess that my breath was fairly taken away. I had anticipated sleeping under the roof in some dark and chilly garret, or perhaps in the straw of an outhouse. "Comfortable!" I exclaimed. "Mein Gott, who would not be on secret service! But are you sure all this is safe? This fire, for instance--the smoke surely will be seen." "I have promised to keep the bedrooms aired while I am staying here," smiled Tiel. He then explained in detail the arrangements of our remarkable household. He himself slept in the front part of the house, up the other staircase. The room opposite mine was empty, and so was the room underneath; but below the other was the kitchen, and I was warned to be very quiet in my movements. The single servant arrived early in the morning, and left about nine o'clock at night: she lived, it seemed, at a neighbouring farm; and Tiel assured me there was nothing to be feared from her provided I was reasonably careful. I had brought with me a razor, a toothbrush, and a brush and comb, and Tiel had very thoughtfully brought a spare sleeping suit and a pair of slippers. I was not at all sure that I was disposed to like the man, but I had to admit that his thoroughness and his consideration for my comfort were highly praiseworthy. In fact, I told him so frankly, and we parted for the night on friendly terms. Tiel quietly descended the stairs, while I sat down before my fire and smoked a last cigarette, and then very gratefully turned into my comfortable bed. III. THE PLAN. I slept like a log, and only awakened when Tiel came into my room next morning, bringing my breakfast on a tray. He had sent the servant over to the farm for milk, he explained, and while I ate he sat down beside my bed. "Can you talk business now?" I asked. "This afternoon," said he. I made a grimace. "I naturally don't want to waste my time," I observed. "You won't," he assured me. "But why this afternoon rather than this morning? You can send the servant out for a message whenever you choose." "I hope to have a pleasant little surprise for you in the afternoon." I was aware of the fondness of these secret-service agents for a bit of mystery, and I knew I had to humour him. But really it seems a childish kind of vanity. "There is one thing you can do for me," I said. "If I am to kick up my heels in this room all day--and probably for several days--I must have a pen and ink and some foolscap." After his fashion he asked no questions but merely nodded, and presently brought them. The truth was, I had conceived the idea of writing some account of my adventure, and in fact I am writing these lines now in that very bedroom I have described. I am telling a story of which I don't know the last chapter myself. A curious position for an author! If I am caught--well, it will make no difference. I have given nothing away that won't inevitably be discovered if I am arrested. And, mein Gott, what a relief it has been! I should have died of boredom otherwise. If only my window looked out to sea! But, unluckily, I am at the back of the house and look, as it were sideways, on to a sloping hillside of green ferns below and brown heather at the top. By opening the window and putting my head right out, I suppose I should catch a glimpse of the sea, but then my neighbours would catch a glimpse of me. I expostulated with Tiel as soon as I realised how the room faced, but he points out that the servant may go into any room in the front part of the house, whereas this part is supposed to be closed. I can see that he is right, but it is nevertheless very tantalising. On that Saturday afternoon Tiel came back to my room some hours later, and under his quiet manner I could see that he bore tidings of importance. No one could come quicker to the point when he chose, and this time he came to it at once. "You remember the affair of the _Haileybury_?" he demanded. "The British cruiser which was mined early in the war?" He nodded. "Perfectly," I said. "You never at any time came across her captain? His name was Ashington." "No," I said, "I have met very few British officers." "I don't know whether you heard that she was supposed to be two miles out of her proper course, contrary to orders, did you?" "Was she?" "Ashington says 'no.' But he was court-martialled, and now he's in command of a small boat--the _Yellowhammer_. Before the loss of his ship he was considered one of the most promising officers in the British service; now----!" Tiel made an expressive gesture and his eyes smiled at me oddly. I began to understand. "Now he is an acquaintance of yours?" Tiel nodded. "But has he knowledge? Has he special information?" "His younger brother is on the flagship, and he has several very influential friends. I see that _my_ friends obtain knowledge." I looked at him hard. "You are _quite_ sure this is all right? Such men are the last to be trusted--even by those who pay them." "Do you know many 'such men'?" he inquired. "None, I am thankful to say." "They are queer fish," said Tiel in a reminiscent way, "but they generally do the thing pretty thoroughly, especially when one has a firm enough hold of them. Ashington is absolutely reliable." "Where is he to be seen?" "He went out for a walk this afternoon," said Tiel drily, "and happened to call at the manse to see if he could get a cup of tea--a very natural thing to do. Come--the coast is clear." He led the way downstairs and I followed him, not a little excited, I confess. How my mission was going to develop, I had no clear idea when I set forth upon it, but though I had imagined several possible developments, I was not quite prepared for this. To have an officer of the Grand Fleet actually assisting at our councils was decidedly unexpected. I began to realise more and more that Adolph Tiel was a remarkable person. In the front parlour an officer rose as we entered, and the British and German uniforms bowed to each other under circumstances which were possibly unique. Because, though Ashingtons do exist and these things sometimes happen, they generally happen in mufti. I looked at our visitor very hard. On his part, he looked at me sharply for a moment, and then averted his eyes. I should certainly have done the same in his place. He was a big burly man, dark, and getting bald. His voice was deep and rich; his skin shone with physical fitness; altogether he was a fine gross animal, and had his spirit been as frank and jovial as his appearance suggested, I could have pictured him the jolliest of company in the ward-room and the life and soul of a desperate enterprise. But he maintained a frowning aspect, and was clearly a man whose sullen temper and sense of injury had led him into my friend's subtle net. However, here he was, and it was manifestly my business not to criticise but to make the most of him. "Well, gentlemen," began Tiel, "I don't think we need beat about the bush. Captain Ashington has an idea, and it is for Lieutenant von Belke to approve of it or not. I know enough myself about naval affairs to see that there are great possibilities in the suggestion, but I don't know enough to advise on it." "What is the suggestion?" I asked in a very dry and non-committal voice. Captain Ashington, I noticed, cleared his throat before he began. "The fleet is going out one evening next week," he said; "probably on Thursday." "How do you know?" I demanded. He looked confidentially at Tiel. "Mr Tiel knows the source of my information," he said. "I should like to know it too," said I. "I can vouch for Captain Ashington's information," said Tiel briefly. There is something extraordinarily decisive and satisfying about Tiel when he speaks like that. I knew it must be all right; still, I felt it my duty to make sure. "Have you any objections to telling me?" I asked. Tiel stepped to my side and whispered-- "I told you about his brother." I understood, and did not press my question. Whether to respect the man for this remnant of delicacy, or to despise him for not being a more thorough, honest blackguard, I was not quite sure. "Well," I said, "suppose we know when they are going out, they will take the usual precautions, I presume?" Ashington leaned forward confidentially over the table. "They are going out on a new course," he said in a low voice. I pricked up my ears, but all I said was-- "Why is that?" "On account of the currents. The old passage hasn't been quite satisfactory. They are going to experiment with a new passage." This certainly sounded all right, for I knew how diabolical the tideways can be round these islands. "Do you know the new course at all accurately?" I inquired. Captain Ashington smiled for the first time, and somehow or other the sight of a smile on his face gave me a strongly increased distaste for the man. "I know it exactly," he said. He took out of his pocket a folded chart and laid it on the table. The three of us bent over it, and at a glance I could see that this was business indeed. All the alterations in the mine-fields were shown and the course precisely laid down. "Well," said Tiel, "I think this suggests something, Belke." By this time I was inwardly burning with excitement. "I hope to have the pleasure of being present just about that spot," I said, pointing to the chart. "Or there," suggested Ashington. "Either would do very nicely, so far as I can judge," said Tiel. "How many submarines can you concentrate, and how long will it take you to concentrate them?" I considered the question. "I am afraid there is no use in concentrating more than two or three in such narrow waters," I said. "Squadronal handling of submarines of course is impossible except on the surface. And we clearly can't keep on the surface!" Captain Ashington looked at me in a way I did not at all like. "We run a few risks in the British navy," he said. "D--n it, you'll have a sitting target! I'd crowd in every blank submarine the water would float if I were running this stunt!" "You don't happen to be running it," I said coldly. Tiel touched me lightly on the shoulder and gave me a swift smile, pleasant but admonitory. "The happy mean seems to be suggested," he said soothingly. "There's a great deal to be said for both points of view. On the one hand you risk submarines: on the other hand you make the battle-fleet run risks. One has simply to balance those. What about half a dozen submarines?" I shook my head. "Too many," I said. "Besides, we couldn't concentrate them in the time." "How many could you?" "Four," I said; "if I can get back to my boat on Monday, we'll have them there on Thursday." Tiel produced a bottle of whisky and syphons and we sat over the chart discussing details for some time longer. It was finally handed over to me, and Captain Ashington rose to go. "By the way," I said, "there is one very important preliminary to be arranged. How am I to get back to my boat?" "That will be all right," said Tiel confidently; "I have just heard from Captain Ashington that they have arrested the wrong man on suspicion of being the gentleman who toured the country yesterday. The only thing is that they can't find his cycle. Now I think if we could arrange to have your motor-cycle quietly left near his house and discovered by the authorities, they are not likely to watch the roads any longer." "I'll fix that up," said Captain Ashington promptly. "How will you manage it?" I asked. "Trust him," said Tiel. "But then how shall I get back?" "I shall drive you over," smiled Tiel. "There will probably be a dying woman who desires the consolations of religion in that neighbourhood on Monday night." I smiled too, but merely at the cunning of the man, not at the thought of parting with my motor-cycle. However, I saw perfectly well that it would be folly to ride it over, and if I left it behind at the manse--well, I was scarcely likely to call for it again! "Now, Belke," said Tiel, "we had better get you safely back to your turret chamber. You have been away quite as long as is safe." I bowed to Captain Ashington--I could not bring myself to touch his hand, and we left his great gross figure sipping whisky-and-soda. "What do you think of him?" asked Tiel. "He seems extremely competent," I answered candidly. "But what an unspeakable scoundrel!" "We mustn't quarrel with our instruments," said he philosophically. "He is doing Germany a good turn. Surely that is enough." "I should like to think that Germany did not need to stoop to use such characters!" "Yes," he agreed, though in a colourless voice, "one would indeed like to think so." I could see that Adolph Tiel had not many scruples left after his cosmopolitan experiences. IV. WHAT HAPPENED ON SUNDAY. That evening when we had the house to ourselves, I joined Tiel in the parlour, and we had a long talk on naval matters, British and German. He knew less of British naval affairs than I did, but quite enough about German to make him a keen listener and a very suggestive talker. In fact I found him excellent company. I even suspected him at last of being a man of good birth, and quite fitting company for a German officer. But of course he may have acquired his air of breeding from mixing with men like myself. As for his name, that of course gave no guide, for I scarcely supposed that he had been Tiel throughout his adventurous career. I threw out one or two "feelers" on the subject, but no oyster could be more secretive than Adolph Tiel when he chose. That night I heard the wind wandering noisily round the old house, and I wakened in the morning to find the rain beating on the window. Tiel came in rather late with my breakfast, and I said to him at once-- "I have just remembered that this is Sunday. I wish I could come and hear your sermon, Tiel!" "I wish you could, too," said he. "It will be a memorable event in the parish." "But are you actually going to do it?" "How can I avoid it?" "You are so ingenious I should have thought you would have hit upon a plan." He looked at me in his curious way. "Why should I have tried to get out of it?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Personally, I shouldn't feel anxious to make a mock of religion if I could avoid it." "We are such a religious people," said he, "that surely we can count on God forgiving us more readily than other nations." He spoke in his driest voice, and for a moment I looked at him suspiciously. But he was perfectly grave. "Still," I replied, "I am glad the Navy doesn't have to preach bogus sermons!" "Ah," said he, "the German navy has to keep on its pedestal. But the secret service must sometimes creep about in the dust." His eyes suddenly twinkled as he added-- "But never fear, I shall give them a beautiful sermon! The text will be the passage about Joshua and the spies, and the first hymn will be, 'Onward, Christian Sailors.'" He threw me a humorous glance and went out. I smiled back, but I confess I was not very much amused. Neither the irreverence nor the jest about the sailors (since it referred apparently to me) struck me as in the best of taste. That morning was one of the dreariest I ever spent. The wind rose to half a gale, and the fine rain beat in torrents on the panes. I wrote diligently for some time, but after a while I grew tired of that and paced the floor in my stockinged feet (for the sake of quietness) like a caged animal. My one consolation was that to-morrow would see the end of my visit. Already I longed for the cramped quarters and perpetual risks of the submarine, and detested these islands even more bitterly than I hated any other part of Britain. In the early afternoon I had a pleasant surprise. Tiel came in and told me that his servant had gone out for the rest of the day, and that I could safely come down to the parlour. There I had a late luncheon in comparative comfort, and moreover I could look out of the windows on to the sea. And what a dreary prospect I saw! Under a heavy sky and with grey showers rolling over it, that open treeless country looked desolation itself. As for the waters, whitecaps chased each other over the wind-whipped expanse of grey, fading into a wet blur of moving rain a few miles out. Through this loomed the nearer lines of giant ships, while the farther were blotted clean out. I thought of the long winters when one day of this weather followed another for week after week, month after month; when the northern days were brief and the nights interminable, and this armada lay in these remote isles enduring and waiting. The German navy has had its gloomy and impatient seasons, but not such a prolonged purgatory as that. We have a different arrangement. Probably everybody knows what it is--still, one must not say. After lunch, when we had lit our cigars, Tiel said-- "By the way, you will be pleased to hear that my efforts this morning were so successful that the people want me to give them another dose next Sunday." I stared at him. "Really?" I exclaimed. He nodded. "But I thought there would be another preacher next Sunday." "Oh, by no means. There was no one for next Sunday, and they were only too glad to have the pulpit filled." "But will you risk it?" He smiled confidently. "If there is any danger, I shall get warning in plenty of time." "To ensure your escape?" "To vanish somehow." "But why should you wait?" He looked at me seriously and said deliberately-- "I have other schemes in my head--something even bigger. It is too early to talk yet, but it is worth running a little risk for." I looked at this astonishing man with unconcealed admiration. Regulations, authorities, precautions, dangers, he seemed to treat as almost negligible. And I had seen how he could contrive and what he could effect. "I am afraid I shall have to ask you to stay with me for a few days longer," he added. I don't think I ever got a more unpleasant shock. "You mean you wish me _not_ to rejoin my ship to-morrow night?" "I know it is asking a great deal of you; but, my dear Belke, duty is duty." "My duty is with my ship," I said quickly. "Besides, it is the post of danger--and of honour. Think of Thursday night!" "Do you honestly think you are essential to the success of a torpedo attack?" "Every officer will be required." "My dear Belke, you didn't answer my question. Are you _essential_?"' "My dear Tiel," I replied firmly, for I was quite resolved I should not remain cooped up in this infernal house, exposed to hourly risk of being shot as a spy, while my ship was going into action, "I am sorry to seem disobliging; but I am a naval officer, and my first duty is quite clear to me." "Pardon me for reminding you that you are at present under my orders," said he. "While this affair is being arranged only." "But I say that I have not yet finished my arrangements." I saw that I was in something of a dilemma, for indeed it was difficult to say exactly how my injunctions met the case. "Well," I said, "I shall tell you what I shall do. I shall put it to my superior officer, Commander Wiedermann, and ask him whether he desires me to absent myself any longer." This was a happy inspiration, for I felt certain what Wiedermann would say. "Then I shall not know till to-morrow night whether to count on you--and then I shall very probably lose you?" I shrugged my shoulders, but said nothing. Suddenly his face cleared. "My dear fellow," he said, "I won't press you. Rejoin your ship if you think it your duty." By mutual consent we changed the subject, and discussed the question of submarines _versus_ surface ships, a subject in which Tiel showed both interest and acumen, though I had naturally more knowledge, and could contribute much from my own personal experience. I must add that it is a pleasure to discuss such matters with him, for he has a frank and genuine respect for those who really understand what they are talking about. Towards evening I went back to my room, and fell to writing this narrative again, but about ten o'clock I had another visit from Tiel; and again he disconcerted me, though not so seriously this time. "I had a message from Ashington, asking to see me," he explained, "and I have just returned from a meeting with him. He tells me that the date of the fleet's sailing will probably be altered to Friday, but he will let me know definitely to-morrow or Tuesday." "Or Tuesday!" I exclaimed. "Then I may have to stay here for another night!" "I'm sorry," said he, "but I'm afraid it can't be helped." "But can we ever be sure that the fleet will keep to a programme? I have just been thinking it over, and the question struck me--why are they making this arrangement so far ahead?" "That struck me too," said Tiel, "and also Ashington. But he has found out now. There is some big scheme on. Some think it is Heligoland, and some think the Baltic. Anyhow, there is a definite programme, and they will certainly keep to it. The only uncertain thing is the actual day of sailing." "It is a plan which will be nicely upset if we get our torpedoes into three or four of their super-dreadnoughts!" I exclaimed. He nodded grimly. "And for that, we want to have the timing exact" he said. "Be patient, my friend; we shall know by Tuesday morning at the latest." I tried to be as philosophical as I could, but it was a dreary evening, with the rain still beating on my window and another day's confinement to look forward to. V. A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE. Monday morning broke wet and windy, but with every sign of clearing up. Tiel looked in for a very few minutes, but he was in his most uncommunicative mood, and merely told me that he would have to be out for the first part of the day, but would be back in the afternoon. I could not help suspecting that he was still a little sore over my refusal to remain with him, and was paying me out by this display of secrecy. Such petty affronts to officers from those unfortunate enough to be outside that class are not unknown. I was of course above taking offence, but I admit that it made me feel less anxious to consult his wishes at every turn. In this humour I wrote for a time, and at last got up and stared impatiently out of the window. It had become quite a fine day, and the prospect of gazing for the greater part of it at a few acres of inland landscape, with that fascinating spectacle to be seen from the front windows, irritated me more and more. And then, to add to my annoyance, I heard "Boom! Boom! Boom!" crashing from the seaward side, and shaking the very foundations of the house. I began to feel emphatically that it was my duty to watch the British fleet at gunnery practice. Just then two women appeared, walking slowly away from the house. One had an apron and no hat, and though I had only once caught a fleeting glimpse of the back view of our servant, I made quite certain it was she. I watched them till they reached a farm about quarter of a mile away, and turned into the house, and then I said to myself-- "There can be no danger now!" And thereupon I unlocked my door, walked boldly downstairs, and went into the front parlour. I saw a vastly different scene from yesterday. A fresh breeze rippled the blue waters, patches of sunshine and cloud-shadow chased each other over sea and land, and distinct and imposing in its hateful majesty lay the British fleet. A light cruiser of an interesting new type was firing her 6-inch guns at a distant target, and for about five minutes I thoroughly enjoyed myself. And then I heard a sound. I turned instantly, to see the door opening; and very hurriedly I stepped back behind the nearest window curtain. And then in came our servant--_not_ the lady I had seen departing from the house, I need scarcely say! I was fully half exposed and I dared not make a movement to draw the curtain round me; in fact, even if I had, my feet would have remained perfectly visible. All I could do was to stand as still as a statue and pray that Heaven would blind her. She walked in briskly, a middle-aged capable-looking woman, holding a broom, and glanced all round the room in a purposeful way. Among the things she looked at was me, but to my utter astonishment she paid no more attention than if I had been a piece of furniture. For a moment I thought she was blind; but her sharp glances clearly came from no sightless eyes. Then I wondered whether she could have such a horrible squint that when she seemed to look at me she was really looking in another direction. But I could see no sign of a cast in those eyes either. And then she picked up an armful of small articles and walked quickly out, leaving the door wide open. What had saved me I had no idea, but I was resolved not to trust to that curtain any longer. In the middle of the room was a square table of moderate size with a cloth over it. Without stopping to think twice, I dived under the cloth and crouched upon the floor. The next instant in she came again, and I found that my table-cloth was so scanty that I could follow her movements perfectly. She took some more things out, and then more again, and finally she proceeded to set the furniture piece by piece back against the wall, till the table was left lonely and horribly conspicuous in the middle of the floor. And then she began to sweep out that room. There was small scope for an exhibition of resource, but I was as resourceful as I was able. I very gently pulled the scanty table-cloth first in one direction and then in the other, according to the side of the room she was sweeping, and as noiselessly as possible I crept a foot or two farther away from her each time. And all the while the dust rose in clouds, and the hateful broom came so near me that it sometimes brushed my boots. And yet the extraordinary woman never showed by a single sign that she had any suspicion of my presence! At last when the whole floor had been swept--except of course under the table--she paused, and from the glimpse I could get of her attitude she seemed to be ruminating. And then she stooped, lifted the edge of the cloth, and said in an absolutely matter-of-fact voice-- "Will you not better get out till I'm through with my sweeping?" Too utterly bewildered to speak, I crept out and rose to my feet. "You can get under the table again when I'm finished," she observed as she pulled off the cloth. To such an observation there seemed no adequate reply, or at least I could think of none. I turned in silence and hurried back to my bedroom. And there I sat for a space too dumfounded for coherent thought. Gradually I began to recover my wits and ponder over this mysterious affair, and a theory commenced to take shape. Clearly she was insane, or at least half-witted, and was quite incapable of drawing reasonable conclusions. And the more I thought it over, the more did several circumstances seem to confirm this view. My fire, for instance, with its smoke coming out of the chimney, and the supply of peat and firewood which Tiel or I were constantly bringing up. Had she noticed nothing of that? Also Tiel's frequent ascents of this back staircase to a part of the house supposed to be closed. She must be half-witted. And then I began to recall her brisk eye and capable air, and the idiot theory resolved into space. Only one alternative seemed left. She must be spying upon us, and aware of my presence all the time! But if so, what could I do? I felt even more helpless than I did that first night when my motor-cycle broke down. I could only sit and wait, revolver in hand. When I heard Tiel's step at last on the stairs, I confess that my nerves were not at their best. "We are betrayed!" I exclaimed. He stared at me very hard. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly, and I am bound to say this of Tiel, that there is something very reassuring in his calm voice. I told him hurriedly. He looked at me for a moment, began to smile, and then checked himself. "I owe you an apology, Belke," he said. "I ought to have explained that that woman is in my pay." "In your pay?" I cried. "And she has been so all the time?" He nodded. "And yet you never told me, but let me hide up in this room like a rat in a hole?" "The truth is," he replied, "that till I had got to know you pretty well, I was afraid you might be rash--or at least careless, if you knew that woman was one of us." "So you treated me like an infant, Mr Tiel?" "The life I have lived," said Tiel quietly, "has not been conducive to creating a feeling of confidence in my fellowmen's discretion--until I _know_ them. I know you now, and I feel sorry I took this precaution. Please accept my apologies." "I accept your apology," I said stiffly; "but in future, Mr Tiel, things will be pleasanter if you trust me." He bowed slightly and said simply-- "I shall." And then in a different voice he said-- "We have a visitor coming this afternoon to stay with us." "To stay here!" I exclaimed. "Another of _us_," he explained. "Another--in these islands? Who is he?" As I spoke we heard a bell ring. "Ah, here she is," said Tiel, going to the door. "Come down and be introduced whenever you like." For a moment I stood stock still, lost in doubt and wonder. "She!" I repeated to myself. VI. THE VISITOR. My feelings as I approached the parlour were anything but happy. Some voice seemed to warn me that I was in the presence of something sinister, that some unknown peril stalked at my elbow. This third party--this "she"--filled me with forebodings. If ever anybody had a presentiment, I had one, and all I can say now is that within thirty seconds of opening the parlour door, I had ceased to believe in presentiments, entirely and finally. The vision I beheld nearly took my breath away. "Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss Burnett," said Tiel. "She is so devoted to her brother that she has insisted on coming to look after him for the few days he is forced to spend in this lonely manse." He said this with a smile, and of course never intended me to believe a word of his statement, yet as he gave her no other name, and as that was the only account of her circulated in the neighbourhood, I shall simply refer to her in the meantime as Miss Burnett. It is the only name that I have to call her by to her face. As to her appearance, I can only say that she is the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my life. The delicacy and distinction of her features, her dark eyebrows, her entrancing eye, and her thoughtful mouth, so firm and yet so sweet, her delicious figure and graceful carriage--heavens, I have never seen any girl to approach her! What is more, she has a face which I _trust_. I have had some experience of women, and I could feel at the first exchange of glances and of words that here was one of those rare women on whom a man could implicitly rely. "Have you just landed upon these islands?" I inquired. "Not to-day," she said; and indeed, when I came to think of it, she would not have had time to reach the house in that case. "Did you have much difficulty?" I asked. "The minister's sister is always admitted," said Tiel with his dry smile. I asked presently if she had travelled far. She shrugged her shoulders, gave a delightful little laugh, and said-- "We get so used to travelling that I have forgotten what 'far' is!" Meanwhile tea was brought in, and Miss Burnett sat down and poured it out with the graceful nonchalant air of a charming hostess in her own drawing-room, while Tiel talked of the weather and referred carelessly to the lastest news just like any gentleman who might have called casually upon her. I, on my part, tried as best I could to catch the same air, and we all talked away very pleasantly indeed. We spoke English, of course, all the time, and indeed, any one overhearing us and not seeing my uniform would never have dreamt for a moment that we were anything but three devoted subjects of King George. On the other hand, we were surely proceeding on the assumption that nobody was behind a curtain or listening at the keyhole, and that being so, I could not help feeling that the elaborate pretence of being a mere party of ordinary acquaintances was a little unnecessary. At last I could not help saying something of what was in my mind. "Is the war over?" I asked suddenly. Both the others seemed surprised. "I wish it were, Mr Belke!" said Miss Burnett with a sudden and moving change to seriousness. "Then if it is not, why are we pretending so religiously that we have no business here but to drink tea, Miss Burnett?" "I am not pretending; I am drinking it," she smiled. "Yes, yes," I said, "but you know what I mean. It seems to me so un-German!" They both looked at me rather hard. "I'm afraid," said Miss Burnett, "that we of the secret service grow terribly cosmopolitan. Our habits are those of no country--or rather of all countries." "I had almost forgotten," said Tiel, "that I once thought and felt like Mr Belke." And then he added this singular opinion: "It is Germany's greatest calamity--greater even than the coming in of Britain against her, or the Battle of the Marne--that those who guide her destinies have not forgotten it too." "What do you mean?" I demanded, a little indignantly I must own. "At every tea-party for many years Germany has talked about what interested herself--and that was chiefly war. At no tea-party has she tried to learn the thoughts and interests of the other guests. In consequence she does not yet understand the forces against her, why they act as they do, and how strong they are. But her enemies understand too well." "You mean that she has been honest and they dishonest?" "Yes," said Miss Burnett promptly and with a little smile, "my brother means that in order really to deceive people one has to act as we are acting now." I laughed. "But unfortunately now there is no one to deceive!" She laughed too. "But they might suddenly walk in!" Tiel was not a frequent laugher, but he condescended to smile. "Remember, Belke," he said, "I warned you on the first night we met that you must not only talk but think in English. If we don't do that constantly and continually when no one is watching us, how can we count on doing it constantly and continually when some one _may_ be watching us?" "Personally I should think it sufficient to wait till some one _was_ watching," I said. "There speaks Germany," smiled Tiel. "Germany disdains to act a part all the time!" I cried. I confess I was nettled by his tone, but his charming "sister" disarmed me instantly. "Mr Belke means that he wants footlights and an orchestra and an audience before he mutters 'Hush! I hear her coming!' He doesn't believe in saying 'Hush!' in the corner of every railway carriage or under his umbrella. And I really think it makes him much less alarming company!" "You explain things very happily, Eileen," said Tiel. I was watching her face (for which there was every excuse!) and I saw that she started ever so slightly when he called her by her first name. This pleased me--I must confess it. It showed that they had not played this farce of brother and sister together before, and already I had begun to dislike a little the idea that they were old and intimate confederates. I also fancied that it showed she did not quite enjoy the familiarity. But she got her own back again instantly. "It is my one desire to enlighten you, Alexander," she replied with a very serious air. I could not help laughing aloud, and I must confess that Tiel laughed frankly too. The next question that I remember our discussing was one of very immediate and vital interest to us all. It began with a remark by Eileen (as I simply must call her behind her back; 'Miss Burnett' smacks too much of Tiel's disguises--and besides it is too British). We were talking of the English, and she said-- "Well, anyhow they are not a very suspicious people. Look at this little party!" "Sometimes I feel that they are almost incredibly unsuspicious," I said seriously. "In Germany this house would surely be either visited or watched!" Tiel shook his head. "In Kiel or Wilhelmshaven an English party could live just as unmolested," he replied, "provided that not the least trace of suspicion was aroused _at the outset_. That is the whole secret of my profession. One takes advantages of the fact that even the most wary and watchful men take the greater part of their surroundings for granted. The head of any War Office--German, French, English, or whatever it may be--doesn't suddenly conceive a suspicion of one of his clerks, unless something in the clerk's conduct calls his attention. If, then, it were possible to enter the War Office, looking and behaving exactly like one of the clerks, suspicion would not _begin_. It is the beginning one has to guard against." "Why don't you enter the British War Office, then?" asked Eileen with a smile. "Because, unfortunately, they know all the clerks intimately by sight. In this case they expected a minister whom nobody knew. The difficulty of the passport with its photograph was got over by a little ingenuity." (He threw me a quick grim smile.) "Thus I was able to appear as a person fully expected, and as long as I don't do anything inconsistent with the character, why should any one throw even so much as an inquisitive glance in my direction. Until suspicion _begins_, we are as safe here as in the middle of Berlin. Once it begins--well, it will be a very different story." "And you don't think my coming will rouse any suspicion?" asked Eileen, with, for the first time (I fancied), a faint suggestion of anxiety. "Suspicion? Certainly not! Just think. Put yourself in the shoes of the neighbours in the parish, or even of any naval officer who might chance to learn you were here. What is more natural than that the minister who--at the request of the people--is staying a week longer than he intended, should get his sister to look after him? The danger-point in both cases was passed when we got into the islands. We know that there was no suspicion roused in either case." "How do you know?" I interposed. "Another quality required for this work," replied Tiel with a detached air, "is enough imagination to foresee the precautions that will be required. One wants to establish precaution behind precaution, just as an army establishes a series of defensive positions. In this case I have got our good friend Ashington watching closely for the first evidence of doubt or inquiry. So that I _know_ that both my sister and I passed the barrier without raising a question in anybody's mind." "But how do you know that Ashington can be absolutely relied on?" I persisted. "Yes," put in Eileen, "I was wondering too." "Because Ashington will certainly share my fate--whatever that may be," said Tiel grimly. "He knows that; in fact he knows that I have probably taken steps to ensure that happening, in case there might be any loophole for him." "But can't a man turn King's evidence (isn't that the term?) and get pardoned?" asked Eileen. "Not a naval officer," said Tiel. "No," I agreed. "I must say that for the British Navy. An officer would have no more chance of pardon in it than in our own navy." "Well," smiled Eileen, "I feel relieved! Don't you, Mr Belke?" "Yes," I said, "I begin to understand the whole situation more clearly. I pray that suspicion may not _begin_!" "In that case," said Tiel, "you realise now, perhaps, why we have to keep up acting, whether any one is watching us or not." "Yes," I admitted, "I begin to see your reasons a little better. But why didn't you tell me all this before?" "All what?" "Well--about Ashington, for instance." "I suppose," he said, "the truth is, Belke, that you have laid your finger on another instance of people taking things for granted. I assumed you would realise these things. It was my own fault." It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the real reason was his love of mystery and his Secret Service habit of distrusting people, but I realised that Eileen had shown a little of the same evasiveness, and I would not have her think that my criticism was directed against her. Presently Tiel suggested that it would be wiser if I retired to my room, and for a moment there was a sharp, though politely expressed difference of opinion between us. I argued very naturally that since the servant was in our pay there was no danger to be apprehended within the house, and that I was as safe in the parlour as anywhere. In his mystery-making, ultra-cautious way, he insisted that a visitor _might_ appear (he even suggested the police--though he had just previously said they had no suspicion!) and that he was going to run no risks. Eileen said a word on his side--though with a very kind look at me--and I consented to go. And then he requested me to stay there for the rest of the evening! Again Eileen saved a strained situation, and I said farewell stiffly to him and very differently to her; in fact I made a point of accentuating the difference. I reached my room, lit a cigar, and for a time paced the floor in a state of mind which I found hard to analyse. I can only say that my feelings were both mixed and strong, and that at last, to give me relief, I sat down to write my narrative, and by nine o'clock in the evening had brought it up nearly to this point. By that time of course the curtains were drawn and my lamp was lit, and as it was a windy chilly night, my fire was blazing brightly. Higher and higher rose the wind till it began to make a very heavy and constant booming in the chimney, like distant salvoes of great guns. Apart from the wind the old house was utterly quiet, and when the wooden stair suddenly creaked I dropped my pen and sat up very sharply. More and more distinctly I heard a firm but light tread coming up and up, until at last it ceased on the landing. And then came a gentle tap upon my door. VII. AT NIGHT. With a curious sense of excitement I crossed the room. I opened the door--and there stood Eileen. She had taken off her hat, and without it looked even more beautiful, for what hat could rival her masses of dark hair so artfully arranged and yet with a rippling wave all through them that utterly defied restraint? "May I come in for a little?" she said. She asked in such a friendly smiling way, so modest and yet so unafraid, that even the greatest Don Juan could not have mistaken her honest intention. "I shall be more than charmed to have your company," I said. "I'm afraid we soon forget the conventionalities in our service," she said simply. "Tiel has gone out, and I was getting very tired of my own company." "Imagine how tired I have got of mine!" I cried. She gave a little understanding nod. "It must be dreadfully dull for you," she agreed with great sincerity--and she added, as she seated herself in my wicker chair, "I have another excuse for calling on you, and that is, that the more clearly we all three understand what we are doing, the better. Don't you think so?" "Decidedly! In fact I only wish we all thought the same." She looked at me inquiringly, and yet as though she comprehended quite well. "You mean----?" "Well, to be quite frank, I mean Tiel. He is very clever, and he knows his work. Mein Gott, we can teach him nothing! And perhaps he trusts you implicitly and is quite candid. But he certainly tells me no more than he can help." "He tells nobody more than he can help," she said. "You are no worse treated than any one else he works with. But it is a little annoying sometimes." "For instance, do you know what he is doing to-night?" I asked. There was no mistaking the criticism in the little shrug with which she replied-- "I half suspect he is walking about in the dark by himself just to make me think he is busy on some mysterious affair!" "Do you actually mean that?" I exclaimed. "No, no," she said hastily, "not really quite that! But he sometimes tempts one to say these things." "Have you worked with him often before?" "Enough to know his little peculiarities." She smiled suddenly. "Oh, he is a very wonderful man, is my dear brother!" Again I was delighted (I confess it shamelessly!) to hear that unmistakable note of criticism. "'Wonderful' may have several meanings," I suggested. "It has in his case," she said frankly. "He really is extraordinarily clever." She added nothing more, but the implication was very clear that the other meanings were not quite so flattering. I felt already that this strange little household was divided into two camps, and that Eileen and I were together in one. "But we have talked enough about Herr Tiel!" she exclaimed in a different voice. "Because we really can get no further. It is like discussing what is inside a locked box! We can trust his judgment in this business; I think you will agree to that." "Oh yes," I said, "I have seen enough to respect his abilities very thoroughly." "Then," said she, "let us talk of something more amusing." "Yourself," I said frankly, though perhaps a little too boldly, for she did not respond immediately. I felt that I had better proceed more diplomatically. "I was wondering whether you were a pure German," I added. "My feelings towards Germany are as strong as yours, Mr Belke," she answered. "Indeed I don't think any one can be more loyal to their country than I am, but I am not purely German by blood. My mother was Irish, hence my name--Eileen." "Then that is your real name?" I cried, between surprise and delight. "Yes, that is the one genuine thing about me," she smiled. "But if you are half English----" "Irish," she corrected. "Ah!" I cried. "I see--of course! I was going to ask whether your sympathies were not at all divided. But Irish is very different. Then you hate the English with a double hatred?" "With one or two exceptions--friends I have made--I abhor the whole race I am fighting against quite as much as you could possibly wish me to! Indeed, I wish it were fighting and not merely plotting!" There was an earnestness and intensity in her voice and a kindling of her eye as she said this that thrilled and inspired me like a trumpet. "We shall defeat them--never fear!" I cried. "We shall trample on the pride of England. It will be hard to do, but I have no doubt as to the result; have you?" "None," she said, quietly but with absolute confidence. Then that quick smile of hers, a little grave but very charming, broke over her face. "But let us get away for a little from war," she said. "You aren't smoking. Please do, if you wish to." I lit a cigarette, and offered one to her, but she said she did not smoke. And I liked her all the better. We talked more lightly for a while, or perhaps I should rather say less earnestly, for our situation did not lend itself to frivolity. It did lend itself however to romance,--we two sitting on either side of the peat fire, with a shaded lamp and the friendly flames throwing odd lights and shadows through the low, primitive room with its sloping attic-like walls and its scanty furniture; and the wind all the while tempestuously booming in the chimney and scouring land and sea. And neither on land nor sea was there a single friend; surrounded by enemies who would have given a heavy price to have learned who sat in that room, we talked of many things. At last, all too soon, she rose and wished me good-night. A demon of perversity seized me. "I shall escort you down to Mr Tiel, and the devil take his precautions!" I exclaimed. "Oh no," she protested. "After all he is in command." She really seemed quite concerned at my intention, but I can be very obstinate when I choose. "Tuts!" I said. "It is sheer rubbish to pretend that there is any risk at this time of night. Probably he is still out, and anyhow he will not have visitors at this hour." She looked at me very hard and quickly as if to see if I were possible to argue with, and then she gave a little laugh and merely said-- "You are terribly wilful, Mr Belke!" And she ran downstairs very quickly, as though to run away from me. I followed fast, but she was some paces ahead of me as we went down the dark passage to the front of the house. And then suddenly I heard guarded voices, and stopped dead. There was a bend in the passage just before it reached the hall, and Eileen had passed this while I had not, and so I could see nothing ahead. Then I heard the voice of Tiel say-- "Well?" It was a simple word of little significance, but the voice in which it was said filled me with a very unpleasant sensation. The man spoke in such a familiar, confidential way that I suddenly felt I could have shot him cheerfully. For the instant I forgot the problem of the other voice I had heard. "Mr Belke is with me! He insisted," she cried. At this I knew that the unknown voice could not belong to an enemy, and I advanced again. As I passed the bend in the passage I was just in time to see Tiel closing the front door behind a man in a long dark coat with a gleam of brass buttons, and to hear him say, "Good-night, Ashington." Eileen passed into the parlour with a smiling glance for me to follow, and Tiel came in after us. I was not in the most pleasant temper. In fact, for some reason I was in a very black humour. "I thought you had gone out," I said to him at once. "I did go out." "But now I understand that the worthy Captain Ashington has been visiting you here!" "Both these remarkable events have occurred," said Tiel drily. When I recalled how long Eileen had been up in my room, I realised that this was quite possible, but this did not, for some reason, soothe me. "Why did he come?" I asked. "The fleet is going out on Friday." "Aha!" I exclaimed, forgetting my annoyance for the moment. "So that is settled at last," said Tiel with a satisfied smile. He happened to turn his smile on Eileen also, and my annoyance returned. "You dismissed our dear friend Ashington very quickly when you heard me coming," I remarked in no very amiable tone. Tiel looked at me gravely. "Belke," he said, "you might quite well have done serious mischief by showing your dislike for Ashington so palpably the other day. Even a man of that sort has feelings. I have soothed them, I am glad to say, but he was not very anxious to meet you again." "So much the better!" said I. "Traitors are not the usual company a German officer keeps." "Many of us have to mix with strange company nowadays, Mr Belke," said Eileen. Her sparkling eye and her grave smile disarmed me instantly. I felt suddenly conscious I was not playing a very judicious part, or showing myself perhaps to great advantage. So I bade them both good-night and returned to my room. But it was not to go to bed. For two mortal hours I paced my floor, and thought and thought, but not about any problem of the war. I kept hearing Tiel's "Well," spoken in that hatefully intimate way, and then remembering that those two were alone--all night!--in the front part of the house, far out of sound or reach of me. I did not doubt Eileen for an instant, but that calm, cool, cosmopolitan adventurer, who could knock an unsuspecting clergyman on the head and throw him over a cliff, and then tell the story with a smile,--what was he not capable of? Again and again I asked myself why it concerned me. This was a girl I had only known for hours. But her smile was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep at length about three o'clock in the morning. VIII. THE DECISION. In the morning I came down to breakfast without asking anybody's leave, and I looked at those two very hard. To see Eileen fresh and calm and smiling gave me the most intense relief, while, as for Tiel, he looked as cool and imperturbable as he always did--and I cannot put it stronger than that, for nothing more cool and imperturbable than Tiel ever breathed. In fact it could not have breathed, for it would have had to be a graven image. He looked at me critically, but all he said was-- "If it wasn't too wet for your nice uniform, Belke, we might have had breakfast on the lawn." "You are afraid some one may come and look in at this window?" I asked. "On the whole there is rather more risk of that than of some one climbing up to look in at your bedroom window," said he. "You think a great deal of risks," I observed. "Yes," said he. "I am a nervous man." Eileen laughed merrily, and I could not but confess that for once he had scored. I resolved not to give him the chance again. He then proceeded to draw the table towards one end of the room, pulled the nearest curtain part way across, and then locked the front door. But I made no comments this time. At breakfast Eileen acted as hostess, and so charming and natural was she that the little cloud seemed to blow over, and we all three discussed our coming plan of attack on the fleet fully and quite freely. Tiel made several suggestions, which he said he had been discussing with Ashington, and, as they seemed extremely sound, I made notes of them and promised to lay them before Wiedermann. When we had finished and had a smoke, Tiel rose and said he must go out "on parish business." I asked him what he meant, and learned to my amusement that in his capacity of the Rev. Alexander Burnett he had to attend a meeting of what he called the "kirk-session." We both laughed, and wished him good luck, and then before he left he said-- "You had better get back to your room, Belke. Remember we are here on _business_." And with that he put on his black felt hat, and bade us lock the front door after him, and if anybody called, explain that it was to keep the wind from shaking it. I must say he thought of these small points very thoroughly. The suggestion in his last words that I was placing something else before my duty stung me a little. I was not going to let Tiel see that they had any effect, but as soon as he had gone I rose and said to Eileen-- "It is quite clear that I ought to return to my room. I have notes to write up, and several things to do before to-night." "Then you are really going to leave us to-night?" said she; "I am very sorry." So was I. Indeed, the thought of leaving her--probably for ever--would have been bitter enough in any case, but to leave her alone with Tiel was maddening. It had troubled me greatly last night, yet the thought of remaining was one I did not really care to face. "I fear I must," I replied, in a voice which must have revealed something of what I felt. "Tiel told me you absolutely refused to listen to him when he wished you to remain." "Oh no!" I cried. "That is putting it far too strongly. I offered to put the case to Commander Wiedermann, and then Tiel at once assumed I was going to leave him, and told me to say no more about it." "Really! That is somewhat extraordinary!" she exclaimed in rather a low voice, as though she were much struck with this. She had been standing, and she sat as she spoke. I felt that she wished to go further into this matter, and I sat down again too. "What is extraordinary about it?" I asked. "Do you mean to say that Tiel didn't press you?" "No," I said. "Mr Belke," she said earnestly, "I know enough of the orders under which we are acting and the plans that Tiel has got to further, to be quite certain that you were intended to stay and assist him. It is _most_ important." "You are quite sure of this?" "Absolutely." "Then why did Tiel give up trying to persuade me so readily? Why didn't he try to use more authority?" "I wonder," she said in a musing tone, and yet I could see from her eye that she had an idea. "You know!" I exclaimed. "Tell me what is in your mind!" Already I guessed, but I dared not put it into words. "It is difficult to guess Tiel's motives--exactly," she said rather slowly. I felt I had to say it outright. "Are you his motive?" I demanded. She looked at me quickly, but quite candidly. "I scarcely like to say--or even think such a thing, but----" She broke off, and I finished her sentence for her. "But you know he admires you, and is not the man to stick at anything in order to get what he wants." "Ah! Don't be unjust to him," she answered; and then in a different voice added, "But to think of his letting you go like that!" "So it was to get rid of me, and have you alone here with him?" "He must have had some motive," she admitted, "for you _ought_ to stay." "I shall stay!" I said. She gave me her brightest smile. "Really? Oh, how good of you! Or rather--how brave of you, for it is certainly running a risk." If I had been decided before, I was doubly decided now. "It is not the German navy's way to fear risks," I said. "It is my duty to stay--for two reasons--and I am going to stay!" "And Commander Wiedermann?" "I shall simply tell him I am under higher orders, given me by Herr Tiel." "If you added that there is a second plan directed against the British navy, and that you are needed to advise on the details, it might help to convince Commander Wiedermann how essential your presence here is," she suggested. "Yes," I agreed, "it would be well to mention that." "Also," she said, "you would require to have all the details of this first plan so fully written out that he would not need to keep you to explain anything." "You think of everything!" I cried with an admiration I made no pretence of concealing. "I shall go now and set to work." "Do!" she cried, "and when Tiel comes in I shall tell him you are going to stay. I wonder what he will say!" "I wonder too," said I. "But do you care what he says?" "No," she replied, "because of course he won't say it. He will only think." "Let him think!" I laughed. I went back to my room in a strange state of exhilaration for a man who had just decided to forgo the thing he had most looked forward to, and run a horrible risk instead. For I felt in my bones that uniform or no uniform I should be shot if I were caught. I put little trust in English justice or clemency. But, as I said before, when I am obstinate, I am very obstinate; and I was firmly resolved that if Wiedermann wanted me back on board to-night, he would have to call a guard and carry me! However, acting on Eileen's suggestions, I had little doubt I should convince him. And thereupon I set to work on my notes. By evening I had everything so fully written out and so clearly explained that I felt I could say with a clear conscience that even my own presence at a council of war could add no further information. In the course of the day I had a talk with Tiel, and, just as Eileen had anticipated, he left one to guess at what was in his mind. He certainly professed to be glad I had changed my mind, and he thanked me with every appearance of cordiality. "You are doing the right thing, Belke," he said. "And, let me tell you, I appreciate your courage." There was a ring of evident sincerity in his voice as he said this, and whatever I might think of the man's moral character, a compliment from Tiel on one's courage was not a thing to despise. In the late afternoon he set out to obtain a motor-car for the evening's expedition, but through what ingenious machinery of lies he got it, I was too busy to inquire. Finally, about ten o'clock at night we sat down to a little supper, my pockets bulging with my notes, and my cyclist's overalls lying ready to be donned once more. IX. ON THE SHORE. Soon after eleven o'clock two dark figures slipped unostentatiously out of the back door, and a moment later a third followed them. My heart leapt with joy and surprise at the sight of it, and Tiel stopped and turned. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I'm coming too," said Eileen. "Why?" he demanded in that tone of his which seemed to call upon the questioned to answer with exceeding accuracy. "Because I'd like a drive," she answered, with a woman's confidence that her reason is good enough for anybody. "As you please," he said, drily and with unfathomable calm; and then he turned again, and in a voice that betrayed his interest in her, asked, "What have you got on?" "Quite enough, thank you." "You are sure? I've lent my spare coat to Belke, but I can get another rug." "I am quite sure," she smiled. More than ever I felt glad I was staying beside her. Tiel sat in front and drove, and Eileen and I got in behind. He offered no objections to this arrangement, though as she seated herself while he was starting the engine, he was certainly not given much choice. And then with a deep purr we rolled off into the night. There would be no moon till getting on towards morning, but the rain had luckily ceased and the wind fallen, and overhead the stars were everywhere breaking through the last wisps of cloud. Already they gave light enough to distinguish sea from land quite plainly, and very soon they faintly lit the whole wide treeless countryside. The car was a good one, however Tiel had come by it, and the engine was pulling well, and we swept along the lonely roads at a great pace, one bare telegraph post after another flitting swiftly out of the gloom ahead into the gloom behind, and the night air rushing against our faces. At first I looked round me and recognised some features of the way we had come, the steep hill, and the sound that led to the western ocean, and the dark mass of hills beyond, but very soon my thoughts and my eyes alike had ceased to wander out of the car. We said little, just enough to serve as an excuse for my looking constantly at her profile, and, the longer I looked, admiring the more every line and every curve. All at once she leaned towards me and said in a low beseeching voice-- "You will come back, won't you?" "I swear it!" I answered fervently, and to give force to my oath I gently took her hand and pressed it. If it did not return the pressure, it at least did not shrink from my clasp. And for the rest of the way I sat holding it. Presently I in turn leaned towards her and whispered-- "One thing I have been wondering. Should I take Tiel with me to see Wiedermann? It might perhaps be expected." "No!" she replied emphatically. "You feel sure?" For reply she very gently pressed my hand at last. So confident did I feel of her sure judgment that I considered that question settled. "By the way," she said in a moment, "I think perhaps it might be advisable to say nothing to Commander Wiedermann about me. It is quite unnecessary, and he--well, some men are always suspicious if they think there is a woman in the case. Of course I admit they sometimes have enough excuse, but--what do you think?" "I agree with you entirely," I said emphatically. I know Wiedermann very intimately, and had been divided in mind whether I should drop a little hint that there were consolations, or whether I had better not. Now I saw quite clearly I had better not. "What's that?" said Eileen in a moment. It was a tall gaunt monolith close to the roadside, and then, looking round, I saw a loch on the other side, and remembered the spot with a start. It was close by here that my cycle had broken down, and we were almost at the end of our drive. Round the corner we swung, straight for the sea, until we stopped where the road ended at the edge of the links. I gave Eileen's hand one last swift pressure, and jumped out. "We shall wait for you here," said Tiel in a low voice, "but don't be longer than you can help. Remember my nerves!" He spoke so cheerily and genially, that for the moment I liked him again. In fact, if it had not been for Eileen, and his love of mystery, there was much that was very attractive in Tiel. As I set out on my solitary walk down to the shore, I suddenly wondered what made him so cheerful and bright at this particular moment, for it did not strike me as an exhilarating occasion. And then I was reminded of the man I had known most like Tiel, a captain I once served under, who was silence and calmness itself at most times, but grew strangely genial on critical occasions--a heaven-sent gift. But from Tiel's point of view, what was critical about this moment? The risk he ran at this hour in such an isolated spot was almost negligible, and as to the other circumstances, did it matter much to him whether I stayed or changed my mind and went away? I could scarcely believe it. I kept along by the side of the sandy track, just as I had done before, only this time I did not lose it. The rolling hummocky links were a little darker, but the stars shone in myriads, bright and clear as a winter's night, and I could see my way well enough. As I advanced, I smelt the same pungent seaweed odour, and heard the same gulls crying, disturbed (I hoped) by the same monster in the waters. Fortunately the storm had blown from the south-east, and the sea in this westward-facing bay heaved quietly, reflecting the radiance of the stars. It was another perfect night for our purpose. I reached the shore and turned to the left along the rising circumference of the bay, looking hard into the night as I went. Something dark lay on the water, I felt certain of it, and presently something else dark and upright loomed ahead. A moment later I had grasped Wiedermann by the hand. He spoke but a word of cordial greeting, and then turned to descend to the boat. "We'll get aboard before we talk," said he. The difficult moment had come. Frankly, I had dreaded it a little, but it had to be faced and got over. "I am not coming aboard to-night, sir," I replied. He turned and stared at me. "Haven't you settled anything?" he demanded. "Something," I said, "but there is more to be done." I told him then concisely and clearly what we had arranged, and handed him the chart and all my notes. That he was honestly delighted with my news, and satisfied with my own performance, there could be no doubt. He shook me warmly by the hand and said-- "Splendid, Belke! I knew we could count on you! It's lucky you have a chest broad enough to hold all your decorations! For you will get them--never doubt it. But what is all this about staying on shore? What else are you needed for? And who the devil has given you such orders?" "Herr Tiel," I said. "I was placed under his orders, as you will remember, sir." "But what does he want you for? And how long does he imagine the British are going to let you stay in this house of yours unsuspected? They are not idiots! It seems to me you have been extraordinarily lucky to have escaped detection so far. Surely you are not going to risk a longer stay?" "If it is my duty I must run the risk." "But is it your duty? I am just wondering, Belke, whether I can spare you, with this attack coming on, and whether I ought to override Herr Tiel's orders and damn the consequences!" I knew his independence and resolution, but just at that moment there passed before my mind's eye such a distinct, sweet picture of Eileen, that I was filled with a resolution and independence even greater than his. "If it were not my duty, sir," I said firmly, "clearly and strongly pointed out by Herr Tiel, I should never dream of asking you to spare me for a little longer." "He was then very clear and strong on the question?" "Extremely." "And this other scheme of his--do you feel yourself that it is feasible enough to justify you in leaving your ship and running such a terrible risk? Remember, you will be a man lost to Germany!" I have put down exactly what he said, though it convicts me of having departed a little from the truth when I answered-- "Yes, it will justify the risk." After all, I had confidence enough in Tiel's abilities to feel sure that I was really justified in saying this; but I determined to press him for some details of his plans to-morrow. Wiedermann stood silent for a moment; then he held out his hand and said in a sad voice-- "Good-bye! But my mind misgives me. I fear we may never meet again." "That is nonsense, sir!" I cried as cheerfully as I could. "We shall meet again very soon. And if you wish something to cheer you, just study those plans!" And so we parted, he descending the bank without another word, and I setting out along the path that by now was beginning to feel quite familiar. I did not even pause to look back this time. My boats were burnt and I felt it was better to hurry on without dwelling longer on the parting. Besides, there was a meeting awaiting me. When I reached the end of the road, I found that Tiel had been spending the time in turning the car, and now he and Eileen stood beside it, but apparently not conversing. "All right?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "I met Wiedermann and gave him all the plans." He merely nodded and went to start the engine. Again I was forcibly reminded of my old captain, and the way in which he became calmer and more silent than ever the moment the crisis was passed. But surely this crisis had been mine and not his! Anyhow, I felt a singularly strong sense of reaction and seated myself beside Eileen without a word. We had gone for a little way on our homeward road before either of us spoke, and then it was to exchange some quite ordinary remark. I put out my hand gently, but hers was nowhere to be found, and this increased my depression. I fell very silent, and then suddenly, when we were nearly back, I exclaimed-- "I wonder whether you are really glad that I returned?" "Very!" she said, and there was such deep sincerity in her voice that the cloud began to lift at once. Yet I was not in high spirits when I re-entered my familiar room. PART IV. LIEUTENANT VON BELKE'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED I. WEDNESDAY. I woke on Wednesday morning with an outlook so changed that I felt as if some magician must have altered my nature. Theoretically I had taken a momentous and dangerous decision at the call of duty, and all my energies ought to have concentrated on the task of carrying it through safely, thoroughly, and warily. I had need of more caution than ever, and of the most constant vigilance--both for the sake of my skin and my country. As a matter of fact I was possessed with the recklessness of a man drifting on a plank down a rapid, where taking thought will not serve him an iota. In vain I preached theoretical caution to myself--exactly how vainly may be judged by my first performance in the morning when I found myself alone with Eileen in the parlour. She suggested that for my own sake I had better be getting back to my room. "Will you come and sit there with me?" I asked. "I may pay a call upon you perhaps." "After hours of loneliness! And then leave me lonelier than ever! No, thank you, I shall stay down here." "In your uniform?" she asked, opening her eyes a little. "No, no, Mr Belke!" "Well then, get me a suit of mufti!" She looked at me hard. "You will really run that risk?" "It is now worth it," I said with meaning. She looked away, and for a moment I thought she was pained--not displeased, I am sure, but as if something had given her a pang of sorrow. Then the look passed, and she cried-- "Well, if Tiel agrees!" "Tiel be hanged! I don't care what he says!" She began to smile. "Do you propose to wear my clothes?" she inquired. "Yours!" I exclaimed. "Otherwise," she continued, "you must persuade Tiel to agree, for it is only he who can provide you with a suit of mufti." Presently Tiel came in and I put the demand to him at once. He looked a little surprised, but, somewhat to my surprise, raised no serious objections. His motives are hard to fathom, but I cannot help suspecting that despite his air of self-confidence and authority, he has an instinctive respect for an officer and acknowledges in his heart that I am really his superior. "You mustn't go outside the house, of course," he said, "and if by any evil chance any visitor were to come in unexpectedly, you must have some kind of a story ready." "Have you had many visitors yet?" I asked with a touch of sarcasm. "You never know your luck," said he, "and I believe in guarding against all chances. If you are surprised, please remember that your name is Mr Wilson." "Wilson?" I said with some disgust. "Am I named in honour of that swine in America?" "You are named Wilson," said he, "because it is very like Watson and Williams and several other common names. The less conspicuous and more easily forgotten a name one takes, the better." There is no doubt about the thoroughness of the man and the cunning with which he lays even the smallest plans, and though I was a little contemptuous of his finesse at the moment, I must confess I was thankful enough for it not so very long afterwards. "As for your business," added Tiel, "you are a Government inspector." "Of what?" I asked. "If you are asked, look deep and say nothing," said he. "The islands are full of people on what they call in the Navy 'hush' jobs." "You seem pretty intimately acquainted with the British Navy down to its slang," I observed. My nerves were perhaps a little strained this morning, and I meant by this to make a sarcastic allusion to the kind of blackguards he dealt with--such as Ashington. I glanced at Eileen as I spoke, and I was surprised to see a sudden look, almost of alarm, in her eye. It was turned on Tiel, but he appeared absolutely indifferent. I presumed she feared he might take offence and make a row, but she need not have worried. It would take a very pointed insult to rouse that calculating machine. "Can you get a suit of mufti for me?" I inquired. "I'll look one out presently," said he. "I presume you keep a few disguises!" I added. "A few," said he with one of his brief smiles. "You had better go up to your room in the meantime, and I'll bring it to you." I fumed at the idea of any delay, and as I went to the door I said-- "Don't be long about it, please!" More and more the thought of leaving those two alone together, even for a short while, filled me with angry uneasiness, and I paced my bedroom floor impatiently enough. Judge then of my relief and delight when within a few minutes Eileen knocked at my door and said-- "I have come to pay you a morning call if I may." I began to wish then that Herr Tiel would spend an hour or two in looking out clothes for me, and as a matter of fact he did. Eileen explained that he had said he must do some errand in his capacity as parish minister, but what the mystery-monger was really about, Heaven knows! "Now," said I to Eileen, when we were seated and I had lit a cigarette, "I want to ask you something about this new scheme that we three are embarked upon." She began to shake her head at once. "I am very much in the dark," said she. "Tiel tells me as little as he tells you." "You must surely know one thing. What is your own part in it? Why were you brought into the islands? Such risks are not run for nothing." "What is a woman's part in such a plan usually?" she asked in a quiet voice. I was a little taken aback. It was not exactly pleasant to think of--in connection with Eileen. "I believe they sometimes act as decoys," I said bluntly. She merely nodded. "Then that is your _rôle_?" "I presume so," she said frankly. "Who are you going to decoy?" I asked, and I felt that my voice was harsh. "Ask Herr Tiel," she answered. "Not that gross brute Ashington surely!" She shook her head emphatically, and I felt a little relieved. "You have seen for yourself that he needs no further decoying," she said. "Then it must be some even higher game you're to be flown at." "I wonder!" she said, and smiled a little. I hated to see her smile. "I don't like to think of you doing this," I exclaimed suddenly. "Not even for Germany?" she asked. I was silenced, but my blood continued to boil at the thought of what might not be asked of her. "Would you go to any lengths," I asked abruptly. "For my country I would, to any lengths!" she answered proudly. Again I felt rebuked, yet still more savage at the thought. "You would even become some British Admiral's mistress?" I asked in a low voice. Her colour suddenly rose, and for an instant she seemed to start. Then in rather a cool voice she said-- "Perhaps we are thinking of rather different things." And with that she changed the subject, nor could I induce her to return to it. I admit frankly I was a little puzzled. Her reception of my question, perfectly honestly put, had been curiously unlike the candour I should have expected in a girl of her strange profession, especially considering her defiance of all conventionalities in living alone here with two men, and sitting at this moment in the room of one of them. I respected her the more for her hint of affronted dignity. Yet I confess I felt bewildered. How long we had talked I know not, when at last Tiel appeared, bringing a very presentable tweed suit, and then they both left me, and I did the one thing I had so firmly resolved not to do. I discarded my uniform with what protection it gave me, and made myself liable to be shot without question or doubt. Yet my only feeling was gladness that I need no longer stay cooped up in my room while those two spent their hours together downstairs. That afternoon, when we were all three together, I asked Tiel for some definite information regarding his scheme, and we had a long, and I must say a very interesting, talk. The details of this plan it would scarcely be safe to put down on paper at present. Or rather, I should say, the outline of it, for we have scarcely reached the stage of details yet. It is a bold scheme, as was only to be expected of Tiel, and necessitated going very thoroughly into the relative naval strengths of Germany and Britain, so that most of the time for the rest of the day was taken up with a discussion of facts and figures. And through it all Eileen sat listening. I wonder if such a talk ever before had such a charming background? Now at last I am in my room, writing this narrative up to this very point. It is long past midnight, but sleep is keeping very far away from me. The weather has changed to a steady drizzle of rain. Outside, the night is black as pitch, and mild and windless. It may partly be this close damp air that drives sleep away, but I know it is something else as well. I am actually wondering if I can marry her! She must surrender; that is certain, for I have willed it, and what a German wills with all his soul takes place. It must! As to her heart, I feel sure that her kindness means what a woman's kindness always means--that a man has only to persevere. But marriage? I shall never meet another woman like her; that is certain! Yet an adventuress, a paid agent of the Secret Service, marrying a von Belke--is it quite conceivable? On the whole I think _no_. But we can be very happy without that! I never loved a woman so much before--that is my last word for the night! II. THURSDAY. _Friday morning_ (_very early_).--The events of yesterday and last night have left me with more to think about than I seem to have wits to think with. Mein Gott, if I could see daylight through everything! What is ahead, Heaven knows, but here is what is behind. Yesterday morning passed as the afternoon before had passed, in further discussion of naval statistics with Tiel--with a background of Eileen. Then we had lunch, and soon afterwards Tiel put on an oilskin coat and went out. A thin fine drizzle still filled the air, drifting in clouds before a rising wind and blotting out the view of the sea almost completely. Behind it the ships were doing we knew not what; certainly they were not firing, but we could see nothing of them at all. A little later Eileen insisted on putting on a waterproof and going out too. As the minister's sister she had to visit a farm, she said. I believed her, of course, though I had ceased to pay much attention to Tiel's statements as to his movements. I knew that he knew his own business thoroughly, and I had ceased to mind if he had not the courtesy to take me into his confidence. After all, if I come safely out of this business, I am not likely to meet such as Tiel again! Left to myself, I picked up a book and had been reading for about a quarter of an hour when I was conscious of a shadow crossing the window and heard a step on the gravel. Never doubting that it was either Eileen or Tiel, I still sat reading until I was roused by the sound of voices in the hall, just outside the parlour door. One I recognised as our servant's, the other was a stranger's. I dropped my book and started hastily to my feet, and as I did so I heard the stranger say-- "I tell you I recognise her coat. My good woman, d'ye think I'm blind? I'm coming in to wait for her, I tell you." The door opened, and a very large stout gentleman appeared, talking over his shoulder as he entered. "When Miss Holland comes in, tell her Mr Craigie is waiting to see her," said he; and with that he closed the door and became aware of my presence. For a moment we looked at one another. My visitor, I saw, had a grey beard, a large rosy face, and twinkling blue eyes. He looked harmless enough, but I eyed him very warily, as you can readily believe. "It's an awful wet day," said he in a most friendly and affable tone. I agreed that it was detestable. "It's fine for the crops all the same. The oats is looking very well; do you not think so?" I perceived that my friend was an agriculturist, and endeavoured to humour him. "They are looking splendid!" I said with enthusiasm. He sat down, and we exchanged a few more remarks on the weather and the crops, in the course of which he had filled and lit a pipe and made himself entirely at home. "Are you staying with the minister?" he inquired presently. "I am visiting him," I replied evasively, "I understand Miss Holland's here too," said he, with an extra twinkle in his eye. I knew, of course, that he must mean Eileen, and I must confess that I was devoured with curiosity. "She is," I said. "Do you know her?" "Know her? She was my governess! Has she not told you the joke of how she left me in the lurch?" It flashed across my mind that it might seem odd if I were to admit that "Miss Holland" had said nothing about this mysterious adventure. "Oh yes, she has told us all about it," I replied with assurance. Mr Craigie laughed heartily at what was evidently a highly humorous recollection. "I was as near being annoyed at the time as I ever was in my life," said he. "But, man, I've had some proper laughs over it since." He suddenly grew a trifle graver. "Mrs Craigie isn't laughing, though. Between ourselves, it's she that's sent me on this errand to-day." He winked and nodded and relit his pipe, while I endeavoured to see a little light through the extraordinary confusion of ideas which his remarks had caused in my mind. "Miss Holland came up to the islands as your governess, I understand," I said in as matter-of-fact tone as I could compass. "We got her through a Mrs Armitage in Kensington," said Mr Craigie. "It seemed all right--and mind you, I'm not saying it isn't all right now! Only between you and me, Mr----?" "Wilson," I said promptly, breathing my thanks to Tiel at the same time. "You'll be a relation of the minister's too, perhaps?" "I am on government business," I replied in a suitable tone of grave mystery. "Damn it, Mr Wilson," exclaimed my friend with surprising energy, "every one in the country seems to be on government business nowadays--except myself! And I've got to pay their salaries! We're asked in the catechism what's our business in this weary world, and damn it, I can answer that conundrum now! It's just to pay government officials their wages, and build a dozen or two new Dreadnoughts, and send six million peaceable men into the army, and fill a pile of shells with trinitrol-globule-paralysis, or whatever they call the stuff, and all this on the rental of an estate which was just keeping me comfortably in tobacco before this infernal murdering business began! Do you know what I'd do with that Kaiser if I caught him?" I looked as interested as possible, and begged for information. "I'd give him my wife and my income, and see how he liked the mess he's landed me in!" Though Mr Craigie had spoken with considerable vehemence, he had not looked at all fierce, and now his not usually very intellectual face began to assume a thoughtful expression. "He's an awful fool, yon man!" he observed. "Which man?" I inquired. "Billy," said he, and with a gasp I recognised my Emperor in this brief epithet. "It's just astounding to me how he never learns that hot coals will burn his fingers, and water won't run uphill! He's always trying the silliest things." His eyes suddenly began to twinkle again, and he asked abruptly-- "Why's the Kaiser like my boots?" I gave it up at once. "Because he'll be sold again soon!" he chuckled. "That's one of my latest, Mr Wilson. I've little to do in these weary times but make riddles to amuse my girls and think of dodges for getting a rise out of my wife. I had her beautifully the other day! We've two sons at the front, you must know, and one of them's called Bob. Well, I got a letter from him, and suddenly I looked awful grave and cried, 'My God, Bob's been blown up'--you should have seen Mrs Craigie jump--'by his Colonel!' said I, and I tell you she was nearly as put about to find I'd been pulling her leg as if he'd really been blown to smithereens. Women are funny things." I fear I scarcely laughed as much as he expected at this extraordinary instance of woman's obtuseness, but he did not seem to mind. He was already filling another pipe, and having found an audience, was evidently settling down to an afternoon's conversation--or rather an afternoon's monologue, for it was quite clear he was independent of any assistance from me. I was resolved, however, not to forgo this chance of learning something more about Eileen. "You were talking about Miss Holland," I said hurriedly, before he had time to get under way again. "Oh, so I was. And that reminds me I've come here just to make some inquiries about the girl." Again his blue eyes twinkled furiously. "Why's Miss Holland like our hall clock?" he inquired. "I may mention by the way that it's always going slow." Again I gave it up. "Because you take her hand and get forward! That was one for my wife's benefit. It made her fairly sick!" "Do you mean," I demanded, "that you were actually in the habit of holding Miss--er--Holland's hand?" "Oh, no fears. I'm past that game. But Mrs Craigie is a great one for p's and q's and not being what she calls vulgar, and a joke like that is a sure draw. I get her every time with my governess riddles. Here's a good one now--Why's a pretty governess like a----" In spite of the need for caution, my impatience was fast overcoming me. "Then you have been sent by Mrs Craigie to make inquiries about Miss Holland?" I interrupted a trifle brusquely. Mr Craigie seemed at least to have the merit of not taking offence readily. "That's the idea," he agreed. "You see, it's this way: my wife's been at me ever since our governess bolted, as she calls it. Well now, what's the good in making inquiries about a thing that's happened and finished and come to an end? If it was a case of engaging another governess, that's a different story. I'd take care not to have any German spies next time!" "German spies!" I exclaimed, with I hope well-simulated horror; "you don't mean to suspect Miss Holland of that surely!" "Oh, 'German Spy' is just a kind of term nowadays for any one you don't know all about," said Mr Craigie easily. "Every one you haven't seen before is a German Spy. I spotted five myself in my own parish at the beginning of the war, and Mrs Craigie wrote straight off to the Naval Authorities and reported them all." "And were they actually spies?" I asked a trifle uncomfortably. "Not one of them!" laughed he. "The nearest approach was a tinker who'd had German measles! Ha, ha! It's no good my wife reporting any more spies, and I just reminded her of that whenever she worried me, and pulled her leg a bit about me and Miss Holland being in the game together, and so it was all right till she got wind of a girl who was the image of the disappearing governess being here at the manse as Mr Burnett's sister, and then there was simply no quieting her till I'd taken the car and run over to see what there was in the story. Mind you, I didn't think there was a word of truth in it myself; but when I'd got here, by Jingo, there I saw Miss Holland's tweed coat in the hall! Now that's a funny kettle of fish, isn't it?" I didn't say so, but I had to admit that he was not so very far wrong. The audacity of the performance was quite worthy of Tiel, but its utter recklessness seemed not in the least like him. Had the vanishing governess's employer been any one less easy-going than Mr Craigie, how readily our whole scheme might have been wrecked! Even as it was, I saw detection staring me straight in the face. However, I put on as cool and composed a face as I could. "I understood that Miss Holland's brother had written to you about it," I said brazenly. "Oh! he is really her brother, is he?" said he, looking at me very knowingly. "Certainly." "He being Burnett and she Holland, eh?" "You have heard of half-brothers, haven't you?" I inquired with a condescending smile. "Oh, I have heard of them," winked Mr Craigie as good-humouredly as ever; "only I never happened to have heard before of half-sisters running away from a situation they'd taken without a word of warning, just whenever their half-brothers whistled." "Did Mr Burnett whistle?" I inquired, with (I hope) an air of calm and slightly superior amusement. "Some one sent her a wire, and I presume it was Mr Burnett," said he. "By Jingo!" He stopped suddenly with an air as nearly approaching excitement as was conceivable in such a gentleman. "What's the matter?" I asked a trifle anxiously. "One might get a good one about how to make a governess explode, the answer being 'Burn it!' By Jove, I must think that out." Before I could recover from my amazement at this extraordinary attitude, he had suddenly resumed his shrewd quizzical look. "Are you an old friend of Mr Burnett?" he inquired. "Oh, not very," I said carelessly. "Then perhaps you'll not be offended by my saying that he seems a rum kind of bird," he said confidentially. "In what way?" "Well, coming up here just for a Sunday to preach a sermon, and then not preaching it, but staying on as if he'd taken a lease of the manse--him and his twelve-twenty-fourths of a sister!" "But," I stammered, before I could think what I was saying, "I thought he did preach last Sunday!" "Not him! Oh, people are talking a lot about it." This revelation left me absolutely speechless. Tiel had told me distinctly and deliberately that he had gone through the farce of preaching last Sunday--and now I learned that this was a lie. What was worse, he had assured me that he was causing no comment, and I now was told that people were "talking." Coming straight on top of my discovery of his reckless conduct of Eileen's affair, what was I to think of him? It was at this black moment that Tiel and Eileen entered the room. My heart stood still for an instant at the thought that, in their first surprise, something might be disclosed or some slip made by one of us. But the next instant I saw that they had learned who was here and were perfectly prepared. "How do you do, Mr Craigie!" cried Eileen radiantly. Mr Craigie seemed distinctly taken aback by the absence of all signs of guilt or confusion. "I'm keeping as well as I can, thank you, considering my anxiety," said he. "About my sister, sir?" inquired Tiel with his most brazen effrontery, coming forward and smiling cordially. "Surely you got my letter?" I started. The man clearly had been at the key-hole during the latter part of our conversation, or he could hardly have made this remark fit so well into what I had said. "I'm afraid I didn't." "Tut, tut!" said Tiel, with a marvellously well-assumed air of annoyance. "The local posts seem to have become utterly disorganised. Apparently they pay no attention to civilian letters at all." "You're right there," replied Mr Craigie with feeling. "The only use we are for is just to be taxed." "What must you think of us?" cried Eileen, whose acting was fully the equal of Tiel's. "However, my brother will explain everything now." "Yes," said Tiel; "if Mr Craigie happens to be going--and I'm afraid we've kept him very late already--I'll tell him all about it as we walk back to his car." He gave Mr Craigie a confidential glance as though to indicate that he had something private for his ear. Our visitor, on his part, was obviously reluctant to leave an audience of three, especially as it included his admired governess; but Tiel handled the situation with quite extraordinary urbanity and skill. He managed to open the door and all but pushed Mr Craigie out of the room, without a hint of inhospitality, and solely as though he were seeking only his convenience. I could scarcely believe that this was the man who had made at least two fatal mistakes--mistakes, at all events, which had an ominously fatal appearance. When Mr Craigie had wished us both a very friendly good-bye and the door had closed behind him, I turned instantly to Eileen and cried, perhaps more hotly than politely-- "Well, I have been nicely deceived!" "By whom?" she asked quietly. "By you a little and by Tiel very much!" "How have I deceived you?" I looked at her a trifle foolishly. After all, I ought to have realised that she must have had some curious adventure in getting into the islands. She had never told me she hadn't, and now I had merely found out what it was. "You never told me about your governess adventure--or Mr Craigie--or that you were called Holland," I said rather lamely. She merely laughed. "You never asked me about my adventures, or I should have. They were not very discreditable after all." "Well, anyhow," I said, "Tiel has deceived me grossly, and I am going to wring an explanation out of him!" She laid her hand beseechingly on my arm. "Don't quarrel with him!" she said earnestly. "It will do no good. We may think what we like of some of the things he does, but we have got to trust him!" "Trust him! But how can I? He told me he preached last Sunday,--I find it was a lie. He said nobody in the parish suspected anything,--in consequence of his not preaching, I find they are all 'talking.' He mismanaged your coming here so badly that if old Craigie weren't next door to an imbecile we should all have been arrested days ago. How can I trust him now?" "Say nothing to him now," she said in a low voice. "Wait till to-morrow! I think he will tell you then very frankly." There was something so significant and yet beseeching in her voice that I consented, though not very graciously. "I can hardly picture Herr Tiel being very 'frank'!" I replied. "But if you ask me----" I bowed my obedience, and then catching up her hand pressed it to my lips, saying-- "I trust you absolutely!" When I looked up I caught a look in her eye that I could make nothing of at all. It was beyond question very kind, yet there seemed to be something sorrowful too. It made her look so ravishing that I think I would have taken her in my arms there and then, had not Tiel returned at that moment. "Well," asked Eileen, "what did you tell Mr Craigie?" "I said that you were secretly married to Mr Wilson, whose parents would cut him off without a penny if they suspected the entanglement, and this was the only plan by which you could spend a few days together. Of course I swore him to secrecy." For a moment I hesitated whether to resent this liberty, or to feel a little pleased, or to be amused. Eileen laughed gaily, and so I laughed too. And that was the end (so far) of my afternoon adventure. III. THURSDAY NIGHT. I went up to my room early in the evening. Eileen had been very silent, and about nine o'clock she bade us good-night and left us. To sit alone with Tiel, feeling as I did and yet bound by a promise not to upbraid him, was intolerable, and so I left the parlour a few minutes after she did. As I went down the passage to the back, my way lit only by the candle I was carrying, I was struck with a sound I had heard in that house before, only never so loudly. It was the droning of the wind through the crevices of some door, and the whining melancholy note in the stillness of that house of divided plotters and confidences withheld, did nothing to raise my spirits. When I reached my room I realised what had caused the droning. The wind had changed to a new quarter, and as another consequence my chimney was smoking badly and the room was filled with a pungent blue cloud. It is curious how events arise as consequences of trifling and utterly different circumstances. I tried opening my door and then my window, but still the fire smoked and the cloud refused to disperse. Then I had an inspiration. I have mentioned a large cupboard. It was so large as almost to be a minute room, and I remembered that it had a skylight in its sloping roof. I opened this, and as the room at once began to clear, I left it open. And then I paced the floor and smoked and thought. What was to be made of these very disquieting events? Clearly Tiel was either a much less capable and clever man than he was reputed--a bit of a fraud in fact--or else he was carrying his fondness for mystery and for suddenly springing brilliant surprises, like conjuring tricks, upon people, to the most extreme lengths. If he were really carrying out a cunning deliberate policy in not preaching last Sunday, good and well, but it was intolerable that he should have deceived me about it. It seemed quite a feasible theory to suppose that he had got out of conducting the service on some excuse in order that he might be asked to stay longer and preach next Sunday instead. But then he had deliberately told me he had preached, and that the people had been so pleased that they had invited him to preach again. It sounded like a schoolboy's boastfulness! Of course if he were the sort of man who would (like myself) have drawn the line at conducting a bogus religious service, I could quite well understand his getting out of it somehow. But when I remembered his tale of the murder of the real Mr Burnett, I dismissed that hypothesis. Besides, why deceive me in any case? I daresay I should have felt a little anxious as to the result if he had evaded the duty he had professed to come up and perform, but would he care twopence about that? I did not believe it. And then his method of getting Eileen into the islands, though ingenious enough (if not very original), had been marred by the most inconceivable recklessness. Surely some better scheme could have been devised for getting her out of the Craigies' house than a sudden flight without a word of explanation--and a flight, moreover, to another house in the same island where gossip would certainly spread in the course of a very few days. Of course Mr Craigie's extraordinary character gave the scheme a chance it never deserved, but was Tiel really so diabolically clever that he actually counted on that? How could he have known so much of Craigie's character? Indeed, that explanation was inconceivable. And then again, why had Eileen consented to such a wild plan? That neither of them should have realised its drawbacks seemed quite extraordinary. There must be some deep cunning about it that escaped me altogether. If it were not so, we were lost indeed! And so I resolved to believe that there was more wisdom in the scheme than I realised, and simply leave it at that. Thereupon I sat down and wrote for an hour or two to keep me from thinking further on the subject, and at last about midnight I resolved to go to bed. The want of fresh air had been troubling me greatly, and it struck me that a safe way of getting a little would be to put my head through the open skylight for a few minutes. It was quite dark in the cupboard, so that no light could escape; and I brought a chair along, stood on it, and looked out, with my head projecting from the midst of the sloping slates, and a beautiful cool breeze refreshing my face. So cool was the wind that there was evidently north in it, and this was confirmed by the sky, which literally blazed with stars. I could see dimly but pretty distinctly the outbuildings at the back of the house, and the road that led to the highway, and the dark rim of hills beyond. Suddenly I heard the back door gently open, and still as I had stood on my chair before, I became like a statue now. In a moment the figure of Tiel appeared, and from a flash of light I saw that he carried his electric torch. He walked slowly towards the highroad till he came to a low wall that divided the fields at the side, and then from behind the wall up jumped the form of a man, illuminated for an instant by a flash from the torch, and then just distinguishable in the gloom. I held my breath and waited for the crack of a pistol-shot, gently withdrawing my head a little, and prepared to rush down and take part in the fray. But there was not a sound save a low murmur of voices, far too distant and too hushed for me to catch a syllable of what they were saying. And then after two or three minutes I saw Tiel turn and start to stroll back again. But at that moment my observations ceased, for I stepped hastily down from my chair and stood breathlessly waiting for him to run up to my room. He was quiet almost as a mouse. I had not heard him pass through the house as he went out, and I barely heard a sound now as he returned. But I heard enough to know that he had gone off to bed, and did not propose to pay me a visit. "What in Heaven's name did it mean?" I asked myself. A dozen wild and alarming theories flashed through my mind, and then at last I saw a ray of comfort. Perhaps this was only a rendezvous with Ashington, or some subordinate in his pay. It was not a very brilliant ray, for the more I thought over it, the more unlikely it seemed that a rendezvous should take place at that spot and in that inconvenient fashion, when there was nothing to prevent Ashington or his emissary from entering the house by the front door and holding their conversation in the parlour. However, it seemed absolutely the only solution, short of supposing that the house was watched, and so I accepted it for what it was worth in the meantime, and turned into bed. My sleep was very broken, and in the early morning I felt so wide awake, and my thoughts were so restlessly busy, that I jumped up and resolved to have another peep out of the skylight. Very quietly I climbed on the chair and put my head through again. There was the man, pacing slowly away from me, from the wall towards the highroad! I studied his back closely, and of two things I felt certain: he was not a sailor of any sort--officer or bluejacket--and yet he walked like a drilled man. A tall, square-shouldered fellow, in dark plain clothes, who walks with a short step and a stiff back--what does that suggest? A policeman of some sort--constable or detective, no doubt about that! At the road he turned, evidently to stroll back again, and down went my head, I did not venture to look out again, nor was there any need. I dressed quickly, and this time put on my uniform. This precaution seemed urgently--and ominously--called for! And then I slipped downstairs, went to the front hall, and up the other stairs, and quietly called "Tiel!" For I confess I was not disposed to sit for two or three hours waiting for information. At my second cry he appeared at his bedroom door, prompt as usual. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Who did you speak to last night?" I asked point-blank. He looked at me for an instant and then smiled. "Good heavens, it wasn't you, was it?" he inquired. "Me!" I exclaimed. "I wondered how you knew otherwise." I told him briefly. "And now tell me exactly what happened!" I demanded. "Certainly," said he quietly. "I went out, as I often do last thing at night, to see that the coast is clear, and this time I found it wasn't. A man jumped up from behind the wall just as you saw." "Who was he?" "I can only suspect. I saw him for an instant by the light of my torch, and then it seemed less suspicious to put it out." "I don't see that," I said. "I am a cautious man," smiled Tiel, as easily as though the incident had not been of life and death importance. "And what did he say to you?" I demanded impatiently. "I spoke to him and asked him what he was doing there." "What did he say to that?" "I gave him no chance to answer--because, if the answer was what I feared, he wouldn't make it. I simply told him he would catch cold if he sat there on the grass, and gave him some details about my own misfortune in getting rheumatism through sleeping in damp sheets." "I see," I said; "you simply tried to bluff him by behaving like an ordinary simple-minded honest clergyman?" Tiel nodded. "It was the only thing to do--unless I had shot him there and then. And there might have been more men for all I knew." "Well," I said, "I can tell you something more about that man. He is patrolling the road at the back at this very moment." Tiel looked grave enough now. "It looks as if the house were being watched," he said rather slowly. "Looks? It _is_ being watched!" He thought for a moment. "Evidently they only suspect so far. They can know nothing, or they wouldn't be content with merely watching. Thank you for telling me. We'll talk about it later." Still cool as a cucumber he re-entered his room, and I returned to my own. What can be done? Nothing! I can only sit and wait and keep myself from worrying by writing. I have made up my fire and my door is locked, so that this manuscript will be in flames before any one can enter, if it comes to the worst. Recalling the words of Tiel a few days ago, I shiver a little to think of what is ahead. Suspicion has _begun_! IV. FRIDAY. This is written under very different circumstances--and in a different place. My last words were written with my eyes shut; these are written with them open, but I shall simply tell what happened as calmly as I can. Let the events speak; I shall make no comment in the meanwhile. On that Friday morning our breakfast was converted into a council of war. We all three discussed the situation gravely and frankly. I felt tempted to say some very bitter words to Tiel, for it seemed to me quite obvious that it was simply his gross mismanagement which had brought us to the edge of this precipice; but I am glad now I refrained. I was at no pains, however, to be over-polite. "There is nothing to be done in the meanwhile, I'm afraid," said he. This coolness seemed to me all very well in its proper season, but not at present. "Yes, there is," I said urgently. "We might get out of this house and look for some other refuge!" He shook his head. "Not by daylight, if it is being watched." "Besides," said Eileen, "this is the day we have been waiting for. We don't want to be far away, do we?" "Personally," I said, "it seems to me that as I cannot be where I ought to be" (and here I looked at Tiel somewhat bitterly), "with my brave comrades in their attack on our enemies, I should much prefer to make for a safer place than this--if one can be found." "It can't," said Tiel briefly. And that indeed became more and more obvious the longer we talked it over. Had our house stood in the midst of a wood, or had a kindly fog blown out of the North Sea, we might have made a move. As it was, I had to agree that it would be sheer folly, before nightfall anyhow; and there was nothing for it but waiting. To add to the painfulness of this ordeal, I found myself obliged to remain in my room, now that I had resumed my uniform. This time it did not need Tiel to bid me take this precaution. In fact, I was amazed to hear him suggesting that I would be just as safe in the parlour. At the time I naturally failed altogether to understand this departure from his usual caution, and I asked him sarcastically if he wished to precipitate a catastrophe. "We have still a good deal to discuss," said he. "I thought there was nothing more to be said." "I mean in connection with the other scheme." "The devil may take the other scheme!" said I, "anyhow till we escape from this trap. What is the good in planning ahead, with the house watched night and day?" "We only suspect it is watched," said he calmly. "Suspect!" I cried. "We are not idiots, and why should we pretend to be?" And so I went up to my room and spent the most miserable and restless day of my life. How slowly the hours passed, no words of mine can give the faintest idea. In my present state of mind writing was impossible, and I tried to distract myself by reading novels; but they were English novels, and every word in them seemed to gall me. I implored Eileen to come and keep me company. She came up once for a little, but the devil seemed to have possessed her, for I felt no sympathy coming from her at all; and when at last I tried to be a little affectionate she first repulsed me, saying it was no time for that, and then she left me. With baffled love added to acute anxiety, you can picture my condition! For the first part of that horrible day I kept listening for some sign of the police, and now and then looking out from the skylight at the back, but the watcher was no longer visible, and not a fresh step or voice was to be heard in the house. My door stood locked, my fire was blazing, and my papers lay ready to be consumed, and at moments I positively longed to see them blazing and myself arrested, and get it over, yet nothing happened. In the afternoon the direction of my thoughts began to change as the hour approached when the fleet should sail and my country reap the reward of the enterprise and fidelity which I felt conscious I had shown, and the sacrifice which I feared I should have to make. I began to make brief visits to the parlour to look out of the window and see if I could see any signs of movement in the Armada. And then for the second time I saw Tiel in a genial cheerful humour, and this time there was no doubt of the cause. He too was in a state of tension, and his mind, like mine, was running on the coming drama. In fact, as the afternoon wore on, his thoughts were so entirely wrapped up in this that he frankly talked of nothing else. Was I sure we should have at least four submarines? he asked me; and would they be brought well in and take the risk? Indeed, I never heard him ask so many questions, or appear so pleased as he did when I reassured him on all these points. As for Eileen, she was quite as excited as either of us, and when Tiel was not asking me questions, she was; until once again prudence drove me back to my room. On one of my visits she gave us some tea, but that is the only meal I remember any of us eating between our early and hurried lunch and the evening when the crash came. The one thing I looked for as I gazed out of that window was the rising of smoke from the battle-fleet, and at last I saw it. Stream after stream, black or grey, gradually mounted, first from one leviathan and then from another, till the air was darkened hundreds of feet above them, and if our flotilla were in such a position that they could look for this sign, they must have seen it. This time I returned to my room with a heart a little lightened. "I have done my duty," I said to myself, "come what may of it!" And I do not think that any impartial reader will deny that, so far as my own share of this enterprise was concerned, I had done my very utmost to make it succeed. The next time I came down my spirits rose higher still, and for the moment I quite forgot the danger in which I stood. The light cruisers, the advance-guard of the fleet, were beginning to move! This time when I went back to my room I forced myself to read two whole chapters of a futile novel before I again took off the lid and peeped in to see how the stew was cooking. The instant I had finished the second chapter I leapt up and opened the door--and then I stood stock-still and listened. A distant sound of voices reached me, and a laugh rang out that was certainly neither Tiel's nor Eileen's. I locked my door, slipped back again, and prepared to burn my papers; but though I stood over the fire for minute after minute, there was no sound of approaching steps. Very quietly I opened the door and listened once more, and still I heard voices. And thus I lingered and hesitated for more than an hour. By this time the attack had probably been made, and I could stand the suspense no longer, so I went recklessly downstairs, strode along the passage, and opened the parlour door. Nothing will ever efface the memory of the scene that met my eyes. Tiel, Eileen, and Ashington sat there, the two men each with a whisky-and-soda, and all three seemingly in the most extraordinarily high spirits. It was Ashington's face and voice that suddenly rent the veil from before my eyes. Instead of the morose and surly individual I had met before, he sat there the incarnation of the jovial sailor. He was raising his glass to his lips, and as I entered I heard the words-- "Here's to you again, Robin!" What had happened I did not clearly grasp in that first instant, but I _felt_ I was betrayed. My hand went straight to my revolver pocket, but before I could seize it, Tiel, who sat nearest, leapt up, grasped my wrist, and with the shock of his charge drove me down into a chair. It was done so suddenly that I could not possibly have resisted. Then with a movement like a conjurer he picked the revolver out of my pocket, and said in his infernally cool calm way-- "Please consider yourself a prisoner of war, Mr Belke." Even then I had not grasped the whole truth. "A prisoner of war!" I exclaimed. "And what the devil are you, Herr Tiel? A traitor?" "You have got my name a little wrong," said he, with that icy smile of his. "I am Commander Blacklock of the British Navy, so you can surrender either to me or to Captain Phipps, whichever you choose." "Phipps!" I gasped, for I remembered that as the name of a member of Jellicoe's staff. "That's me, old man," said the gross person with insufferable familiarity. "The Honourable Thomas Bainbridge Ashington would have a fit if he looked in the glass and saw this mug!" "Then I understand I am betrayed?" I asked as calmly as I could. "You're nabbed," said Captain Phipps, with brutal British slang, "and let me tell you that's better than being dead, which you would have been if you'd rejoined your boat." I could not quite control my feelings. "What has happened?" I cried. "We've bagged the whole four--just at the very spot on the chart which you and I arranged!" chuckled the great brute. (At this point Lieutenant von Belke's comments become a little too acid for publication, and it has been considered advisable that the narrative should be finished by the Editor.) PART V. A FEW CONCLUDING CHAPTERS BY THE EDITOR I. TIEL'S JOURNEY. For the moment the fortitude of the hapless young lieutenant completely broke down when he heard these tidings. It took him a minute to control his voice, and then he said-- "Please give me back my revolver. I give you my word of honour not to use it on any of you three." Commander Blacklock shook his head. "I am sorry we can't oblige you," said he. "Poor old chap," said Phipps with genial sympathy; "it's rotten bad luck on you, I must admit." These well-meant words seemed only to incense the captive. "I do not wish your damned sympathy!" he cried. "Hush, hush! Ladies present," said Phipps soothingly. Von Belke turned a lowering eye on Miss Holland. She had said not a word, and scarcely moved since he came into the room, but her breathing was a little quicker than usual, and her gaze had followed intently each speaker in turn. "Ach so!" he said; "the decoy is still present. I had forgot." Blacklock's eye blazed dangerously. "Mr Belke," he said, "Captain Phipps and I have pleaded very strongly that, in spite of your exceedingly ambiguous position, and the fact that you have not always been wearing uniform, you should not suffer the fate of a spy. But if you make any more remarks like your last, I warn you we shall withdraw this plea." For the first time Eileen spoke. "Please do not think it matters to me, Captain Blacklock----" she began. In a whisper Phipps interrupted her. "Eye-wash!" he said. "It's the only way to treat a Hun--show him the stick!" The hint had certainly produced its effect. Von Belke shrugged his shoulders, and merely remarked-- "I am your prisoner. I say nothing more." "That's distinctly wiser," said Captain Phipps, with a formidable scowl at the captive and a wink at Miss Holland. For a few moments von Belke kept his word, and sat doggedly silent. Then suddenly he exclaimed-- "But I do not understand all this! How should a German agent be a British officer? My Government knew all about Tiel--I was told to be under his orders--it is impossible you can be he!" Blacklock turned to the other two. "I almost think I owe Mr Belke an explanation," he said with a smile. "Yes," cried Eileen eagerly, "do tell him, and then--then he will understand a little better." Blacklock filled a pipe and leaned his back against the fireplace, a curious mixture of clergyman in his attire and keen professional sailor in his voice and bearing, now that all need for pretence was gone. "The story I told you of the impersonation and attempted murder of Mr Alexander Burnett," he began, "was simply a repetition of the tale told me by Adolph Tiel at Inverness--where, by the way, he was arrested." Von Belke started violently. "So!" he cried. "Then--then you never were Tiel?" "I am thankful to say I never was, for a more complete scoundrel never existed. He and his friend Schumann actually did knock Mr Burnett on the head, tie a stone to his feet, and pitch him over the cliff. Unfortunately for them, they made a bad job of the knot and the stone came loose. In consequence, Mr Burnett floated long enough to be picked up by a patrol boat, which had seen the whole performance outlined against the sky at the top of the cliff above her. By the time they had brought him back to a certain base, Mr Burnett had revived and was able to tell of his adventure. The affair being in my line, was put into my hands, and it didn't take long to see what the rascals' game was." "No," commented Phipps; "I suppose you spotted that pretty quick." "Practically at once. A clergyman on his way here--clothes and passport stolen--left for murdered--chauffeur so like him that the minister noticed the resemblance himself in the instant the man was knocking him down,--what was the inference? Pretty obvious, you'll agree. Well, the first step was simple. The pair had separated; but we got Tiel at Inverness on his way North, and Schumann within twenty-four hours afterwards at Liverpool." "Good business!" said Phipps. "I hadn't heard about Schumann before." "Well," continued Blacklock, "I interviewed Mr Tiel, and I found I'd struck just about the worst thing in the way of rascals it has ever been my luck to run up against. He began to bargain at once. If his life was spared he would give me certain very valuable information." "Mein Gott!" cried Belke. "Did a German actually say that?" "Tiel belongs to no country," said Blacklock. "He is a cosmopolitan adventurer without patriotism or morals. I told him his skin would be safe if his information really proved valuable; and when I heard his story, I may say that he did save his skin. He gave the whole show away, down to the passwords that were to pass between you when you met." He suddenly turned to Phipps and smiled. "It's curious how the idea came to me. I've done a good bit of secret service work myself, and felt in such a funk sometimes that I've realised the temptation to give the show away if I were nailed. Well, as I looked at Tiel, I said to myself, 'There, but for the grace of God, stands Robin Blacklock!' And then suddenly it flashed into my mind that we were really not at all unlike one another--same height, and tin-opener nose, and a few streaks of anno domini in our hair, and so on." "I know, old thing," said his friend, "it's the wife-poisoning type. You see 'em by the dozen in the Chamber of Horrors." Their Teutonic captive seemed to wax a little impatient. "What happened then?" he demanded. "What happened was that I decided to continue Mr Tiel's journey for him. The arrest and so on had lost a day, but I knew that the night of your arrival was left open, and I had to risk it. That splash of salt water on your motor bike, and your resource in dodging pursuit, just saved the situation, and we arrived at the house on the same night." "So that was why you were late!" exclaimed von Belke. "Fool that I was not to have questioned and suspected!" "It might have been rather a nasty bunker," admitted Blacklock, "but luckily I got you to lose your temper with me when I reached that delicate part of my story, and you forgot to ask me." "You always were a tactful fellow, Robin," murmured Phipps. "Of course," resumed Blacklock, "I was in touch with certain people who advised me what scheme to recommend. My only suggestion was that the officer sent to advise us professionally should be one whose appearance might lead those who did not know him to suspect him capable of treasonable inclinations. My old friend, Captain Phipps----" "Robin!" roared his old friend, "I read your bloomin' message. You asked for the best-looking officer on the staff, and the one with the nicest manners. Get on with your story!" These interludes seemed to perplex their captive considerably. "You got a pretended traitor? I see," he said gravely. "Exactly. I tried you first with Ashington of the _Haileybury_--whom I slandered grossly by the way. If you had happened to know him by sight I should have passed on to another captain, till I got one you didn't know. Well, I needn't recall what happened at our council of war, but now we come to rather a----" he hesitated and glanced for an instant at Miss Holland,--"well, rather a delicate point in the story. I think it's only fair to those concerned to tell you pretty fully what happened. I believe I am right in thinking that they would like me to do so." Again he glanced at the girl, and this time she gave a little assenting nod. "That night, after you left us, Mr Belke, Captain Phipps and I had a long discussion over a very knotty point. How were we to get you back again here after you had delivered your message to your submarine?" "I do not see exactly why you wished me to return?" said von Belke. "There were at least three vital reasons, In the first place some one you spoke to might have known too much about Tiel and have spotted the fraud. Then again, some one might easily have known the real Captain Ashington, and it would be a little difficult to describe Captain Phipps in such a way as to confound him with any one else. Finally, we wished to extract a little more information from you." Von Belke leapt from his seat with an exclamation. "What have I not told you!" he cried hoarsely. "Mein Gott, I had forgotten that! Give me that pistol! Come, give it to me! Why keep me alive?" "I suppose because it is an English custom," replied Commander Blacklock quietly. "Also, you will be exceedingly glad some day to find yourself still alive. Please sit down and listen. I am anxious to explain this point fully, for a very good reason." With a groan their captive sat down, but with his head held now between his hands and his eyes cast upon the floor. "We agreed that at all costs this must be managed, and so I tried my hand at exercising my authority over you. I saw that was going to be no good, and gave it up at once for fear you'd smell a rat. And then I thought of Miss Holland." Von Belke looked up suddenly. "Ah!" he cried, "so that is why this lady appeared--this lady I may not call a decoy!" "That is why," said Blacklock. II. THE LADY. Lieutenant von Belke looked for a moment at the lady who had enslaved him, but for some reason he averted his gaze rather quickly. Then with an elaborate affectation of sarcastic politeness which served but ill to conceal the pain at his heart and the shock to his pride, he inquired-- "May I be permitted to ask what agency supplies ladies so accomplished at a notice so brief?" "Providence," said Blacklock promptly and simply. "Miss Holland had never undertaken any such work before, and her name is on the books of no bureau." "I believe you entirely," said von Belke ironically. "You taught her her trade then, I presume?" "I did." The German stared at him. "Is there really any need to deceive me further?" he inquired. "I am telling you the simple truth," said Blacklock unruffled. "I had the great good fortune to make Miss Holland's acquaintance on the mail-boat crossing to these islands. She was going to visit Mr Craigie--that intellectual gentleman you met yesterday--under the precise circumstances he described. I noticed Miss Holland the moment she came aboard the boat." He paused for a moment, and then turned to Eileen with a smile. "I have a confession to make to you, Miss Holland, which I may as well get off my chest now. My mind, naturally enough perhaps, was rather running on spies, and when I discovered that you were travelling with a suit-case of German manufacture I had a few minutes' grave suspicion. I now apologise." Eileen laughed. "Only a few minutes!" she exclaimed. "It seems to me I got off very easily!" "That was why I was somewhat persistent in my conversation," he continued, still smiling a little, "but it quickly served the purpose of satisfying me absolutely that my guns were on the wrong target. And so I promptly relieved you of my conversation." He turned again to von Belke. "Then, Mr Belke, a very curious thing happened, which one of us may perhaps be pardoned for thinking diabolical and the other providential. Miss Holland happened to have met the real Mr Burnett and bowled me out. And then I had another lucky inspiration. If Miss Holland will pardon me for saying so in her presence, I had already been struck with the fact that she was a young lady of very exceptional looks and brains and character--and, moreover, she knew Germany and she knew German. It occurred to me that in dealing with a young and probably not unimpressionable man such an ally might conceivably come in useful." "Robin," interrupted his old friend, with his rich laugh, "you are the coldest-blooded brute I ever met!" "To plot against a man like that!" agreed von Belke with bitter emphasis. "Oh, I wasn't thinking of you," said Captain Phipps, with a gallant glance at the lady. "However, on you go with your yarn." "Well, I decided on the spot to take Miss Holland into my confidence--and I should like to say that confidence was never better justified. She seemed inclined to do what she could for her country." Commander Blacklock paused for an instant, and added apologetically, "I am putting it very mildly and very badly, but you know what I mean. She was, in fact, ready to do anything I asked her on receipt of a summons from me. I had thought of her even when talking to Captain Phipps, but I felt a little reluctant to involve her in the business, with all it entailed, unless no other course remained open. And no other course was open. And so I first telegraphed to her and then went over and fetched her. That was how she came to play the part she did, entirely at my request and instigation." "You--you then told her to--to make me admire her?" asked von Belke in an unsteady voice. "Frankly I did. Of course it was not for me to teach a lady how to be attractive, but I may say that we rehearsed several of the scenes very carefully indeed,--I mean in connection with such matters as the things you should say to Commander Wiedermann, and so on. Miss Holland placed herself under my orders, and I simply told her what to say. She was in no sense to blame." "Blame!" cried Captain Phipps. "She deserves all the decorations going!" "I was trying to look at it from Mr Belke's point of view," said Blacklock, "as I think Miss Holland probably desires." She gave him a quick, grateful look, and he continued-- "It was I who suggested that she should appear critical of me, and endeavour, as it were, to divide our household into two camps, so that you should feel you were acting against me when you were actually doing what I wished. I tell you this frankly so that you may see who was responsible for the deceit that we were forced to practise." "Forced!" cried the young lieutenant bitterly. "Who forced you to use a woman? Could you not have deceived me alone?" "No," said Blacklock candidly, "I couldn't, or I should not have sent for Miss Holland. It was an extremely difficult problem to get you to risk your life, and stand out against your commanding officer's wishes and your own inclinations and your apparent duty, and come back to this house after the whole plan was arranged and every argument seemed to be in favour of your going aboard your boat again. Nobody but a man under the influence of a woman would have taken such a course. Those were the facts I had to face, and--well, the thing came off, thanks entirely to Miss Holland. I have apologised to her twenty times already for making such a use of her, and I apologise again." Suddenly the young German broke out. "Ah! But were there not consolations?" "What do you mean?" "You and Miss Holland living by yourselves in this house--is it that you need apologise for?" "Miss Holland never spent a single night under this roof," said Blacklock quietly. "Not--not a night," stammered von Belke. "Then where----?" "She stayed at a house in the neighbourhood." The lieutenant seemed incapable of comment, and Captain Phipps observed genially, "There seem to have been some rum goings-on behind your back, Mr Belke!" Von Belke seemed to be realising this fact himself, and resenting it. "You seem to have amused yourself very much by deceiving me," he remarked. "I assure you I did nothing for fun," said Blacklock gravely, yet with a twinkle in his eye. "It was all in the way of business." "The story that you preached, for instance!" "Would you have felt quite happy if I had told you I had omitted to do the one thing I had professed to come here for?" Von Belke gave a little sound that might have meant anything. Then he exclaimed-- "But your servant who was not supposed to know anything--that was to annoy me, I suppose!" "To isolate you. I didn't want you to speak to a soul but me." The captive sat silent for a moment, and then said-- "You had the house watched by the police--I see that now." "A compliment to you, Mr Belke," smiled the Commander; and then he added, "You gave me one or two anxious moments, I may tell you. Your demand for mufti necessitated a very hurried interview with the commander of a destroyer, and old Craigie's visit very nearly upset the apple-cart. I had to tell him pretty nearly the whole truth when I got him outside. But those incidents came after the chief crisis was over. The nearest squeak was when I thought you were safely engaged with Miss Holland, and a certain officer was calling on me, who was _not_ Captain Phipps. In fact, he was an even more exalted person. Miss Holland saved the situation by crying out that you were coming, or I'm afraid that would have been the end of the submarine attack." "So?" said the young German slowly and with a very wry face, and then he turned to Eileen. "Then, Miss Holland, every time you did me the honour to appear kind and visit me you were carrying out one of this gentleman's plans? And every word you spoke was said to entangle me in your net, or to keep me quiet while something was being done behind my back? I hope that some day you may enjoy the recollection as much as I am enjoying it now!" "Mr Belke," she cried, "I am very deeply sorry for treating even an enemy as I treated you!" She spoke so sincerely and with so much emotion that even Captain Phipps assumed a certain solemn expression, which was traditionally never seen on his face except when the Chaplain was actually officiating, and jumping up she came a step towards the prisoner. There she stood, a graceful and beautiful figure, her eyes glowing with fervour. "All I can say for myself, and all I can ask you to think of when your recollections of me pain you, is only this--if you had a sister, would you have had her hesitate to do one single thing I did in order to defeat her country's enemies?" Von Belke looked at her for a moment with frowning brow and folded arms. Then all he said was-- "Germany's cause is sacred!" Her eyes opened very wide. "Then what is right for Germany is wrong for her enemies?" "Naturally. How can Germany both be right--as she is, and yet be wrong?" "I--I don't think you quite understand what I mean," she said with a puzzled look. "Germany never will," said Blacklock quietly. "That is why we are at war." A tramp of footsteps sounded on the gravel outside, and Captain Phipps sprang up. "Your guard has come for you, Mr Belke," he said. "I'm sorry to interrupt this conversation, but I'm afraid you must be moving." III. THE EMPTY ENVELOPE. Commander Blacklock closed the front door. "Chilly night," he observed. "It is rather," said Eileen. The wind droned through a distant keyhole mournfully and continuously. That melancholy piping sound never rose and never fell; monotonous and unvarying it piped on and on. Otherwise the house had that peculiar feeling of quiet which houses have when stirring events are over and people have departed. The two remaining inhabitants re-entered the parlour, glanced at one another with a half smile, and then seemed simultaneously to find a little difficulty in knowing what to do next. "Well," said Blacklock, "our business seems over." He felt he had spoken a little more abruptly than he intended, and would have liked to repeat his observations in a more genial tone. "Yes," said she almost as casually, "there is nothing more to be done to-night, I suppose." "I shall have to write up my report of our friend Mr Belke's life and last words," said he with a half laugh. "And I have got to get over to Mrs Brown's," she replied, "and so I had better go at once." "Oh, there's no such desperate hurry," he said hastily; "I haven't much to write up to-night. We must have some supper first." "Yes," she agreed, "I suppose we shall begin to feel hungry soon if we don't. I'll see about it. What would you like?" "The cold ham and a couple of boiled eggs will suit me." She agreed again. "That won't take long, and then you can begin your report." Again he protested hastily. "Oh, but there's no hurry about that, I assure you. I only wanted to save trouble." While she was away he stood before the fire, gazing absently into space and scarcely moving a muscle. The ham and boiled eggs appeared, and a little more animation became apparent, but it was not a lively feast. She talked for a little in an ordinary, cheerful way, just as though there was no very special subject for conversation; but he seemed too absent-minded and silent to respond even to these overtures, except with a brief smile and a briefer word. They had both been quite silent for about five minutes, when he suddenly said in a constrained manner, but with quite a different intonation-- "Well, I am afraid our ways part now. What are you going to do next?" "I've been wondering," she said; "and I think if Mrs Craigie still wants me I ought to go back to her." "Back to the Craigies!" he exclaimed. "And become--er--a governess again?" "It will be rather dull at first," she laughed; "but one can't have such adventures as this every day, and I really have treated the Craigies rather badly. You see you told Mr Craigie the truth about my desertion of them, and they may forgive me. If they do, and if they still need me, I feel I simply must offer my services." "It's very good of you." She laughed again. "It is at least as much for my own interest as Mrs Craigie's. I have nowhere else to go to and nothing else to do." "I wish I could offer you another job like this," said he. A sparkle leapt into her eyes. "If you ever do see any chance of making any sort of use of me--I mean of letting me be useful--you will be sure to let me know, won't you?" "Rather! But honestly, I'm not likely to have such a bit of luck as this again." "What will you be doing?" "Whatever I'm told to do; the sort of thing I was on before--odd jobs of the 'hush' type. But I wish I could think of you doing something more--well, more worthy of your gifts." "One must take one's luck as it comes," she said with an outward air of philosophy, whatever her heart whispered. "Exactly," he agreed with emphasis. "Still----" He broke off, and pulled a pipe out of his pocket. "I'll leave you to smoke," she said, "and say good-night now." "One moment!" said he, jumping up; "there's something I feel I must say. I've been rather contrite about it. I'm afraid I haven't quite played cricket so far as you are concerned." She looked at him quickly. "What do you mean?" she asked. "It's about Belke. I'm afraid Phipps was quite right in saying I'm rather cold-blooded when I am keen over a job. Perhaps it becomes a little too much of a mere problem. Getting you to treat Belke as you did, for instance. You were very nice to him to-night--though he was too German to understand how you felt--and it struck me that very possibly you had been seeing a great deal of him, and he's a nice-looking fellow, with a lot of good stuff in him, a brave man, no doubt about it, and--well, perhaps you liked him enough to make you wish I hadn't let you in for such a job. I just wondered." She looked at him for an instant with an expression he did not quite understand; then she looked away and seemed for a moment a little embarrassed, and then she looked at him again, and he thought he had never seen franker eyes. "You're as kind and considerate as--as, well, as you're clever!" she said with a half laugh. "But, if you only knew, if you only even had the least guess how I've longed to do something for my country--something really useful, I mean; how unutterably wretched I felt when the trifling work I was doing was stopped by a miserable neglected cold and I had to have a change, and as I'd no money I had to take this stupid job of teaching; and how I envied the women who were more fortunate and really _were_ doing useful things; oh, then you'd know how grateful I feel to you! If I could make every officer in the German navy--and the army too--fall in love with me, and then hand them over to you, I'd do it fifty times over! Don't, please, talk nonsense, or think nonsense! Good-night, Mr Tiel, and perhaps it's good-bye." She laughed as she gave him his _nom-de-guerre_, and held out her hand as frankly as she had spoken. He did not take it, however. "I'm going to escort you over to Mrs Brown's," he said with a very different expression now in his eyes. "It's very good of you," she said; "you are sure you have time?" "Loads!" he assured her. He opened the door for her, but she stopped on the threshold. A young woman was waiting in the hall. "Mrs Brown has sent her girl to escort me," she said, "so we'll have to"--she corrected herself--"we must say good-night now. Is it good-bye, or shall I see you in the morning?" His face had become very long again. "I'm very much afraid not. I've got to report myself with the lark. Good-bye." The front door closed behind her, and Commander Blacklock strode back to the fire and gazed at it for some moments. "Well," he said to himself, "I suppose, looking at things as they ought to be looked at, Mrs Brown's girl has saved me from making a damned fool of myself! Now to work: that's my proper stunt." He threw some sheets of foolscap on the table, took out his pen, and sat down to his work. For about five minutes he stared at the foolscap, but the pen never made a movement. Then abruptly he jumped up and exclaimed-- "Dash it, I must!" Snatching up an envelope, he thrust it in his pocket, and a moment later was out of the house. * * * * * Miss Holland and her escort were about fifty yards from Mrs Brown's house when the girl started and looked back. "There's some one crying on you!" she exclaimed. Eileen stopped and peered back into the night. It had clouded over and was very dark. Very vaguely something seemed to loom up in the path behind them. "Miss Holland!" cried a voice. "It's the minister!" said the girl. "The--who?" exclaimed Eileen; and added hastily, "Oh yes, I know who you mean." A tall figure disengaged itself from the surrounding night. "Sorry to trouble you," said the voice in curiously quick and jerky accents, "but I've got a note I want this girl to deliver immediately." He handed her an envelope. "Hand that in at the first farm on the other side of the Manse," he commanded, pointing backwards into the darkness. "I'll escort Miss Holland." "Which hoose----" began the girl. "The first you come to!" said the Commander peremptorily. "Quick as you can!" Then he looked at Eileen, and for a moment said nothing. "What's the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Has anything gone wrong?" "Yes," he said with a half laugh, "I have. I even forgot to lick down that envelope. How the deuce I'm to explain an empty, unaddressed, unfastened envelope the Lord only knows!" His manner suddenly changed and he asked abruptly, "Are you in a desperate hurry to get in? I've something to say to you." He paused and looked at her, but she said not a word in reply, not even to inquire what it was. A little jerkily he proceeded-- "I'm probably making just as great a fool of myself as Belke. But I couldn't let you go without asking--well, whether I am merely making a fool of myself. If you know what I mean and think I am, well, please just tell me you can manage to see yourself safely home--I know it's only about fifty yards--and I'll go and get that wretched envelope back from the girl and tell her another lie." "Why should I think you are making a fool of yourself?" she asked in a voice that was very quiet, but not quite as even as she meant. "Let's turn back a little way," he suggested quickly. She said nothing, but she turned. "Take my arm, won't you," he suggested. In the bitterness of his heart he was conscious that he had rapped out this proposal in his sharpest quarter-deck manner. And he had meant to speak so gently! Yet she took his arm, a little timidly it is true, but no wonder, thought he. For a few moments they walked in silence, falling slower and slower with each step; and then they stopped. At that, speech seemed to be jerked out of him at last. "I wonder if it's conceivable that you'd ever look upon me as anything but a calculating machine?" he inquired. "I never thought of you in the least as that!" she exclaimed. The gallant Commander evidently regarded this as a charitable exaggeration. He shook his head. "You must sometimes. I know I must have seemed that sort of person." "Not to me," she said. He seemed encouraged, but still a little incredulous. "Then did you ever really think of me as a human being--as a--as a--" he hesitated painfully--"as a friend?" "Yes," she said, "of course I did--always as a friend." "Could you possibly--conceivably--think of me as"--he hesitated, and then blurted out--"as, dash it all, head over ears in love with you?" And then suddenly the Commander realised that he had not made a fool of himself after all. The empty envelope was duly delivered, but no explanation was required. Mrs Brown's girl supplied all the information necessary. "Of course I knew fine what he was after," said she. 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14646	----	CHRISTOPHER AND COLUMBUS By the Author of _Elizabeth and Her German Garden_ Frontispiece by Arthur Litle Garden City New York Doubleday, Page & Company 1919 [Illustration: "Oh, yes. You're both very fond of me," said Mr. Twist, pulling his mouth into a crooked and unhappy smile. "We love you." said Anna-Felicitas simply.] CHAPTER I Their names were really Anna-Rose and Anna-Felicitas; but they decided, as they sat huddled together in a corner of the second-class deck of the American liner _St. Luke_, and watched the dirty water of the Mersey slipping past and the Liverpool landing-stage disappearing into mist, and felt that it was comfortless and cold, and knew they hadn't got a father or a mother, and remembered that they were aliens, and realized that in front of them lay a great deal of gray, uneasy, dreadfully wet sea, endless stretches of it, days and days of it, with waves on top of it to make them sick and submarines beneath it to kill them if they could, and knew that they hadn't the remotest idea, not the very remotest, what was before them when and if they did get across to the other side, and knew that they were refugees, castaways, derelicts, two wretched little Germans who were neither really Germans nor really English because they so unfortunately, so complicatedly were both,--they decided, looking very calm and determined and sitting very close together beneath the rug their English aunt had given them to put round their miserable alien legs, that what they really were, were Christopher and Columbus, because they were setting out to discover a New World. "It's very pleasant," said Anna-Rose. "It's very pleasant to go and discover America. All for ourselves." It was Anna-Rosa who suggested their being Christopher and Columbus. She was the elder by twenty minutes. Both had had their seventeenth birthday--and what a birthday: no cake, no candles, no kisses and wreaths and home-made poems; but then, as Anna-Felicitas pointed out, to comfort Anna-Rose who was taking it hard, you can't get blood out of an aunt--only a month before. Both were very German outside and very English inside. Both had fair hair, and the sorts of chins Germans have, and eyes the colour of the sky in August along the shores of the Baltic. Their noses were brief, and had been objected to in Germany, where, if you are a Junker's daughter, you are expected to show it in your nose. Anna-Rose had a tight little body, inclined to the round. Anna-Felicitas, in spite of being a twin, seemed to have made the most of her twenty extra minutes to grow more in; anyhow she was tall and thin, and she drooped; and having perhaps grown quicker made her eyes more dreamy, and her thoughts more slow. And both held their heads up with a great air of calm whenever anybody on the ship looked at them, as who should say serenely, "We're _thoroughly_ happy, and having the time of our lives." For worlds they wouldn't have admitted to each other that they were even aware of such a thing as being anxious or wanting to cry. Like other persons of English blood, they never were so cheerful nor pretended to be so much amused as when they were right down on the very bottom of their luck. Like other persons of German blood, they had the squashiest corners deep in their hearts, where they secretly clung to cakes and Christmas trees, and fought a tendency to celebrate every possible anniversary, both dead and alive. The gulls, circling white against the gloomy sky over the rubbish that floated on the Mersey, made them feel extraordinarily forlorn. Empty boxes, bits of straw, orange-peel, a variety of dismal dirtiness lay about on the sullen water; England was slipping away, England, their mother's country, the country of their dreams ever since they could remember--and the _St. Luke_ with a loud screech had suddenly stopped. Neither of them could help jumping a little at that and getting an inch closer together beneath the rug. Surely it wasn't a submarine already? "We're Christopher and Columbus," said Anna-Rose quickly, changing as it were the unspoken conversation. As the eldest she had a great sense of her responsibility toward her twin, and considered it one of her first duties to cheer and encourage her. Their mother had always cheered and encouraged them, and hadn't seemed to mind anything, however awful it was, that happened to her,--such as, for instance, when the war began and they three, their father having died some years before, left their home up by the Baltic, just as there was the most heavenly weather going on, and the garden was a dream, and the blue Chinchilla cat had produced four perfect kittens that very day,--all of whom had to be left to what Anna-Felicitas, whose thoughts if slow were picturesque once she had got them, called the tender mercies of a savage and licentious soldiery,--and came by slow and difficult stages to England; or such as when their mother began catching cold and didn't seem at last ever able to leave off catching cold, and though she tried to pretend she didn't mind colds and that they didn't matter, it was plain that these colds did at last matter very much, for between them they killed her. Their mother had always been cheerful and full of hope. Now that she was dead, it was clearly Anna-Rose's duty, as the next eldest in the family, to carry on the tradition and discountenance too much drooping in Anna-Felicitas. Anna-Felicitas was staring much too thoughtfully at the deepening gloom of the late afternoon sky and the rubbish brooding on the face of the waters, and she had jumped rather excessively when the _St. Luke_ stopped so suddenly, just as if it were putting on the brake hard, and emitted that agonized whistle. "We're Christopher and Columbus," said Anna-Rose quickly, "and we're going to discover America." "Very well," said Anna-Felicitas. "I'll be Christopher." "No. I'll be Christopher," said Anna-Rose. "Very well," said Anna-Felicitas, who was the most amiable, acquiescent person in the world. "Then I suppose I'll have to be Columbus. But I think Christopher sounds prettier." Both rolled their r's incurably. It was evidently in their blood, for nothing, no amount of teaching and admonishment, could get them out of it. Before they were able to talk at all, in those happy days when parents make astounding assertions to other parents about the intelligence and certain future brilliancy of their offspring, and the other parents, however much they may pity such self-deception, can't contradict, because after all it just possibly may be so, the most foolish people occasionally producing geniuses,--in those happy days of undisturbed bright castle-building, the mother, who was English, of the two derelicts now huddled on the dank deck of the _St. Luke_, said to the father, who was German, "At any rate these two blessed little bundles of deliciousness"--she had one on each arm and was tickling their noses alternately with her eyelashes, and they were screaming for joy--"won't have to learn either German or English. They'll just _know_ them." "Perhaps," said the father, who was a cautious man. "They're born bi-lingual," said the mother; and the twins wheezed and choked with laughter, for she was tickling them beneath their chins, softly fluttering her eyelashes along the creases of fat she thought so adorable. "Perhaps," said the father. "It gives them a tremendous start," said the mother; and the twins squirmed in a dreadful ecstasy, for she had now got to their ears. "Perhaps," said the father. But what happened was that they didn't speak either language. Not, that is, as a native should. Their German bristled with mistakes. They spoke it with a foreign accent. It was copious, but incorrect. Almost the last thing their father, an accurate man, said to them as he lay dying, had to do with a misplaced dative. And when they talked English it rolled about uncontrollably on its r's, and had a great many long words in it got from Milton, and Dr. Johnson, and people like that, whom their mother had particularly loved, but as they talked far more to their mother than to their father, who was a man of much briefness in words though not in temper, they were better on the whole at English than German. Their mother, who loved England more the longer she lived away from it,--"As one does; and the same principle," Anna-Rose explained to Anna-Felicitas when they had lived some time with their aunt and uncle, "applies to relations, aunts' husbands, and the clergy,"--never tired of telling her children about it, and its poetry, and its spirit, and the greatness and glory of its points of view. They drank it all in and believed every word of it, for so did their mother; and as they grew up they flung themselves on all the English books they could lay hands upon, and they read with their mother and learned by heart most of the obviously beautiful things; and because she glowed with enthusiasm they glowed too--Anna-Rose in a flare and a flash, Anna-Felicitas slow and steadily. They adored their mother. Whatever she loved they loved blindly. It was a pity she died. She died soon after the war began. They had been so happy, so _dreadfully_ happy.... "You can't be Christopher," said Anna-Rose, giving herself a shake, for here she was thinking of her mother, and it didn't do to think of one's mother, she found; at least, not when one is off to a new life and everything is all promise because it isn't anything else, and not if one's mother happened to have been so--well, so fearfully sweet. "You can't be Christopher, because, you see, I'm the eldest." Anna-Felicitas didn't see what being the eldest had to do with it, but she only said, "Very well," in her soft voice, and expressed a hope that Anna-Rose would see her way not to call her Col for short. "I'm afraid you will, though," she added, "and then I shall feel so like Onkel Nicolas." This was their German uncle, known during his life-time, which had abruptly left off when the twins were ten, as Onkel Col; a very ancient person, older by far even than their father, who had seemed so very old. But Onkel Col had been older than anybody at all, except the pictures of the _liebe Gott_ in Blake's illustrations to the Book of Job. He came to a bad end. Neither their father nor their mother told them anything except that Onkel Col was dead; and their father put a black band round the left sleeve of his tweed country suit and was more good-tempered than ever, and their mother, when they questioned her, just said that poor Onkel Col had gone to heaven, and that in future they would speak of him as Onkel Nicolas, because it was more respectful. "But why does mummy call him poor, when he's gone to heaven?" Anna-Felicitas asked Anna-Rose privately, in the recesses of the garden. "First of all," said Anna-Rose, who, being the eldest, as she so often explained to her sister, naturally knew more about everything, "because the angels won't like him. Nobody _could_ like Onkel Col. Even if they're angels. And though they're obliged to have him there because he was such a very good man, they won't talk to him much or notice him much when God isn't looking. And second of all, because you _are_ poor when you get to heaven. Everybody is poor in heaven. Nobody takes their things with them, and all Onkel Col's money is still on earth. He couldn't even take his clothes with him." "Then is he quite--did Onkel Col go there quite--" Anna-Felicitas stopped. The word seemed too awful in connection with Onkel Col, that terrifying old gentleman who had roared at them from the folds of so many wonderful wadded garments whenever they were led in, trembling, to see him, for he had gout and was very terrible; and it seemed particularly awful when one thought of Onkel Col going to heaven, which was surely of all places the most _endimanché_. "Of course," nodded Anna-Rose; but even she dropped her voice a little. She peeped about among the bushes a moment, then put her mouth close to Anna-Felicitas's ear, and whispered, "Stark." They stared at one another for a space with awe and horror in their eyes. "You see," then went on Anna-Rose rather quickly, hurrying away from the awful vision, "one knows one doesn't have clothes in heaven because they don't have the moth there. It says so in the Bible. And you can't have the moth without having anything for it to go into." "Then they don't have to have naphthalin either," said Anna-Felicitas, "and don't all have to smell horrid in the autumn when they take their furs out." "No. And thieves don't break in and steal either in heaven," continued Anna-Rose, "and the reason why is that there _isn't_ anything to steal." "There's angels," suggested Anna-Felicitas after a pause, for she didn't like to think there was nothing really valuable in heaven. "Oh, nobody ever steals _them_," said Anna-Rose. Anna-Felicitas's slow thoughts revolved round this new uncomfortable view of heaven. It seemed, if Anna-Rose were right, and she always was right for she said so herself, that heaven couldn't be such a safe place after all, nor such a kind place. Thieves could break in and steal if they wanted to. She had a proper horror of thieves. She was sure the night would certainly come when they would break into her father's _Schloss_, or, as her English nurse called it, her dear Papa's slosh; and she was worried that poor Onkel Col should be being snubbed up there, and without anything to put on, which would make being snubbed so much worse, for clothes did somehow comfort one. She took her worries to the nursemaid, and choosing a moment when she knew Anna-Rose wished to be unnoticed, it being her hour for inconspicuously eating unripe apples at the bottom of the orchard, an exercise Anna-Felicitas only didn't indulge in because she had learned through affliction that her inside, fond and proud of it as she was, was yet not of that superior and blessed kind that suffers green apples gladly--she sought out the nursemaid, whose name, too, confusingly, was Anna, and led the conversation up to heaven and the possible conditions prevailing in it by asking her to tell her, in strict confidence and as woman to woman, what she thought Onkel Col exactly looked like at that moment. "Unrecognizable," said the nursemaid promptly. "Unrecognizable?" echoed Anna-Felicitas. And the nursemaid, after glancing over her shoulder to see if the governess were nowhere in sight, told Anna-Felicitas the true story of Onkel Col's end: which is so bad that it isn't fit to be put in any book except one with an appendix. A stewardess passed just as Anna-Felicitas was asking Anna-Rose not to remind her of these grim portions of the past by calling her Col, a stewardess in such a very clean white cap that she looked both reliable and benevolent, while secretly she was neither. "Can you please tell us why we're stopping?" Anna-Rose inquired of her politely, leaning forward to catch her attention as she hurried by. The stewardess allowed her roving eye to alight for a moment on the two objects beneath the rug. Their chairs were close together, and the rug covered them both up to their chins. Over the top of it their heads appeared, exactly alike as far as she could see in the dusk; round heads, each with a blue knitted cap pulled well over its ears, and round eyes staring at her with what anybody except the stewardess would have recognized as a passionate desire for some sort of reassurance. They might have been seven instead of seventeen for all the stewardess could tell. They looked younger than anything she had yet seen sitting alone on a deck and asking questions. But she was an exasperated widow, who had never had children and wasn't to be touched by anything except a tip, besides despising, because she was herself a second-class stewardess, all second-class passengers,--"As one does," Anna-Rose explained later on to Anna-Felicitas, "and the same principle applies to Jews." So she said with an acidity completely at variance with the promise of her cap, "Ask the Captain," and disappeared. The twins looked at each other. They knew very well that captains on ships were mighty beings who were not asked questions. "She's trifling with us," murmured Anna-Felicitas. "Yes," Anna-Rose was obliged to admit, though the thought was repugnant to her that they should look like people a stewardess would dare trifle with. "Perhaps she thinks we're younger than we are," she said after a silence. "Yes. She couldn't see how long our dresses are, because of the rug." "No. And it's only that end of us that really shows we're grown up." "Yes. She ought to have seen us six months ago." Indeed she ought. Even the stewardess would have been surprised at the activities and complete appearance of the two pupæ now rolled motionless in the rug. For, six months ago, they had both been probationers in a children's hospital in Worcestershire, arrayed, even as the stewardess, in spotless caps, hurrying hither and thither with trays of food, sweeping and washing up, learning to make beds in a given time, and be deft, and quick, and never tired, and always punctual. This place had been got them by the efforts and influence of their Aunt Alice, that aunt who had given them the rug on their departure and who had omitted to celebrate their birthday. She was an amiable aunt, but she didn't understand about birthdays. It was the first one they had had since they were complete orphans, and so they were rather sensitive about it. But they hadn't cried, because since their mother's death they had done with crying. What could there ever again be in the world bad enough to cry about after that? And besides, just before she dropped away from them into the unconsciousness out of which she never came back, but instead just dropped a little further into death, she had opened her eyes unexpectedly and caught them sitting together in a row by her bed, two images of agony, with tears rolling down their swollen faces and their noses in a hopeless state, and after looking at them a moment as if she had slowly come up from some vast depth and distance and were gradually recognizing them, she had whispered with a flicker of the old encouraging smile that had comforted every hurt and bruise they had ever had, "_Don't cry_ ... little darlings, _don't_ cry...." But on that first birthday after her death they had got more and more solemn as time passed, and breakfast was cleared away, and there were no sounds, prick up their ears as they might, of subdued preparations in the next room, no stealthy going up and down stairs to fetch the presents, and at last no hope at all of the final glorious flinging open of the door and the vision inside of two cakes all glittering with candles, each on a table covered with flowers and all the things one has most wanted. Their aunt didn't know. How should she? England was a great and beloved country, but it didn't have proper birthdays. "Every country has one drawback," Anna-Rose explained to Anna-Felicitas when the morning was finally over, in case she should by any chance be thinking badly of the dear country that had produced their mother as well as Shakespeare, "and not knowing about birthdays is England's." "There's Uncle Arthur," said Anna-Felicitas, whose honest mind groped continually after accuracy. "Yes," Anna-Rose admitted after a pause. "Yes. There's Uncle Arthur." CHAPTER II Uncle Arthur was the husband of Aunt Alice. He didn't like foreigners, and said so. He never had liked them and had always said so. It wasn't the war at all, it was the foreigners. But as the war went on, and these German nieces of his wife became more and more, as he told her, a blighted nuisance, so did he become more and more pointed, and said he didn't mind French foreigners, nor Russian foreigners; and a few weeks later, that it wasn't Italian foreigners either that he minded; and still later, that nor was it foreigners indigenous to the soil of countries called neutral. These things he said aloud at meals in a general way. To his wife when alone he said much more. Anna-Rose, who was nothing if not intrepid, at first tried to soften his heart by offering to read aloud to him in the evenings when he came home weary from his daily avocations, which were golf. Her own suggestion instantly projected a touching picture on her impressionable imagination of youth, grateful for a roof over its head, in return alleviating the tedium of crabbed age by introducing its uncle, who from his remarks was evidently unacquainted with them, to the best productions of the great masters of English literature. But Uncle Arthur merely stared at her with a lacklustre eye when she proposed it, from his wide-legged position on the hearthrug, where he was moving money about in trouser-pockets of the best material. And later on she discovered that he had always supposed the "Faery Queen," and "Adonais," and "In Memoriam," names he had heard at intervals during his life, for he was fifty and such things do sometimes get mentioned were well-known racehorses. Uncle Arthur, like Onkel Col, was a very good man, and though he said things about foreigners he did stick to these unfortunate alien nieces longer than one would have supposed possible if one had overheard what he said to Aunt Alice in the seclusion of their bed. His ordered existence, shaken enough by the war, Heaven knew, was shaken in its innermost parts, in its very marrow, by the arrival of the two Germans. Other people round about had Belgians in their homes, and groaned; but who but he, the most immensely British of anybody, had Germans? And he couldn't groan, because they were, besides being motherless creatures, his own wife's flesh and blood. Not openly at least could he groan; but he could and did do it in bed. Why on earth that silly mother of theirs couldn't have stayed quietly on her Pomeranian sand-heap where she belonged, instead of coming gallivanting over to England, and then when she had got there not even decently staying alive and seeing to her children herself, he at frequent intervals told Aunt Alice in bed that he would like to know. Aunt Alice, who after twenty years of life with Uncle Arthur was both silent and sleek (for he fed her well), sighed and said nothing. She herself was quietly going through very much on behalf of her nieces. Jessup didn't like handing dishes to Germans. The tradespeople twitted the cook with having to cook for them and were facetious about sausages and asked how one made sauerkraut. Her acquaintances told her they were very sorry for her, and said they supposed she knew what she was doing and that it was all right about spies, but really one heard such strange things, one never could possibly tell even with children; and regularly the local policeman bicycled over to see if the aliens, who were registered at the county-town police-station, were still safe. And then they looked so very German, Aunt Alice felt. There was no mistaking them. And every time they opened their mouths there were all those r's rolling about. She hardly liked callers to find her nieces in her drawing-room at tea-time, they were so difficult to explain; yet they were too old to shut up in a nursery. After three months of them, Uncle Arthur suggested sending them back to Germany; but their consternation had been so great and their entreaties to be kept where they were so desperate that he said no more about that. Besides, they told him that if they went back there they would be sure to be shot as spies, for over there nobody would believe they were German, just as over here nobody would believe they were English; and besides, this was in those days of the war when England was still regarding Germany as more mistaken than vicious, and was as full as ever of the tradition of great and elaborate indulgence and generosity toward a foe, and Uncle Arthur, whatever he might say, was not going to be behind his country in generosity. Yet as time passed, and feeling tightened, and the hideous necklace of war grew more and more frightful with each fresh bead of horror strung upon it, Uncle Arthur, though still in principle remaining good, in practice found himself vindictive. He was saddled; that's what he was. Saddled with this monstrous unmerited burden. He, the most patriotic of Britons, looked at askance by his best friends, being given notice by his old servants, having particular attention paid his house at night by the police, getting anonymous letters about lights seen in his upper windows the nights; the Zeppelins came, which were the windows of the floor those blighted twins slept on, and all because he had married Aunt Alice. At this period Aunt Alice went to bed with reluctance. It was not a place she had ever gone to very willingly since she married Uncle Arthur, for he was the kind of husband who rebukes in bed; but now she was downright reluctant. It was painful to her to be told that she had brought this disturbance into Uncle Arthur's life by having let him marry her. Inquiring backwards into her recollections it appeared to her that she had had no say at all about being married, but that Uncle Arthur had told her she was going to be, and then that she had been. Which was what had indeed happened; for Aunt Alice was a round little woman even in those days, nicely though not obtrusively padded with agreeable fat at the corners, and her skin, just as now, had the moist delicacy that comes from eating a great many chickens. Also she suggested, just as now, most of the things most men want to come home to,--slippers, and drawn curtains, and a blazing fire, and peace within one's borders, and even, as Anna-Rose pointed out privately to Anna-Felicitas after they had come across them for the first time, she suggested muffins; and so, being in these varied fashions succulent, she was doomed to make some good man happy. But she did find it real hard work. It grew plain to Aunt Alice after another month of them that Uncle Arthur would not much longer endure his nieces, and that even if he did she would not be able to endure Uncle Arthur. The thought was very dreadful to her that she was being forced to choose between two duties, and that she could not fulfil both. It came to this at last, that she must either stand by her nieces, her dead sister's fatherless children, and face all the difficulties and discomforts of such a standing by, go away with them, take care of them, till the war was over; or she must stand by Arthur. She chose Arthur. How could she, for nieces she had hardly seen, abandon her husband? Besides, he had scolded her so steadily during the whole of their married life that she was now unalterably attached to him. Sometimes a wild thought did for a moment illuminate the soothing dusk of her mind, the thought of doing the heroic thing, leaving him for them, and helping and protecting the two poor aliens till happier days should return. If there were any good stuff in Arthur would he not recognize, however angry he might be, that she was doing at least a Christian thing? But this illumination would soon die out. Her comforts choked it. She was too well-fed. After twenty years of it, she no longer had the figure for lean and dangerous enterprises. And having definitely chosen Arthur, she concentrated what she had of determination in finding an employment for her nieces that would remove them beyond the range of his growing wrath. She found it in a children's hospital as far away as Worcestershire, a hospital subscribed to very largely by Arthur, for being a good man he subscribed to hospitals. The matron objected, but Aunt Alice overrode the matron; and from January to April Uncle Arthur's house was pure from Germans. Then they came back again. It had been impossible to keep them. The nurses wouldn't work with them. The sick children had relapses when they discovered who it was who brought them their food, and cried for their mothers. It had been arranged between Aunt Alice and the matron that the unfortunate nationality of her nieces should not be mentioned. They were just to be Aunt Alice's nieces, the Miss Twinklers,--("We will leave out the von," said Aunt Alice, full of unnatural cunning. "They have a von, you know, poor things--such a very labelling thing to have. But Twinkler without it might quite well be English. Who can possibly tell? It isn't as though they had had some shocking name like Bismarck.") Nothing, however, availed against the damning evidence of the rolled r's. Combined with the silvery fair hair and the determined little mouths and chins, it was irresistible. Clearly they were foreigners, and equally clearly they were not Italians, or Russians, or French. Within a week the nurses spoke of them in private as Fritz and Franz. Within a fortnight a deputation of staff sisters went to the matron and asked, on patriotic grounds, for the removal of the Misses Twinkler. The matron, with the fear of Uncle Arthur in her heart, for he was altogether the biggest subscriber, sharply sent the deputation about its business; and being a matron of great competence and courage she would probably have continued to be able to force the new probationers upon the nurses if it had not been for the inability, which was conspicuous, of the younger Miss Twinkler to acquire efficiency. In vain did Anna-Rose try to make up for Anna-Felicitas's shortcomings by a double zeal, a double willingness and cheerfulness. Anna-Felicitas was a born dreamer, a born bungler with her hands and feet. She not only never from first to last succeeded in filling the thirty hot-water bottles, which were her care, in thirty minutes, which was her duty, but every time she met a pail standing about she knocked against it and it fell over. Patients and nurses watched her approach with apprehension. Her ward was in a constant condition of flood. "It's because she's thinking of something else," Anna-Rose tried eagerly to explain to the indignant sister-in-charge. "Thinking of something else!" echoed the sister. "She reads, you see, a lot--whenever she gets the chance she reads--" "Reads!" echoed the sister. "And then, you see, she gets thinking--" "Thinking! Reading doesn't make _me_ think." "With much regret," wrote the matron to Aunt Alice, "I am obliged to dismiss your younger niece, Nurse Twinkler II. She has no vocation for nursing. On the other hand, your elder niece is shaping well and I shall be pleased to keep her on." "But I can't stop on," Anna-Rose said to the matron when she announced these decisions to her. "I can't be separated from my sister. I'd like very much to know what would become of that poor child without me to look after her. You forget I'm the eldest." The matron put down her pen,--she was a woman who made many notes--and stared at Nurse Twinkler. Not in this fashion did her nurses speak to her. But Anna-Rose, having been brought up in a spot remote from everything except love and laughter, had all the fearlessness of ignorance; and in her extreme youth and smallness, with her eyes shining and her face heated she appeared to the matron rather like an indignant kitten. "Very well," said the matron gravely, suppressing a smile. "One should always do what one considers one's first duty." So the Twinklers went back to Uncle Arthur, and the matron was greatly relieved, for she certainly didn't want them, and Uncle Arthur said Damn. "Arthur," gently reproved his wife. "I say Damn and I mean Damn," said Uncle Arthur. "What the hell can we--" "Arthur," said his wife. "I say, what the hell can we do with a couple of Germans? If people wouldn't swallow them last winter are they going to swallow them any better now? God, what troubles a man lets himself in for when he marries!" "I do beg you, Arthur, not to use those coarse words," said Aunt Alice, tears in her gentle eyes. There followed a period of desperate exertion on the part of Aunt Alice. She answered advertisements and offered the twins as nursery governesses, as cheerful companions, as mothers' helps, even as orphans willing to be adopted. She relinquished every claim on salaries, she offered them for nothing, and at last she offered them accompanied by a bonus. "Their mother was English. They are quite English," wrote Aunt Alice innumerable times in innumerable letters. "I feel bound, however, to tell you that they once had a German father, but of course it was through no fault of their own," etc., etc. Aunt Alice's hand ached with writing letters; and any solution of the problem that might possibly have been arrived at came to nothing because Anna-Rose would not be separated from Anna-Felicitas, and if it was difficult to find anybody who would take on one German nobody at all could be found to take on two. Meanwhile Uncle Arthur grew nightly more dreadful in bed. Aunt Alice was at her wits' end, and took to crying helplessly. The twins racked their brains to find a way out, quite as anxious to relieve Uncle Arthur of their presence as he was to be relieved. If only they could be independent, do something, work, go as housemaids,--anything. They concocted an anonymous-advertisement and secretly sent it to _The Times_, clubbing their pocket-money together to pay for it. The advertisement was: Energetic Sisters of belligerent ancestry but unimpeachable Sympathies wish for any sort of work consistent with respectability. No objection to being demeaned. Anna-Felicitas inquired what that last word meant for it was Anna-Rose's word, and Anna-Rose explained that it meant not minding things like being housemaids. "Which we don't," said Anna-Rose. "Upper and Under. I'll be Upper, of course, because I'm the eldest." Anna-Felicitas suggested putting in what it meant then, for she regarded it with some doubt, but Anna-Rose, it being her word, liked it, and explained that it Put a whole sentence into a nut-shell, and wouldn't change it. No one answered this advertisement except a society in London for helping alien enemies in distress. "Charity," said Anna-Rose, turning up her nose. "And fancy thinking _us_ enemies," said Anna-Felicitas, "Us. While mummy--" Her eyes filled with tears. She kept them back, however, behind convenient long eye-lashes. Then they saw an advertisement in the front page of _The Times_ that they instantly answered without saying a word to Aunt Alice. The advertisement was: Slightly wounded Officer would be glad to find intelligent and interesting companion who can drive a 14 h.p. Humber. Emoluments by arrangement. "We'll _tell_ him we're intelligent and interesting," said Anna-Rose, eagerly. "Yes--who knows if we wouldn't be really, if we were given a chance?" said Anna-Felicitas, quite flushed with excitement. "And if he engages us we'll take him on in turns, so that the emoluments won't have to be doubled." "Yes--because he mightn't like paying twice over." "Yes--and while the preliminaries are being settled we could be learning to drive Uncle Arthur's car." "Yes--except that it's a Daimler, and aren't they different?" "Yes--but only about the same difference as there is between a man and a woman. A man and a woman are both human beings, you know. And Daimlers and Humbers are both cars." "I see," said Anna-Felicitas; but she didn't. They wrote an enthusiastic answer that very day. The only thing they were in doubt about, they explained toward the end of the fourth sheet, when they had got to politenesses and were requesting the slightly wounded officer to allow them to express their sympathy with his wounds, was that they had not yet had an opportunity of driving a Humber car, but that this opportunity, of course, would be instantly provided by his engaging them. Also, would he kindly tell them if it was a male companion he desired to have, because if so it was very unfortunate, for neither of them were males, but quite the contrary. They got no answer to this for three weeks, and had given up all hope and come to the depressing conclusion that they must have betrayed their want of intelligence and interestingness right away, when one day a letter came from General Headquarters in France, addressed _To Both the Miss Twinklers_, and it was a long letter, pages long, from the slightly wounded officer, telling them he had been patched up again and sent back to the front, and their answer to his advertisement had been forwarded to him there, and that he had had heaps of other answers to it, and that the one he had liked best of all was theirs; and that some day he hoped when he was back again, and able to drive himself, to show them how glorious motoring was, if their mother would bring them,--quick motoring in his racing car, sixty miles an hour motoring, flashing through the wonders of the New Forest, where he lived. And then there was a long bit about what the New Forest must be looking like just then, all quiet in the spring sunshine, with lovely dappled bits of shade underneath the big beeches, and the heather just coming alive, and all the winding solitary roads so full of peace, so empty of noise. "Write to me, you two children," said the letter at the end. "You've no idea what it's like getting letters from home out here. Write and tell me what you do and what the garden is like these fine afternoons. The lilacs must be nearly done, but I'm sure there's the smell of them still about, and I'm sure you have a beautiful green close-cut lawn, and tea is brought out on to it, and there's no sound, no sort of sound, except birds, and you two laughing, and I daresay a jolly dog barking somewhere just for fun and not because he's angry." The letter was signed (Captain) John Desmond, and there was a scrawl in the corner at the end: "It's for jolly little English kids like you that we're fighting, God bless you. Write to me again soon." "English kids like us!" They looked at each other. They had not mentioned their belligerent ancestry in their letter. They felt uncomfortable, and as if Captain Desmond were fighting for them, as it were, under false pretences. They also wondered why he should conclude they were kids. They wrote to him again, explaining that they were not exactly what could be described as English, but on the other hand neither were they exactly what could be described as German. "We would be very glad indeed if we were really _something_," they added. But after their letter had been gone only a few days they saw in the list of casualties in _The Times_ that Captain John Desmond had been killed. And then one day the real solution was revealed, and it was revealed to Uncle Arthur as he sat in his library on a wet Sunday morning considering his troubles in detail. Like most great ideas it sprang full-fledged into being,--obvious, unquestionable, splendidly simple,--out of a trifle. For, chancing to raise his heavy and disgusted eyes to the bookshelves in front of him, they rested on one particular book, and on the back of this book stood out in big gilt letters the word AMERICA There were other words on its back, but this one alone stood out, and it had all the effect of a revelation. There. That was it. Of course. That was the way out. Why the devil hadn't Alice thought of _that_? He knew some Americans; he didn't like them, but he knew them; and he would write to them, or Alice would write to them, and tell them the twins were coming. He would give the twins £200,--damn it, nobody could say that wasn't handsome, especially in war-time, and for a couple of girls who had no earthly sort of claim on him, whatever Alice might choose to think they had on her. Yet it was such a confounded mixed-up situation that he wasn't at all sure he wouldn't come under the Defence of the Realm Act, by giving them money, as aiding the enemy. Well, he would risk that. He would risk anything to be rid of them. Ship 'em off, that was the thing to do. They would fall on their feet right enough over there. America still swallowed Germans without making a face. Uncle Arthur reflected for a moment with extreme disgust on the insensibility of the American palate. "Lost their chance, that's what _they've_ done," he said to himself--for this was 1916, and America had not yet made her magnificent entry into the war--as he had already said to himself a hundred times. "Lost their chance of coming in on the side of civilization, and helping sweep the world up tidy of barbarism. Shoulder to shoulder with us, that's where _they_ ought to have been. English-speaking races--duty to the world--" He then damned the Americans; but was suddenly interrupted by perceiving that if they had been shoulder to shoulder with him and England he wouldn't have been able to send them his wife's German nieces to take care of. There was, he conceded, that advantage resulting from their attitude. He could not, however, concede any others. At luncheon he was very nearly gay. It was terrible to see Uncle Arthur very nearly gay, and both his wife and the twins were most uncomfortable. "I wonder what's the matter now," sighed Aunt Alice to herself, as she nervously crumbled her toast. It could mean nothing good, Arthur in such spirits on a wet Sunday, when he hadn't been able to get his golf and the cook had overdone the joint. CHAPTER III And so, on a late September afternoon, the _St. Luke_, sliding away from her moorings, relieved Uncle Arthur of his burden. It was final this time, for the two alien enemies once out of it would not be let into England again till after the war. The enemies themselves knew it was final; and the same knowledge that made Uncle Arthur feel so pleasant as he walked home across his park from golf to tea that for a moment he was actually of a mind to kiss Aunt Alice when he got in, and perhaps even address her in the language of resuscitated passion, which in Uncle Arthur's mouth was Old Girl,--an idea he abandoned, however, in case it should make her self-satisfied and tiresome--the same knowledge that produced these amiable effects in Uncle Arthur, made his alien nieces cling very close together as they leaned over the side of the _St. Luke_ hungrily watching the people on the wharf. For they loved England. They loved it with the love of youth whose enthusiasms have been led by an adored teacher always in one direction. And they were leaving that adored teacher, their mother, in England. It seemed like losing her a second time to go away, so far away, and leave her there. It was nonsense, they knew, to feel like that. She was with them just the same; wherever they went now she would be with them, and they could hear her saying at that very moment, "Little darlings, _don't_ cry...." But it was a gloomy, drizzling afternoon, the sort of afternoon anybody might be expected to cry on, and not one of the people waving handkerchiefs were waving handkerchiefs to them. "We ought to have hired somebody," thought Anna-Rose, eyeing the handkerchiefs with miserable little eyes. "I believe I've gone and caught a cold," remarked Anna-Felicitas in her gentle, staid voice, for she was having a good deal of bother with her eyes and her nose, and could no longer conceal the fact that she was sniffing. Anna-Rose discreetly didn't look at her. Then she suddenly whipped out her handkerchief and waved it violently. Anna-Felicitas forgot her eyes and nose and craned her head forward. "Who are you waving to?" she asked, astonished. "Good-bye!" cried Anna-Rose, waving, "Good-bye! Good-bye!" "Who? Where? Who are you talking to?" asked Anna-Felicitas. "Has any one come to see us off?" "Good-bye! Good-bye!" cried Anna-Rose. The figures on the wharf were getting smaller, but not until they had faded into a blur did Anna-Rose leave off waving. Then she turned round and put her arm through Anna-Felicitas's and held on to her very tight for a minute. "There wasn't anybody," she said. "Of course there wasn't. But do you suppose I was going to have us _looking_ like people who aren't seen off?" And she drew Anna-Felicitas away to the chairs, and when they were safely in them and rolled up to their chins in the rug, she added, "That man--" and then stopped. "What man?" "Standing just behind us--" "Was there a man?" asked Anna-Felicitas, who never saw men any more than she, in her brief career at the hospital, had seen pails. "Yes. Looking as if in another moment he'd be sorry for us," said Anna-Rose. "Sorry for us!" repeated Anna-Felicitas, roused to indignation. "Yes. Did you ever?" Anna-Felicitas said, with a great deal of energy while she put her handkerchief finally and sternly away, that she didn't ever; and after a pause Anna-Rose, remembering one of her many new responsibilities and anxieties--she had so many that sometimes for a time she didn't remember some of them--turned her head to Anna-Felicitas, and fixing a worried eye on her said, "You won't go forgetting your Bible, will you, Anna F.?" "My Bible?" repeated Anna-Felicitas, looking blank. "Your German Bible. The bit about _wenn die bösen Buben locken, so folge sie nicht_." Anna-Felicitas continued to look blank, but Anna-Rose with a troubled brow said again, "You won't go and forget that, will you, Anna F.?" For Anna-Felicitas was very pretty. In most people's eyes she was very pretty, but in Anna-Rose's she was the most exquisite creature God had yet succeeded in turning out. Anna-Rose concealed this conviction from her. She wouldn't have told her for worlds. She considered it wouldn't have been at all good for her; and she had, up to this, and ever since they could both remember, jeered in a thoroughly sisterly fashion at her defects, concentrating particularly on her nose, on her leanness, and on the way, unless constantly reminded not to, she drooped. But Anna-Rose secretly considered that the same nose that on her own face made no sort of a show at all, directly it got on to Anna-Felicitas's somehow was the dearest nose; and that her leanness was lovely,--the same sort of slender grace her mother had had in the days before the heart-breaking emaciation that was its last phase; and that her head was set so charmingly on her neck that when she drooped and forgot her father's constant injunction to sit up,--"For," had said her father at monotonously regular intervals, "a maiden should be as straight as a fir-tree,"--she only seemed to fall into even more attractive lines than when she didn't. And now that Anna-Rose alone had the charge of looking after this abstracted and so charming younger sister, she felt it her duty somehow to convey to her while tactfully avoiding putting ideas into the poor child's head which might make her conceited, that it behoved her to conduct herself with discretion. But she found tact a ticklish thing, the most difficult thing of all to handle successfully; and on this occasion hers was so elaborate, and so carefully wrapped up in Scriptural language, and German Scripture at that, that Anna-Felicitas's slow mind didn't succeed in disentangling her meaning, and after a space of staring at her with a mild inquiry in her eyes, she decided that perhaps she hadn't got one. She was much too polite though, to say so, and they sat in silence under the rug till the _St. Luke_ whistled and stopped, and Anna-Rose began hastily to make conversation about Christopher and Columbus. She was ashamed of having shown so much of her woe at leaving England. She hoped Anna-Felicitas hadn't noticed. She certainly wasn't going on like that. When the _St. Luke_ whistled, she was ashamed that it wasn't only Anna-Felicitas who jumped. And the amount of brightness she put into her voice when she told Anna-Felicitas it was pleasant to go and discover America was such that that young lady, who if slow was sure, said to herself, "Poor little Anna-R., she's really taking it dreadfully to heart." The _St. Luke_ was only dropping anchor for the night in the Mersey, and would go on at daybreak. They gathered this from the talk of passengers walking up and down the deck in twos and threes and passing and repassing the chairs containing the silent figures with the round heads that might be either the heads of boys or of girls, and they were greatly relieved to think they wouldn't have to begin and be sea-sick for some hours yet. "So couldn't we walk about a little?" suggested Anna-Felicitas, who was already stiff from sitting on the hard cane chair. But Aunt Alice had told them that the thing to do on board a ship if they wished, as she was sure they did, not only to avoid being sick but also conspicuous, was to sit down in chairs the moment the ship got under way, and not move out of them till it stopped again. "Or, at least, as rarely as possible," amended Aunt Alice, who had never herself been further on a ship than to Calais, but recognized that it might be difficult to avoid moving sooner or later if it was New York you were going to. "Two such young girls travelling alone should be seen as seldom as ever you can manage. Your Uncle is sending you second-class for that very reason, because it is so much less conspicuous." It was also very much less expensive, and Uncle Arthur's generosities were of the kind that suddenly grow impatient and leave off. Just as in eating he was as he said, for plain roast and boiled, and messes be damned, so in benefactions he was for lump sums and done with it; and the extras, the driblets, the here a little and there a little that were necessary, or were alleged by Aunt Alice to be necessary, before he finally got rid of those blasted twins, annoyed him so profoundly that when it came to taking their passage he could hardly be got not to send them in the steerage. This was too much, however, for Aunt Alice, whose maid was going with them as far as Euston and therefore would know what sort of tickets they had, and she insisted with such quiet obstinacy that they should be sent first-class that Uncle Arthur at last split the difference and consented to make it second. To her maid Aunt Alice also explained that second-class was less conspicuous. Anna-Rose, mindful of Aunt Alice's words, hesitated as to the wisdom of walking about and beginning to be conspicuous already, but she too was stiff, and anything the matter with one's body has a wonderful effect, as she had already in her brief career had numerous occasions to observe, in doing away with prudent determinations. So, after cautiously looking round the corners to see if the man who was on the verge of being sorry for them were nowhere in sight, they walked up and down the damp, dark deck; and the motionlessness, and silence, and mist gave them a sensation of being hung mid-air in some strange empty Hades between two worlds. Far down below there was a faint splash every now and then against the side of the _St. Luke_ when some other steamer, invisible in the mist, felt her way slowly by. Out ahead lay the sea, the immense uneasy sea that was to last ten days and nights before they got to the other side, hour after hour of it, hour after hour of tossing across it further and further away; and forlorn and ghostly as the ship felt, it yet, because on either side of it were still the shores of England, didn't seem as forlorn and ghostly as the unknown land they were bound for. For suppose, Anna-Felicitas inquired of Anna-Rose, who had been privately asking herself the same thing, America didn't like them? Suppose the same sort of difficulties were waiting for them over there that had dogged their footsteps in England? "First of all," said Anna-Rose promptly, for she prided herself on the readiness and clearness of her explanations, "America will like us, because I don't see why it shouldn't. We're going over to it in exactly the same pleasant spirit, Anna-F.,--and don't you go forgetting it and showing your disagreeable side--that the dove was in when it flew across the waters to the ark, and with olive branches in our beaks just the same as the dove's, only they're those two letters to Uncle Arthur's friends." "But do you think Uncle Arthur's friends--" began Anna-Felicitas, who had great doubts as to everything connected with Uncle Arthur. "And secondly," continued Anna-Rose a little louder, for she wasn't going to be interrupted, and having been asked a question liked to give all the information in her power, "secondly, America is the greatest of the neutrals except the _liebe Gott_, and is bound particularly to prize us because we're so unusually and peculiarly neutral. What ever was more neutral than you and me? We're neither one thing nor the other, and yet at the same time we're both." Anna-Felicitas remarked that it sounded rather as if they were the Athanasian Creed. "And thirdly," went on Anna-Rose, waving this aside, "there's £200 waiting for us over there, which is a very nice warm thing to think of. We never had £200 waiting for us anywhere in our lives before, did we,--so you remember that, and don't get grumbling." Anna-Felicitas mildly said that she wasn't grumbling but that she couldn't help thinking what a great deal depended on the goodwill of Uncle Arthur's friends, and wished it had been Aunt Alice's friends they had letters to instead, because Aunt Alice's friends were more likely to like her. Anna-Rose rebuked her, and said that the proper spirit in which to start on a great adventure was one of faith and enthusiasm, and that one didn't have doubts. Anna-Felicitas said she hadn't any doubts really, but that she was very hungry, not having had anything that could be called a meal since breakfast, and that she felt like the sheep in "Lycidas," the hungry ones who looked up and were not fed, and she quoted the lines in case Anna-Rose didn't recollect them (which Anna-Rose deplored, for she knew the lines by heart, and if there was any quoting to be done liked to do it herself), and said she felt just like that,--"Empty," said Anna-Felicitas, "and yet swollen. When do you suppose people have food on board ships? I don't believe we'd mind nearly so much about--oh well, about leaving England, if it was after dinner." "I'm not minding leaving England," said Anna-Rose quickly. "At least, not more than's just proper." "Oh, no more am I, of course," said Anna-Felicitas airily. "Except what's proper." "And even if we were feeling it _dreadfully_," said Anna-Rose, with a little catch in her voice, "which, of course, we're not, dinner wouldn't make any difference. Dinner doesn't alter fundamentals." "But it helps one to bear them," said Anna-Felicitas. "Bear!" repeated Anna-Rose, her chin in the air. "We haven't got much to bear. Don't let me hear you talk of bearing things, Anna-F." "I won't after dinner," promised Anna-Felicitas. They thought perhaps they had better ask somebody whether there wouldn't soon be something to eat, but the other passengers had all disappeared. They were by themselves on the gloomy deck, and there were no lights. The row of cabin windows along the wall were closely shuttered, and the door they had come through when first they came on deck was shut too, and they couldn't find it in the dark. It seemed so odd to be feeling along a wall for a door they knew was there and not be able to find it, that they began to laugh; and the undiscoverable door cheered them up more than anything that had happened since seeing the last of Uncle Arthur. "It's like a game," said Anna-Rose, patting her hands softly and vainly along the wall beneath the shuttered windows. "It's like something in 'Alice in Wonderland,'" said Anna-Felicitas, following in her tracks. A figure loomed through the mist and came toward them. They left off patting, and stiffened into straight and motionless dignity against the wall till it should have passed. But it didn't pass. It was a male figure in a peaked cap, probably a steward, they thought, and it stopped in front of them and said in an American voice, "Hello." Anna-Rose cast rapidly about in her mind for the proper form of reply to Hello. Anna-Felicitas, instinctively responsive to example murmured "Hello" back again. Anna-Rose, feeling sure that nobody ought to say just Hello to people they had never seen before, and that Aunt Alice would think they had brought it on themselves by being conspicuous, decided that perhaps "Good-evening" would regulate the situation, and said it. "You ought to be at dinner," said the man, taking no notice of this. "That's what _we_ think," agreed Anna-Felicitas earnestly. "Can you please tell us how to get there?" asked Anna-Rose, still distant, but polite, for she too very much wanted to know. "But _don't_ tell us to ask the Captain," said Anna-Felicitas, even more earnestly. "No," said Anna-Rose, "because we won't." The man laughed. "Come right along with me," he said, striding on; and they followed him as obediently as though such persons as possible _böse Buben_ didn't exist. "First voyage I guess," said the man over his shoulder. "Yes," said the twins a little breathlessly, for the man's legs were long and they could hardly keep up with him. "English?" said the man. "Ye--es," said Anna-Rose. "That's to say, practically," panted the conscientious Anna-Felicitas. "What say?" said the man, still striding on. "I said," Anna-Felicitas endeavoured to explain, hurrying breathlessly after him so as to keep within reach of his ear, "practically." "Ah," said the man; and after a silence, broken only by the pantings for breath of the twins, he added: "Mother with you?" They didn't say anything to that, it seemed such a dreadful question to have to answer, and luckily he didn't repeat it, but, having got to the door they had been searching for, opened it and stepped into the bright light inside, and putting out his arm behind him pulled them in one after the other over the high wooden door-frame. Inside was the same stewardess they had seen earlier in the afternoon, engaged in heatedly describing what sounded like grievances to an official in buttons, who seemed indifferent. She stopped suddenly when the man appeared, and the official took his hands out of his pockets and became alert and attentive, and the stewardess hastily picked up a tray she had set down and began to move away along a passage. The man, however, briefly called "Hi," and she turned round and came back even more quickly than she had tried to go. "You see," explained Anna-Rose in a pleased whisper to Anna-Felicitas, "it's Hi she answers to." "Yes," agreed Anna-Felicitas. "It's waste of good circumlocutions to throw them away on her." "Show these young ladies the dining-room," said the man. "Yes, sir," said the stewardess, as polite as you please. He nodded to them with a smile that developed for some reason into a laugh, and turned away and beckoned to the official to follow him, and went out again into the night. "Who was that nice man?" inquired Anna-Rose, following the stewardess down a broad flight of stairs that smelt of india-rubber and machine-oil and cooking all mixed up together. "And please," said Anna-Felicitas with mild severity, "don't tell us to ask the Captain, because we really do know better than that." "I thought you must be relations," said the stewardess. "We are," said Anna-Rose. "We're twins." The stewardess stared. "Twins what of?" she asked. "What of?" echoed Anna-Rose. "Why, of each other, of course." "I meant relations of the Captain's," said the stewardess shortly, eyeing them with more disfavour than ever. "You seem to have the Captain greatly on your mind," said Anna-Felicitas. "He is no relation of ours." "You're not even friends, then?" asked the stewardess, pausing to stare round at them at a turn in the stairs as they followed her down arm-in-arm. "Of course we're friends," said Anna-Rose with some heat. "Do you suppose we quarrel?" "No, I didn't suppose you quarrelled with the Captain," said the stewardess tartly. "Not on board this ship anyway." She didn't know which of the two she disliked most, the short girl or the long girl. "You seem to be greatly obsessed by the Captain," said Anna-Felicitas gently. "Obsessed!" repeated the stewardess, tossing her head. She was unacquainted with the word, but instantly suspected it of containing a reflection on her respectability. "I've been a widow off and on for ten years now," she said angrily, "and I guess it would take more than even the Captain to obsess _me_." They had reached the glass doors leading into the dining-room, and the stewardess, having carried out her orders, paused before indignantly leaving them and going upstairs again to say, "If you're friends, what do you want to know his name for, then?" "Whose name?" asked Anna-Felicitas. "The Captain's," said the stewardess. "We don't want to know the Captain's name," said Anna-Felicitas patiently. "We don't want to know anything about the Captain." "Then--" began the stewardess. She restrained herself, however, and merely bitterly remarking: "That gentleman _was_ the Captain," went upstairs and left them. Anna-Rose was the first to recover. "You see we took your advice," she called up after her, trying to soften her heart, for it was evident that for some reason her heart was hardened, by flattery. "You _told_ us to ask the Captain." CHAPTER IV In their berths that night before they went to sleep, it occurred to them that perhaps what was the matter with the stewardess was that she needed a tip. At first, with their recent experiences fresh in their minds, they thought that she was probably passionately pro-Ally, and had already detected all those Junkers in their past and accordingly couldn't endure them. Then they remembered how Aunt Alice had said, "You will have to give your stewardess a little something." This had greatly perturbed them at the time, for up to then they had been in the easy position of the tipped rather than the tippers, and anyhow they had no idea what one gave stewardesses. Neither, it appeared, had Aunt Alice; for, on being questioned, she said vaguely that as it was an American boat they were going on she supposed it would have to be American money, which was dollars, and she didn't know much about dollars except that you divided them by four and multiplied them by five, or else it was the other way about; and when, feeling still uninformed, they had begged her to tell them why one did that, she said it was the quickest way of finding out what a dollar really was, and would they mind not talking any more for a little while because her head ached. The tips they had seen administered during their short lives had all been given at the end of things, not at the beginning; but Americans, Aunt Alice told them, were in some respects, in spite of their talking English, different, and perhaps they were different just on this point and liked to be tipped at both ends. Anna-Rose wanted to crane out her head and call up to Anna-Felicitas and ask her whether she didn't think that might be so, but was afraid of disturbing the people in the opposite berths. Anna-Felicitas was in the top berth on their side of the cabin, and Anna-Rose as the elder and accordingly as she explained to Anna-Felicitas, needing more comfort, in the lower one. On the opposite side were two similar berths, each containing as Anna-Felicitas whispered after peeping cautiously through their closed curtains,--for at first on coming in after dinner to go to bed the cabin seemed empty, except for inanimate things, like clothes hanging up and an immense smell,--its human freight. They were awed by this discovery, for the human freight was motionless and speechless, and yet made none of the noises suggesting sleep. They unpacked and undressed as silently and quickly as possible, but it was very difficult, for there seemed to be no room for anything, not even for themselves. Every now and then they glanced a little uneasily at the closed curtains, which bulged, and sniffed cautiously and delicately, trying to decide what the smell exactly was. It appeared to be a mixture of the sauce one had with plum pudding at Christmas, and German bedrooms in the morning. It was a smell they didn't like the idea of sleeping with, but they saw no way of getting air. They thought of ringing for the stewardess and asking her to open a window, though they could see no window, but came to the conclusion it was better not to stir her up; not yet, at least, not till they had correctly diagnosed what was the matter with her. They said nothing out loud, for fear of disturbing whatever it was behind the curtains, but they knew what each was thinking, for one isn't, as they had long ago found out, a twin for nothing. There was a slight scuffle before Anna-Felicitas was safely hoisted up into her berth, her legs hanging helplessly down for some time after the rest of her was in it, and Anna-Rose, who had already neatly inserted herself into her own berth, after watching these legs in silence and fighting a desire to give them a tug and see what would happen, had to get out at last on hearing Anna-Felicitas begin to make sounds up there as though she were choking, and push them up in after her. Her head was then on a level with Anna-Felicitas's berth, and she could see how Anna-Felicitas, having got her legs again, didn't attempt to do anything with them in the way of orderly arrangement beneath the blankets, but lay huddled in an irregular heap, screwing her eyes up very tight and stuffing one of her pigtails into her mouth, and evidently struggling with what appeared to be an attack of immoderate and ill-timed mirth. Anna-Rose observed her for a moment in silence, then was suddenly seized herself with a dreadful desire to laugh, and with a hasty glance round at the bulging curtains scrambled back into her own berth and pulled the sheet over her mouth. She was sobering herself by going over her different responsibilities, checking them off on her fingers,--the two five-pound notes under her pillow for extra expenses till they were united in New York to their capital, the tickets, the passports, and Anna-Felicitas,--when two thick fair pigtails appeared dangling over the edge of her berth, followed by Anna-Felicitas's head. "You've forgotten to turn out the light," whispered Anna-Felicitas, her eyelashes still wet from her late attack; and stretching her neck still further down till her face was scarlet with the effort and the blood rushing into it, she expressed a conviction to Anna-Rose that the human freight behind the curtains, judging from the suspicious negativeness of its behaviour, had no business in their cabin at all and was really stowaways. "German stowaways," added Anna-Felicitas, nodding her head emphatically, which was very skilful of her, thought Anna-Rose, considering that it was upside down. "_German_ stowaways," whispered Anna-Felicitas, sniffing expressively though cautiously. Anna-Rose raised herself on her elbows and stared across at the bulging curtains. They certainly were very motionless and much curved. In spite of herself her flesh began to creep a little. "They're men," whispered Anna-Felicitas, now dangerously congested. "Stowaways are." There had been no one in the cabin when first they came on board and took their things down, and they hadn't been in it since till they came to bed. "_German_ men," whispered Anna-Felicitas, again with a delicate expressive sniff. "Nonsense," whispered Anna-Rose, stoutly. "Men never come into ladies' cabins. And there's skirts on the hooks." "Disguise," whispered Anna-Felicitas, nodding again. "Spies' disguise." She seemed quite to be enjoying her own horrible suggestions. "Take your head back into the berth," ordered Anna-Rose quickly, for Anna-Felicitas seemed to be on the very brink of an apoplectic fit. Anna-Felicitas, who was herself beginning to feel a little inconvenienced, obeyed, and was thrilled to see Anna-Rose presently very cautiously emerge from underneath her and on her bare feet creep across to the opposite side. She knew her to be valiant to recklessness. She sat up to watch, her eyes round with interest. Anna-Rose didn't go straight across, but proceeded slowly, with several pauses, to direct her steps toward the pillow-end of the berths. Having got there she stood still a moment listening, and then putting a careful finger between the curtain of the lower berth and its frame, drew it the smallest crack aside and peeped in. Instantly she started back, letting go the curtain. "I beg your pardon," she said out loud, turning very red. "I--I thought--" Anna-Felicitas, attentive in her berth, felt a cold thrill rush down her back. No sound came from the berth on the other side any more than before the raid on it, and Anna-Rose returned quicker than she had gone. She just stopped on the way to switch off the light, and then felt along the edge of Anna-Felicitas's berth till she got to her head, and pulling it near her by its left pigtail whispered with her mouth close to its left ear, "Wide awake. Watching me all the time. Not a man. Fat." And she crawled into her berth feeling unnerved. CHAPTER V The lady in the opposite berth was German, and so was the lady in the berth above her. Their husbands were American, but that didn't make them less German. Nothing ever makes a German less German, Anna-Rose explained to Anna-Felicitas. "Except," replied Anna-Felicitas, "a judicious dilution of their blood by the right kind of mother." "Yes," said Anna-Rose. "Only to be found in England." This conversation didn't take place till the afternoon of the next day, by which time Anna-Felicitas already knew about the human freight being Germans, for one of their own submarines came after the _St. Luke_ and no one was quite so loud in expression of terror and dislike as the two Germans. They demanded to be saved first, on the ground that they were Germans. They repudiated their husbands, and said marriage was nothing compared to how one had been born. The curtains of their berths, till then so carefully closed, suddenly yawned open, and the berths gave up their contents just as if, Anna-Felicitas remarked afterwards to Anna-Rose, it was the resurrection and the berths were riven sepulchres chucking up their dead. This happened at ten o'clock the next morning when the _St. Luke_ was pitching about off the southwest coast of Ireland. The twins, waking about seven, found with a pained surprise that they were not where they had been dreaming they were, in the sunlit garden at home playing tennis happily if a little violently, but in a chilly yet stuffy place that kept on tilting itself upside down. They lay listening to the groans coming from the opposite berths, and uneasily wondering how long it would be before they too began to groan. Anna-Rose raised her head once with the intention of asking if she could help at all, but dropped it back again on to the pillow and shut her eyes tight and lay as quiet as the ship would let her. Anna-Felicitas didn't even raise her head, she felt so very uncomfortable. At eight o'clock the stewardess looked in--the same stewardess, they languidly noted, with whom already they had had two encounters, for it happened that this was one of the cabins she attended to--and said that if anybody wanted breakfast they had better be quick or it would be over. "Breakfast!" cried the top berth opposite in a heart-rending tone; and instantly was sick. The stewardess withdrew her head and banged the door to, and the twins, in their uneasy berths, carefully keeping their eyes shut so as not to witness the behaviour of the sides and ceiling of the cabin, feebly marvelled at the stewardess for suggesting being quick to persons who were being constantly stood on their heads. And breakfast,--they shuddered and thought of other things; of fresh, sweet air, and of the scent of pinks and apricots warm with the sun. At ten o'clock the stewardess came in again, this time right in, and with determination in every gesture. "Come, come," she said, addressing the twins, and through them talking at the heaving and groaning occupants of the other side, "you mustn't give way like this. What you want is to be out of bed. You must get up and go on deck. And how's the cabin to get done if you stay in it all the time?" Anna-Felicitas, the one particularly addressed, because she was more on the right level for conversation than Anna-Rose, who could only see the stewardess's apron, turned her head away and murmured that she didn't care. "Come, come," said the stewardess. "Besides, there's life-boat drill at mid-day, and you've got to be present." Anna-Felicitas, her eyes shut, again murmured that she didn't care. "Come, come," said the stewardess. "Orders are orders. Every soul on the ship, sick or not, has got to be present at life-boat drill." "Oh, I'm not a soul," murmured Anna-Felicitas, who felt at that moment how particularly she was a body, while the opposite berths redoubled their groans. "Come, come--" said the stewardess. Then the _St. Luke_ whistled five times, and the stewardess turned pale. For a brief space, before they understood what had happened, the twins supposed she was going to be sick. But it wasn't that that was the matter with her, for after a moment's staring at nothing with horror on her face she pounced on them and pulled them bodily out of their berths, regardless by which end, and threw them on the floor anyhow. Then she plunged about and produced life-jackets; then she rushed down the passage flinging open the doors of the other cabins; then she whirled back again and tried to tie the twins into their life-jackets, but with hands that shook so that the strings immediately came undone again; and all the time she was calling out "Quick--quick--quick--" There was a great tramping of feet on deck and cries and shouting. The curtains of the opposite berths yawned asunder and out came the Germans, astonishingly cured of their sea-sickness, and struggled vigorously into their life-jackets and then into fur coats, and had the fur coats instantly pulled off again by a very energetic steward who ran in and said fur coats in the water were death-traps,--a steward so much bent on saving people that he began to pull off the other things the German ladies had on as well, saying while he pulled, disregarding their protests, that in the water Mother Nature was the best. "Mother Nature--Mother Nature," said the steward, pulling; and he was only stopped just in the nick of time by the stewardess rushing in again and seeing what was happening to the helpless Germans. Anna-Rose, even at that moment explanatory, pointed out to Anna-Felicitas, who had already grasped the fact, that no doubt there was a submarine somewhere about. The German ladies, seizing their valuables from beneath their pillows, in spite of the steward assuring them they wouldn't want them in the water, demanded to be taken up and somehow signalled to the submarine, which would never dare do anything to a ship containing its own flesh and blood--and an American ship, too--there must be some awful mistake--but anyhow they must be saved--there would be terrible trouble, that they could assure the steward and the twins and the scurrying passers-by down the passage, if America allowed two Germans to be destroyed--and anyhow they would insist on having their passage money refunded.... The German ladies departed down the passage, very incoherent and very unhappy but no longer sick, and Anna-Felicitas, clinging to the edge of her berth, feeling too miserable to mind about the submarine, feebly wondered, while the steward tied her properly into her life-jacket, at the cure effected in them. Anna-Rose seemed cured too, for she was buttoning a coat round Anna-Felicitas's shoulders, and generally seemed busy and brisk, ending by not even forgetting their precious little bag of money and tickets and passports, and fastening it round her neck in spite of the steward's assuring her that it would drag her down in the water like a stone tied to a kitten. "You're a _very_ cheerful man, aren't you," Anna-Rose said, as he pushed them out of the cabin and along the corridor, holding up Anna-Felicitas on her feet, who seemed quite unable to run alone. The steward didn't answer, but caught hold of Anna-Felicitas at the foot of the stairs and carried her up them, and then having got her on deck propped her in a corner near the life-boat allotted to the set of cabins they were in, and darted away and in a minute was back again with a big coat which he wrapped round her. "May as well be comfortable till you do begin to drown," he said briskly, "but mind you don't forget to throw it off, Missie, the minute you feel the water." Anna-Felicitas slid down on to the deck, her head leaning against the wall, her eyes shut, a picture of complete indifference to whatever might be going to happen next. Her face was now as white as the frill of the night-gown that straggled out from beneath her coat, for the journey from the cabin to the deck had altogether finished her. Anna-Rose was thankful that she felt too ill to be afraid. Her own heart was black with despair,--despair that Anna-Felicitas, the dear and beautiful one, should presently, at any moment, be thrown into that awful heaving water, and certainly be hurt and frightened before she was choked out of life. She sat down beside her, getting as close as possible to keep her warm. Her own twin. Her own beloved twin. She took her cold hands and put them away beneath the coat the steward had brought. She slid an arm round her and laid her cheek against her sleeve, so that she should know somebody was there, somebody who loved her. "What's the _good_ of it all--_why_ were we born--" she wondered, staring at the hideous gray waves as they swept up into sight over the side of the ship and away again as the ship rose up, and at the wet deck and the torn sky, and the miserable-looking passengers in their life-jackets collected together round the life-boat. Nobody said anything except the German ladies. They, indeed, kept up a constant wail. The others were silent, the men mostly smoking cigarettes, the women holding their fluttering wraps about them, all of them staring out to sea, watching for the track of the torpedo to appear. One shot had been fired already and had missed. The ship was zig-zagging under every ounce of steam she could lay on. An official stood by the life-boat, which was ready with water in it and provisions. That the submarine must be mad, as the official remarked, to fire on an American ship, didn't console anybody, and his further assurance that the matter would not be allowed to rest there left them cold. They felt too sure that in all probability they themselves were going to rest there, down underneath that repulsive icy water, after a struggle that was going to be unpleasant. The man who had roused Anna-Rose's indignation as the ship left the landing-stage by looking as though he were soon going to be sorry for her, came across from the first class, where his life-boat was, to watch for the track of the expected torpedo, and caught sight of the twins huddled in their corner. Anna-Rose didn't see him, for she was staring with wide eyes out at the desolate welter of water and cloud, and thinking of home: the home that was, that used to be till such a little while ago, the home that now seemed to have been so amazingly, so unbelievably beautiful and blest, with its daily life of love and laughter and of easy confidence that to-morrow was going to be just as good. Happiness had been the ordinary condition there, a simple matter of course. Its place was taken now by courage. Anna-Rose felt sick at all this courage there was about. There should be no occasion for it. There should be no horrors to face, no cruelties to endure. Why couldn't brotherly love continue? Why must people get killing each other? She, for her part, would be behind nobody in courage and in the defying of a Fate that could behave, as she felt, so very unlike her idea of anything even remotely decent; but it oughtn't to be necessary, this constant condition of screwed-upness; it was waste of effort, waste of time, waste of life,--oh the _stupidity_ of it all, she thought, rebellious and bewildered. "Have some brandy," said the man, pouring out a little into a small cup. Anna-Rose turned her eyes on him without moving the rest of her. She recognized him. He was going to be sorry for them again. He had much better be sorry for himself now, she thought, because he, just as much as they were, was bound for a watery bier. "Thank you," she said distantly, for not only did she hate the smell of brandy but Aunt Alice had enjoined her with peculiar strictness on no account to talk to strange men, "I don't drink." "Then I'll give the other one some," said the man. "She too," said Anna-Rose, not changing her position but keeping a drearily watchful eye on him, "is a total abstainer." "Well, I'll go and fetch some of your warm things for you. Tell me where your cabin is. You haven't got enough on." "Thank you," said Anna-Rose distantly, "we have quite enough on, considering the occasion. We're dressed for drowning." The man laughed, and said there would be no drowning, and that they had a splendid captain, and were outdistancing the submarine hand over fist. Anna-Rose didn't believe him, and suspected him of supposing her to be in need of cheering, but a gleam of comfort did in spite of herself steal into her heart. He went away, and presently came back with a blanket and some pillows. "If you _will_ sit on the floor," he said, stuffing the pillows behind their backs, during which Anna-Felicitas didn't open her eyes, and her head hung about so limply that it looked as if it might at any moment roll off, "you may at least be as comfortable as you can." Anna-Rose pointed out, while she helped him arrange Anna-Felicitas's indifferent head on the pillow, that she saw little use in being comfortable just a minute or two before drowning. "Drowning be hanged," said the man. "That's how Uncle Arthur used to talk," said Anna-Rose, feeling suddenly quite at home, "except that _he_ would have said 'Drowning be damned.'" The man laughed. "Is he dead?" he asked, busy with Anna-Felicitas's head, which defied their united efforts to make it hold itself up. "Dead?" echoed Anna-Rose, to whom the idea of Uncle Arthur's ever being anything so quiet as dead and not able to say any swear words for such a long time as eternity seemed very odd. "You said he _used_ to talk like that." "Oh, no he's not dead at all. Quite the contrary." The man laughed again, and having got Anna-Felicitas's head arranged in a position that at least, as Anna-Rose pointed out, had some sort of self-respect in it, he asked who they were with. Anna-Rose looked at him with as much defiant independence as she could manage to somebody who was putting a pillow behind her back. He was going to be sorry for them. She saw it coming. He was going to say "You poor things," or words to that effect. That's what the people round Uncle Arthur's had said to them. That's what everybody had said to them since the war began, and Aunt Alice's friends had said it to her too, because she had to have her nieces live with her, and no doubt Uncle Arthur's friends who played golf with him had said it to him as well, except that probably they put in a damn so as to make it clearer for him and said "You poor damned thing," or something like that, and she was sick of the very words poor things. Poor things, indeed! "We're with each other," she said briefly, lifting her chin. "Well, I don't think that's enough," said the man. "Not half enough. You ought to have a mother or something." "_Everybody_ can't have mothers," said Anna-Rose very defiantly indeed, tears rushing into her eyes. The man tucked the blanket round their resistless legs. "There now," he said. "That's better. What's the good of catching your deaths?" Anna-Rose, glad that he hadn't gone on about mothers, said that with so much death imminent, catching any of it no longer seemed to her particularly to matter, and the man laughed and pulled over a chair and sat down beside her. She didn't know what he saw anywhere in that dreadful situation to laugh at, but just the sound of a laugh was extraordinarily comforting. It made one feel quite different. Wholesome again. Like waking up to sunshine and one's morning bath and breakfast after a nightmare. He seemed altogether a very comforting man. She liked him to sit near them. She hoped he was a good man. Aunt Alice had said there were very few good men, hardly any in fact except one's husband, but this one did seem one of the few exceptions. And she thought that by now, he having brought them all those pillows, he could no longer come under the heading of strange men. When he wasn't looking she put out her hand secretly and touched his coat where he wouldn't feel it. It comforted her to touch his coat. She hoped Aunt Alice wouldn't have disapproved of seeing her sitting side by side with him and liking it. Aunt Alice had been, as her custom was, vague, when Anna-Rose, having given her the desired promise not to talk or let Anna-Felicitas talk to strange men, and desiring to collect any available information for her guidance in her new responsible position had asked, "But when are men _not_ strange?" "When you've married them," said Aunt Alice. "After that, of course, you love them." And she sighed heavily, for it was bed-time. CHAPTER VI Nothing more was seen of the submarine. The German ladies were certain the captain had somehow let them know he had them on board, and were as full of the credit of having saved the ship as if it had been Sodom and Gomorrah instead of a ship, and they the one just man whose presence would have saved those cities if he had been in them; and the American passengers were equally sure that the submarine, on thinking it over, had decided that President Wilson was not a man to be trifled with, and had gone in search of some prey which would not have the might and majesty of America at its back. As the day went on, and the _St. Luke_ left off zig-zagging, the relief of those on board was the relief of a reprieve from death. Almost everybody was cured of sea-sickness, and quite everybody was ready to overwhelm his neighbour with cordiality and benevolence. Rich people didn't mind poor people, and came along from the first class and talked to them just as if they had been the same flesh and blood as themselves. A billionairess native to Chicago, who had crossed the Atlantic forty times without speaking to a soul, an achievement she was as justly proud of as an artist is of his best creations, actually asked somebody in a dingy mackintosh, whose little boy still looked pale, if he had been frightened; and an exclusive young man from Boston talked quite a long while to an English lady without first having made sure that she was well-connected. What could have been more like heaven? The tone on the _St. Luke_ that day was very like what the tone in the kingdom of heaven must be in its simple politeness. "And so you see," said Anna-Rose, who was fond of philosophizing in season and out of season, and particularly out of season, "how good comes out of evil." She made this observation about four o'clock in the afternoon to Anna-Felicitas in an interval of absence on the part of Mr. Twist--such, the amiable stranger had told them, was his name--who had gone to see about tea being brought up to them; and Anna-Felicitas, able by now to sit up and take notice, the hours of fresh air having done their work, smiled the ready, watery, foolishly happy smile of the convalescent. It was so nice not to feel ill; it was so nice not to have to be saved. If she had been able to talk much, she would have philosophized too, about the number and size of one's negative blessings--all the things one hasn't got, all the very horrid things; why, there's no end to them once you begin to count up, she thought, waterily happy, and yet people grumble. Anna-Felicitas was in that cleaned-out, beatific, convalescent mood in which one is sure one will never grumble again. She smiled at anybody who happened to pass by and catch her eye. She would have smiled just like that, with just that friendly, boneless familiarity at the devil if he had appeared, or even at Uncle Arthur himself. The twins, as a result of the submarine's activities, were having the pleasantest day they had had for months. It was the realization of this that caused Anna-Rose's remark about good coming out of evil. The background, she could not but perceive, was a very odd one for their pleasantest day for months--a rolling steamer and a cold wind flicking at them round the corner; but backgrounds, she pointed out to Anna-Felicitas, who smiled her agreement broadly and instantly, are negligible things: it is what goes on in front of them that matters. Of what earthly use, for instance, had been those splendid summer afternoons in the perfect woods and gardens that so beautifully framed in Uncle Arthur? No use, agreed Anna-Felicitas, smiling fatuously. In the middle of them was Uncle Arthur. You always got to him in the end. Anna-Felicitas nodded and shook her head and was all feeble agreement. She and Anna-Felicitas had been more hopelessly miserable, Anna-Rose remarked, wandering about the loveliness that belonged to him than they could ever have dreamed was possible. She reminded Anna-Felicitas how they used to rub their eyes to try and see more clearly, for surely these means of happiness, these elaborate arrangements for it all round them, couldn't be for nothing? There must be some of it somewhere, if only they could discover where? And there was none. Not a trace of it. Not even the faintest little swish of its skirts. Anna-Rose left off talking, and became lost in memories. For a long time, she remembered, she had told herself it was her mother's death blotting the light out of life, but one day Anna-Felicitas said aloud that it was Uncle Arthur, and Anna-Rose knew it was true. Their mother's death was something so tender, so beautiful, that terrible as it was to them to be left without her they yet felt raised up by it somehow, raised on to a higher level than where they had been before, closer in their hearts to real things, to real values. But Uncle Arthur came into possession of their lives as a consequence of that death, and he had towered up between them and every glimpse of the sun. Suddenly there was no such thing as freedom and laughter. Suddenly everything one said and did was wrong. "And you needn't think," Anna-Felicitas had said wisely, "that he's like that because we're Germans--or _seem_ to be Germans," she amended. "It's because he's Uncle Arthur. Look at Aunt Alice. _She's_ not a German. And yet look at her." And Anna-Rose had looked at Aunt Alice, though only in her mind's eye, for at that moment the twins were three miles away in a wood picnicking, and Aunt Alice was at home recovering from a _tête-à-tête_ luncheon with Uncle Arthur who hadn't said a word from start to finish; and though she didn't like most of his words when he did say them, she liked them still less when he didn't say them, for then she imagined them, and what she imagined was simply awful,--Anna-Rose had, I say, looked at Aunt Alice in her mind's eye, and knew that this too was true. Mr. Twist reappeared, followed by the brisk steward with a tray of tea and cake, and their corner became very like a cheerful picnic. Mr. Twist was most pleasant and polite. Anna-Rose had told him quite soon after he began to talk to her, in order, as she said, to clear his mind of misconceptions, that she and Anna-Felicitas, though their clothes at that moment, and the pigtails in which their flair was done, might be misleading, were no longer children, but quite the contrary; that they were, in fact, persons who were almost ripe for going to dances, and certainly in another year would be perfectly ripe for dances supposing there were any. Mr. Twist listened attentively, and begged her to tell him any other little thing she might think of as useful to him in his capacity of friend and attendant,--both of which, said Mr. Twist, he intended to be till he had seen them safely landed in New York. "I hope you don't think we _need_ anybody," said Anna-Rose. "We shall like being friends with you very much, but only on terms of perfect equality." "Sure," said Mr. Twist, who was an American. "I thought--" She hesitated a moment. "You thought?" encouraged Mr. Twist politely. "I thought at Liverpool you looked as if you were being sorry for us." "Sorry?" said Mr. Twist, in the tone of one who repudiates. "Yes. When we were waving good-bye to--to our friends." "Sorry?" repeated Mr. Twist. "Which was great waste of your time." "I should think so," said Mr. Twist with heartiness. Anna-Rose, having cleared the ground of misunderstandings, an activity in which at all times she took pleasure, accepted Mr. Twist's attentions in the spirit in which they were offered, which was, as he said, one of mutual friendliness and esteem. As he was never sea-sick, he could move about and do things for them that might be difficult to do for themselves; as he knew a great deal about stewardesses, he could tell them what sort of tip theirs expected; as he was American, he could illuminate them about that country. He had been doing Red Cross work with an American ambulance in France for ten months, and was going home for a short visit to see how his mother, who, Anna-Rose gathered, was ancient and widowed, was getting on. His mother, he said, lived in seclusion in a New England village with his sister, who had not married. "Then she's got it all before her," said Anna-Rose. "Like us," said Anna-Felicitas. "I shouldn't think she'd got as much of it before her as you," said Mr. Twist, "because she's considerably more grown up--I mean," he added hastily, as Anna-Rose's mouth opened, "she's less--well, less completely young." "We're not completely young," said Anna-Rose with dignity. "People are completely young the day they're born, and ever after that they spend their time becoming less so." "Exactly. And my sister has been becoming less so longer than you have. I assure you that's all I meant. She's less so even than I am." "Then," said Anna-Rose, glancing at that part of Mr. Twist's head where it appeared to be coming through his hair, "she must have got to the stage when one is called a maiden lady." "And if she were a German," said Anna-Felicitas suddenly, who hadn't till then said anything to Mr. Twist but only smiled widely at him whenever he happened to look her way, "she wouldn't be either a lady or a maiden, but just an It. It's very rude of Germans, I think," went on Anna-Felicitas, abstractedly smiling at the cake Mr. Twist was offering her, "never to let us be anything but Its till we've taken on some men." Mr. Twist expressed surprise at this way of describing marriage, and inquired of Anna-Felicitas what she knew about Germans. "The moment you leave off being sea-sick, Anna-F.," said Anna-Rose, turning to her severely, "you start being indiscreet. Well, I suppose," she added with a sigh to Mr. Twist, "you'd have had to know sooner or later. Our name is Twinkler." She watched him to see the effect of this, and Mr. Twist, perceiving he was expected to say something, said that he didn't mind that anyhow, and that he could bear something worse in the way of revelations. "Does it convey nothing to you?" asked Anna-Rose, astonished, for in Germany the name of Twinkler was a mighty name, and even in England it was well known. Mr. Twist shook his head. "Only that it sounds cheerful," he said. Anna-Rose watched his face. "It isn't only Twinkler," she said, speaking very distinctly. "It's _von_ Twinkler." "That's German," said Mr. Twist; but his face remained serene. "Yes. And so are we. That is, we would be if it didn't happen that we weren't." "I don't think I quite follow," said Mr. Twist. "It _is_ very difficult," agreed Anna-Rose. "You see, we used to have a German father." "But only because our mother married him," explained Anna-Felicitas. "Else we wouldn't have." "And though she only did it once," said Anna-Rose, "ages ago, it has dogged our footsteps ever since." "It's very surprising," mused Anna-Felicitas, "what marrying anybody does. You go into a church, and before you know where you are, you're all tangled up with posterity." "And much worse than that," said Anna-Rose, staring wide-eyed at her own past experiences, "posterity's all tangled up with you. It's really simply awful sometimes for posterity. Look at us." "If there hadn't been a war we'd have been all right," said Anna-Felicitas. "But directly there's a war, whoever it is you've married, if it isn't one of your own countrymen, rises up against you, just as if he were too many meringues you'd had for dinner." "Living or dead," said Anna-Rose, nodding, "he rises up against you." "Till the war we never thought at all about it," said Anna-Felicitas. "Either one way or the other," said Anna-Rose. "We never used to bother about what we were," said Anna-Felicitas. "We were just human beings, and so was everybody else just human beings." "We didn't mind a bit about being Germans, or about other people not being Germans." "But you mustn't think we mind now either," said Anna-Felicitas, "because, you see, we're not." Mr. Twist looked at them in turn. His ears were a little prominent and pointed, and they gave him rather the air, when he put his head on one side and looked at them, of an attentive fox-terrier. "I don't think I quite follow," he said again. "It _is_ very difficult," agreed Anna-Rose. "It's because you've got into your head that we're German because of our father," said Anna-Felicitas. "But what's a father, when all's said and done?" "Well," said Mr. Twist, "one has to have him." "But having got him he isn't anything like as important as a mother," said Anna-Rose. "One hardly sees one's father," said Anna-Felicitas. "He's always busy. He's always thinking of something else." "Except when he looks at one and tells one to sit up straight," said Anna-Rose pointedly to Anna-Felicitas, whose habit of drooping still persisted in spite of her father's admonishments. "Of course he's very kind and benevolent when he happens to remember that one is there," said Anna-Felicitas, sitting up beautifully for a moment, "but that's about everything." "And of course," said Anna-Rose, "one's father's intentions are perfectly sound and good, but his attention seems to wander. Whereas one's mother--" "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas, "one's mother--" They broke off and looked straight in front of them. It didn't bear speaking of. It didn't bear thinking of. Suddenly Anna-Felicitas, weak from excessive sea-sickness, began to cry. The tears just slopped over as though no resistance of any sort were possible. Anna-Rose stared at her a moment horror-struck. "Look here, Anna-F.," she exclaimed, wrath in her voice, "I won't _have_ you be sentimental--I won't _have_ you be sentimental...." And then she too began to cry. Well, once having hopelessly disgraced and exposed themselves, there was nothing for it but to take Mr. Twist into their uttermost confidence. It was dreadful. It was awful. Before that strange man. A person they hardly knew. Other strangers passing. Exposing their feelings. Showing their innermost miserable places. They writhed and struggled in their efforts to stop, to pretend they weren't crying, that it was really nothing but just tears,--odd ones left over from last time, which was years and years ago,--"But _really_ years and years ago," sobbed Anna-Rose, anxiously explaining,--"the years one falls down on garden paths in, and cuts one's knees, and one's mother--one's mother--c-c-c-comforts one--" "See here," said Mr. Twist, interrupting these incoherences, and pulling out a beautiful clean pocket-handkerchief which hadn't even been unfolded yet, "you've got to tell me all about it right away." And he shook out the handkerchief, and with the first-aid promptness his Red Cross experience had taught him, started competently wiping up their faces. CHAPTER VII There was that about Mr. Twist which, once one had begun them, encouraged confidences; something kind about his eyes, something not too determined about his chin. He bore no resemblance to those pictures of efficient Americans in advertisements with which Europe is familiar,--eagle-faced gentlemen with intimidatingly firm mouths and chins, wiry creatures, physically and mentally perfect, offering in capital letters to make you Just Like Them. Mr. Twist was the reverse of eagle-faced. He was also the reverse of good-looking; that is, he would have been very handsome indeed, as Anna-Rose remarked several days later to Anna-Felicitas, when the friendship had become a settled thing,--which indeed it did as soon as Mr. Twist had finished wiping their eyes and noses that first afternoon, it being impossible, they discovered, to have one's eyes and noses wiped by somebody without being friends afterwards (for such an activity, said Anna-Felicitas, belonged to the same order of events as rescue from fire, lions, or drowning, after which in books you married him; but this having only been wiping, said Anna-Rose, the case was adequately met by friendship)--he would have been very handsome indeed if he hadn't had a face. "But you have to _have_ a face," said Anna-Felicitas, who didn't think it much mattered what sort it was so long as you could eat with it and see out of it. "And as long as one is as kind as Mr. Twist," said Anna-Rose; but secretly she thought that having been begun so successfully at his feet, and carried upwards with such grace of long limbs and happy proportions, he might as well have gone on equally felicitously for the last little bit. "I expect God got tired of him over that last bit," she mused, "and just put on any sort of head." "Yes--that happened to be lying about," agreed Anna-Felicitas. "In a hurry to get done with him." "Anyway he's very kind," said Anna-Rose, a slight touch of defiance in her voice. "Oh, _very_ kind," agreed Anna-Felicitas. "And it doesn't matter about faces for being kind," said Anna-Rose. "Not in the least," agreed Anna-Felicitas. "And if it hadn't been for the submarine we shouldn't have got to know him. So you see," said Anna-Rose,--and again produced her favourite remark about good coming out of evil. Those were the days in mid-Atlantic when England was lost in its own peculiar mists, and the sunshine of America was stretching out towards them. The sea was getting calmer and bluer every hour, and submarines more and more unlikely. If a ship could be pleasant, which Anna-Felicitas doubted, for she still found difficulty in dressing and undressing without being sea-sick and was unpopular in the cabin, this ship was pleasant. You lay in a deck-chair all day long, staring at the blue sky and blue sea that enclosed you as if you were living in the middle of a jewel, and tried not to remember--oh, there were heaps of things it was best not to remember; and when the rail of the ship moved up across the horizon too far into the sky, or moved down across it and showed too much water, you just shut your eyes and then it didn't matter; and the sun shone warm and steady on your face, and the wind tickled the tassel on the top of your German-knitted cap, and Mr. Twist came and read aloud to you, which sent you to sleep quicker than anything you had ever known. The book he read out of and carried about with him his pocket was called "Masterpieces You Must Master," and was an American collection of English poetry, professing in its preface to be a Short Cut to Culture; and he would read with what at that time, it being new to them, seemed to the twins a strange exotic pronunciation, Wordsworth's "Ode to Dooty," and the effect was as if someone should dig a majestic Gregorian psalm in its ribs, and make it leap and giggle. Anna-Rose, who had no reason to shut her eyes, for she didn't mind what the ship's rail did with the horizon, opened them very round when first Mr. Twist started on his Masterpieces. She was used to hearing them read by her mother in the adorable husky voice that sent such thrills through one, but she listened with the courtesy and final gratitude due to the efforts to entertain her of so amiable a friend, and only the roundness of her eyes showed her astonishment at this waltzing round, as it appeared to her, of Mr. Twist with the Stern Daughter of the Voice of God. He also read "Lycidas" to her, that same "Lycidas" Uncle Arthur took for a Derby winner, and only Anna-Rose's politeness enabled her to refrain from stopping up her ears. As it was, she fidgeted to the point of having to explain, on Mr. Twist's pausing to gaze at her questioningly through the smoke-coloured spectacles he wore on deck, which made him look so like a gigantic dragon-fly, that it was because her deck-chair was so very much harder than she was. Anna-Felicitas, who considered that, if these things were short-cuts to anywhere, seeing she knew them all by heart she must have long ago got there, snoozed complacently. Sometimes for a few moments she would drop off really to sleep, and then her mouth would fall open, which worried Anna-Rose, who couldn't bear her to look even for a moment less beautiful than she knew she was, so that she fidgeted more than ever, unable, pinned down by politeness and the culture being administered, to make her shut her mouth and look beautiful again by taking and shaking her. Also Anna-Felicitas had a trick of waking up suddenly and forgetting to be polite, as one does when first one wakes up and hasn't had time to remember one is a lady. "To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures noo," Mr. Twist would finish, for instance, with a sort of gulp of satisfaction at having swallowed yet another solid slab of culture; and Anna-Felicitas, returning suddenly to consciousness, would murmur, with her eyes still shut and her head lolling limply, things like, "After all, it _does_ rhyme with blue. I wonder why, then, one still doesn't like it." Then Mr. Twist would turn his spectacles towards her in mild inquiry, and Anna-Rose, as always, would rush in and elaborately explain what Anna-Felicitas meant, which was so remote from anything resembling what she had said that Mr. Twist looked more mildly inquiring than ever. Usually Anna-Felicitas didn't contradict Anna-Rose, being too sleepy or too lazy, but sometimes she did, and then Anna-Rose got angry, and would get what the Germans call a red head and look at Anna-Felicitas very severely and say things, and Mr. Twist would close his book and watch with that alert, cocked-up-ear look of a sympathetic and highly interested terrier; but sooner or later the ship would always give a roll, and Anna-Felicitas would shut her eyes and fade to paleness and become the helpless bundle of sickness that nobody could possibly go on being severe with. The passengers in the second class were more generally friendly than those in the first class. The first class sorted itself out into little groups, and whispered about each other, as Anna-Rose observed, watching their movements across the rope that separated her from them. The second class remained to the end one big group, frayed out just a little at the edge in one or two places. The chief fraying out was where the Twinkler kids, as the second-class young men, who knew no better, dared to call them, interrupted the circle by talking apart with Mr. Twist. Mr. Twist had no business there. He was a plutocrat of the first class; but in spite of the regulations which cut off the classes from communicating, with a view apparently to the continued sanitariness of the first class, the implication being that the second class was easily infectious and probably overrun, there he was every day and several times in every day. He must have heavily squared the officials, the second-class young men thought until the day when Mr. Twist let it somehow be understood that he had known the Twinkler young ladies for years, dandled them in their not very remote infancy on his already full-grown knee, and had been specially appointed to look after them on this journey. Mr. Twist did not specify who had appointed him, except to the Twinkler young ladies themselves, and to them he announced that it was no less a thing, being, or creature, than Providence. The second-class young men, therefore, in spite of their rising spirits as danger lay further behind, and their increasing tendency, peculiar to those who go on ships, to become affectionate, found themselves no further on in acquaintance with the Misses Twinkler the last day of the voyage than they had been the first. Not that, under any other conditions, they would have so much as noticed the existence of the Twinkler kids. In their blue caps, pulled down tight to their eyebrows and hiding every trace of hair, they looked like bald babies. They never came to meals; their assiduous guardian, or whatever he was, feeding them on deck with the care of a mother-bird for its fledglings, so that nobody except the two German ladies in their cabin had seen them without the caps. The young men put them down as half-grown only, somewhere about fourteen they thought, and nothing but what, if they were boys instead of girls, would have been called louts. Still, a ship is a ship, and it is wonderful what can be managed in the way of dalliance if one is shut up on one long enough; and the Misses Twinkler, in spite of their loutishness, their apparent baldness, and their constant round-eyed solemnity, would no doubt have been the objects of advances before New York was reached if it hadn't been for Mr. Twist. There wasn't a girl under forty in the second class on that voyage, the young men resentfully pointed out to each other, except these two kids who were too much under it, and a young lady of thirty who sat manicuring her nails most of the day with her back supported by a life-boat, and polishing them with red stuff till they flashed rosily in the sun. This young lady was avoided for the first two days, while the young men still remembered their mothers, because of what she looked like; but was greatly loved for the rest of the voyage precisely for that reason. Still, every one couldn't get near her. She was only one; and there were at least a dozen active, cooped-up young men taking lithe, imprisoned exercise in long, swift steps up and down the deck, ready for any sort of enterprise, bursting with energy and sea-air and spirits. So that at last the left-overs, those of the young men the lady of the rosy nails was less kind to, actually in their despair attempted ghastly flirtations with the two German ladies. They approached them with a kind of angry amorousness. They tucked them up roughly in rugs. They brought them cushions as though they were curses. And it was through this _rapprochement_, in the icy warmth of which the German ladies expanded like bulky flowers and grew at least ten years younger, the ten years they shed being their most respectable ones, that the ship became aware of the nationality of the Misses Twinkler. The German ladies were not really German, as they explained directly there were no more submarines about, for a good woman, they said, becomes automatically merged into her husband, and they, therefore, were merged into Americans, both of them, and as loyal as you could find, but the Twinklers were the real thing, they said,--real, unadulterated, arrogant Junkers, which is why they wouldn't talk to anybody; for no Junker, said the German ladies, thinks anybody good enough to be talked to except another Junker. The German ladies themselves had by sheer luck not been born Junkers. They had missed it very narrowly, but they had missed it, for which they were very thankful seeing what believers they were, under the affectionate manipulation of their husbands, in democracy; but they came from the part of Germany where Junkers most abound, and knew the sort of thing well. It seemed to Mr. Twist, who caught scraps of conversation as he came and went, that in the cabin the Twinklers must have alienated sympathy. They had. They had done more; they had got themselves actively disliked. From the first moment when Anna-Rose had dared to peep into their shrouded bunks the ladies had been prejudiced, and this prejudice had later flared up into a great and justified dislike. The ladies, to begin with, hadn't known that they were von Twinklers, but had supposed them mere Twinklers, and the von, as every German knows, makes all the difference, especially in the case of Twinklers, who, without it, were a race, the ladies knew, of small shopkeepers, laundresses and postmen in the Westphalian district, but with it were one of the oldest families in Prussia; known to all Germans; possessed of a name ensuring subservience wherever it went. In this stage of preliminary ignorance the ladies had treated the two apparently ordinary Twinklers with the severity their conduct, age, and obvious want of means deserved; and when, goaded by their questionings, the smaller and more active Twinkler had let out her von at them much as one lets loose a dog when one is alone and weak against the attacks of an enemy, instead of falling in harmoniously with the natural change of attitude of the ladies, which became immediately perfectly polite and conciliatory, as well as motherly in its interest and curiosity, the two young Junkers went dumb. They would have nothing to do with the most motherly questioning. And just in proportion as the German ladies found themselves full of eager milk of kindness, only asking to be permitted to nourish, so did they find themselves subsequently, after a day or two of such uncloaked repugnance to it, left with quantities of it useless on their hands and all going sour. From first to last the Twinklers annoyed them. As plain Twinklers they had been tiresome in a hundred ways in the cabin, and as von Twinklers they were intolerable in their high-nosed indifference. It had naturally been expected by the elder ladies at the beginning of the journey, that two obscure Twinklers of such manifest youth should rise politely and considerately each morning very early, and get themselves dressed and out of the way in at the most ten minutes, leaving the cabin clear for the slow and careful putting together bit by bit of that which ultimately emerged a perfect specimen of a lady of riper years, but the weedy Twinkler insisted on lying in her berth so late that if the ladies wished to be in time for the best parts of breakfast, which they naturally and passionately did wish, they were forced to dress in her presence, which was most annoying and awkward. It is true she lay with closed eyes, apparently apathetic, but you never know with persons of that age. Experience teaches not to trust them. They shut their eyes, and yet seem, later on, to have seen; they apparently sleep, and afterwards are heard asking their spectacled American friend what people do on a ship, a place of so much gustiness, if their hair gets blown off into the sea. Also the weedy one had a most tiresome trick of being sick instantly every time Odol was used, or a little brandy was drunk. Odol is most refreshing; it has a lovely smell, without which no German bedroom is complete. And the brandy was not common schnaps, but an old expensive brandy that, regarded as a smell, was a credit to anybody's cabin. The German ladies would have persisted, and indeed did persist in using Odol and drinking a little brandy, indifferent to the feeble prayer from the upper berth which floated down entreating them not to, but in their own interests they were forced to give it up. The objectionable child did not pray a second time; she passed immediately from prayer to performance. Of two disagreeables wise women choose the lesser, but they remain resentful. The other Twinkler, the small active one, did get up early and take herself off, but she frequently mixed up her own articles of toilet with those belonging to the ladies, and would pin up her hair, preparatory to washing her face, with their hairpins. When they discovered this they hid them, and she, not finding any, having come to the end of her own, lost no time in irresolution but picked up their nail-scissors and pinned up her pigtails with that. It was a particularly sacred pair of nail-scissors that almost everything blunted. To use them for anything but nails was an outrage, but the grossest outrage was to touch them at all. When they told her sharply that the scissors were very delicate and she was instantly to take them out of her hair, she tugged them out in a silence that was itself impertinent, and pinned up her pigtails with their buttonhook instead. Then they raised themselves on their elbows in their berths and asked her what sort of a bringing up she could have had, and they raised their voices as well, for though they were grateful, as they later on declared, for not having been born Junkers, they had nevertheless acquired by practice in imitation some of the more salient Junker characteristics. "You are _salop_," said the upper berth lady,--which is untranslatable, not on grounds of propriety but of idiom. It is not, however, a term of praise. "Yes, that is what you are--_salop_," echoed the lower berth lady. "And your sister is _salop_ too--lying in bed till all hours." "It is shameful for girls to be _salop_," said the upper berth. "I didn't know it was your buttonhook. I thought it was ours," said Anna-Rose, pulling this out too with vehemence. "That is because you are _salop_," said the lower berth. "And I didn't know it wasn't our scissors either." "_Salop, salop_," said the lower berth, beating her hand on the wooden edge of her bunk. "And--and I'm sorry." Anna-Rose's face was very red. She didn't look sorry, she looked angry. And so she was; but it was with herself, for having failed in discernment and grown-upness. She ought to have noticed that the scissors and buttonhook were not hers. She had pounced on them with the ill-considered haste of twelve years old. She hadn't been a lady,--she whose business it was to be an example and mainstay to Anna-Felicitas, in all things going first, showing her the way. She picked up the sponge and plunged it into the water, and was just going to plunge her annoyed and heated face in after it when the upper berth lady said: "Your mother should be ashamed of herself to have brought you up so badly." "And send you off like this before she has taught you even the ABC of manners," said the lower berth. "Evidently," said the upper berth, "she can have none herself." "Evidently," said the lower berth, "she is herself _salop_." The sponge, dripping with water, came quickly out of the basin in Anna-Rose's clenched fist. For one awful instant she stood there in her nightgown, like some bird of judgment poised for dreadful flight, her eyes flaming, her knotted pigtails bristling on the top of her head. The wet sponge twitched in her hand. The ladies did not realize the significance of that twitching, and continued to offer large angry faces as a target. One of the faces would certainly have received the sponge and Anna-Rose have been disgraced for ever, if it hadn't been for the prompt and skilful intervention of Anna-Felicitas. For Anna-Felicitas, roused from her morning languor by the unusual loudness of the German ladies' voices, and smitten into attention and opening of her eyes, heard the awful things they were saying and saw the sponge. Instantly she knew, seeing it was Anna-Rose who held it, where it would be in another second, and hastily putting out a shaking little hand from her top berth, caught hold feebly but obstinately of the upright ends of Anna-Rose's knotted pigtails. "I'm going to be sick," she announced with great presence of mind and entire absence of candour. She knew, however, that she only had to sit up in order to be sick, and the excellent child--_das gute Kind_, as her father used to call her because she, so conveniently from the parental point of view, invariably never wanted to be or do anything particularly--without hesitation sacrificed herself in order to save her sister's honour, and sat up and immediately was. By the time Anna-Rose had done attending to her, all fury had died out. She never could see Anna Felicitas lying back pale and exhausted after one of these attacks without forgiving her and everybody else everything. She climbed up on the wooden steps to smoothe her pillow and tuck her blanket round her, and when Anna-Felicitas, her eyes shut, murmured, "Christopher--don't mind _them_--" and she suddenly realized, for they never called each other by those names except in great moments of emotion when it was necessary to cheer and encourage, what Anna-Felicitas had saved her from, and that it had been done deliberately, she could only whisper back, because she was so afraid of crying, "No, no, Columbus dear--of course--who really cares about _them_--" and came down off the steps with no fight left in her. Also the wrath of the ladies was considerably assuaged. They had retreated behind their curtains until the so terribly unsettled Twinkler should be quiet again, and when once more they drew them a crack apart in order to keep an eye on what the other one might be going to do next and saw her doing nothing except, with meekness, getting dressed, they merely inquired what part of Westphalia she came from, and only in the tone they asked it did they convey that whatever part it was, it was anyhow a contemptible one. "We don't come from Westphalia," said Anna-Rose, bristling a little, in spite of herself, at their persistent baiting. Anna-Felicitas listened in cold anxiousness. She didn't want to have to be sick again. She doubted whether she could bear it. "You must come from somewhere," said the lower berth, "and being a Twinkler it must be Westphalia." "We don't really," said Anna-Rose, mindful of Anna-Felicitas's words and making a great effort to speak politely. "We come from England." "England!" cried the lower berth, annoyed by this quibbling. "You were born in Westphalia. All Twinklers are born in Westphalia." "Invariably they are," said the upper berth. "The only circumstance that stops them is if their mothers happen to be temporarily absent." "But we weren't, really," said Anna-Rose, continuing her efforts to remain bland. "Are you pretending--pretending to _us_," said the lower berth lady, again beating her hand on the edge of her bunk, "that you are not German?" "Our father was German," said Anna-Rose, driven into a corner, "but I don't suppose he is now. I shouldn't think he'd want to go on being one directly he got to a really neutral place." "Has he fled his country?" inquired the lower berth sternly, scenting what she had from the first suspected, something sinister in the Twinkler background. "I suppose one might call it that," said Anna-Rose after a pause of consideration, tying her shoe-laces. "Do you mean to say," said the ladies with one voice, feeling themselves now on the very edge of a scandal, "he was forced to fly from Westphalia?" "I suppose one might put it that way," said Anna-Rose, again considering. She took her cap off its hook and adjusted it over her hair with a deliberation intended to assure Anna-Felicitas that she was remaining calm. "Except that it wasn't from Westphalia he flew, but Prussia," she said. "Prussia?" cried the ladies as one woman, again rising themselves on their elbows. "That's where our father lived," said Anna-Rose, staring at them in her surprise at their surprise. "So of course, as he lived there, when he died he did that there too." "Prussia?" cried the ladies again. "He died? You said your father fled his country." "No. _You_ said that," said Anna-Rose. She gave her cap a final tug down over her ears and turned to the door. She felt as if she quite soon again in spite of Anna-Felicitas, might not be able to be a lady. "After all, it _is_ what you do when you go to heaven," she said as she opened the door, unable to resist, according to her custom, having the last word. "But Prussia?" they still cried, still button-holing her, as it were, from afar. "Then--you were born in Prussia?" "Yes, but we couldn't help it," said Anna-Rose; and shut the door quickly behind her. CHAPTER VIII Mr. Twist, who was never able to be anything but kind--he had the most amiable mouth and chin in the world, and his name was Edward--took a lively interest in the plans and probable future of the two Annas. He also took a lively and solicitous interest in their present, and a profoundly sympathetic one in their past. In fact, their three tenses interested him to the exclusion of almost everything else, and his chief desire was to see them safely through any shoals there might be waiting them in the shape of Uncle Arthur's friends--he distrusted Uncle Arthur, and therefore his friends--into the safe and pleasant waters of real American hospitality and kindliness. He knew that such waters abounded for those who could find the tap. He reminded himself of that which he had been taught since childhood, of the mighty heart of America which, once touched, would take persons like the twins right in and never let them out again. But it had to be touched. It had, as it were, to be put in connection with them by means of advertisement. America, he reflected, was a little deaf. She had to be shouted to. But once she heard, once she thoroughly grasped ... He cogitated much in his cabin--one with a private bathroom, for Mr. Twist had what Aunt Alice called ample means--on these two defenceless children. If they had been Belgians now, or Serbians, or any persons plainly in need of relief! As it was, America would be likely, he feared, to consider that either Germany or England ought to be looking after them, and might conceivably remain chilly and uninterested. Uncle Arthur, it appeared, hadn't many friends in America, and those he had didn't like him. At least that was what Mr. Twist gathered from the conversation of Anna-Rose. She didn't positively assert but she very candidly conjectured, and Mr. Twist could quite believe that Uncle Arthur's friends wouldn't be warm ones. Their hospitality he could imagine fleeting and perfunctory. They would pass on the Twinklers as soon as possible, as indeed why should they not? And presently some dreary small job would be found for them, some job as pupil-teacher or girls' companion in the sterile atmosphere of a young ladies' school. As much as a man of habitually generous impulses could dislike, Mr. Twist disliked Uncle Arthur. Patriotism was nothing at any time to Mr. Twist compared to humanity, and Uncle Arthur's particular kind of patriotism was very odious to him. To wreak it on these two poor aliens! Mr. Twist had no words for it. They had been cut adrift at a tender age, an age Mr. Twist, as a disciplined American son and brother, was unable to regard unmoved, and packed off over the sea indifferent to what might happen to them so long as Uncle Arthur knew nothing about it. Having flung these kittens into the water to swim or drown, so long as he didn't have to listen to their cries while they were doing it, Uncle Arthur apparently cared nothing. All Mr. Twist's chivalry, of which there was a great deal, rose up within him at the thought of Uncle Arthur. He wanted to go and ask him what he meant by such conduct, and earnestly inquire of him whether he called himself a man; but as he knew he couldn't do this, being on a ship heading for New York, he made up for it by taking as much care of the ejected nieces as if he were an uncle himself,--but the right sort of uncle, the sort you have in America, the sort that regards you as a sacred and precious charge. In his mind's eye Mr. Twist saw Uncle Arthur as a typical bullying, red-necked Briton, with short side-whiskers. He pictured him under-sized and heavy-footed, trudging home from golf through the soppy green fields of England to his trembling household. He was quite disconcerted one day to discover from something Anna-Rose said that he was a tall man, and not fat at all, except in one place. "Indeed," said Mr. Twist, hastily rearranging his mind's-eye view of Uncle Arthur. "He goes fat suddenly," said Anna-Felicitas, waking from one of her dozes. "As though he had swallowed a bomb, and it had stuck when it got to his waistcoat." "If you can imagine it," added Anna-Rose politely, ready to explain and describe further if required. But Mr. Twist could imagine it. He readjusted his picture of Uncle Arthur, and this time got him right,--the tall, not bad-looking man, clean-shaven and with more hair a great deal than he, Mr. Twist, had. He had thought of him as an old ruffian; he now perceived that he could be hardly more than middle-aged and that Aunt Alice, a lady for whom he felt an almost painful sympathy, had a lot more of Uncle Arthur to get through before she was done. "Yes," said Anna-Rose, accepting the word middle-aged as correct. "Neither of his ends looks much older than yours do. He's aged in the middle. That's the only place. Where the bomb is." "I suppose that's why it's called middle-aged," said Anna-Felicitas dreamily. "One middle-ages first, and from there it just spreads. It must be queer," she added pensively, "to watch oneself gradually rotting." These were the sorts of observations, Mr. Twist felt, that might prejudice his mother against the twins If they could be induced not to say most of the things they did say when in her presence, he felt that his house, of all houses in America, should be offered them as a refuge whenever they were in need of one. But his mother was not, he feared, very adaptable. In her house--it was legally his, but it never felt as if it were--people adapted themselves to her. He doubted whether the twins could or would. Their leading characteristic, he had observed, was candour. They had no _savoir faire_. They seemed incapable of anything but naturalness, and their particular type of naturalness was not one, he was afraid, that his mother would understand. She had not been out of her New England village, a place called briefly, with American economy of time, Clark, for many years, and her ideal of youthful femininity was still that which she had been herself. She had, if unconsciously, tried to mould Mr. Twist also on these lines, in spite of his being a boy, and owing to his extreme considerateness had not yet discovered her want of success. For years, indeed, she had been completely successful, and Mr. Twist arrived at and embarked on adolescence with the manners and ways of thinking of a perfect lady. Till he was nineteen he was educated at home, as it were at his mother's knee, at any rate within reach of that sacred limb, and she had taught him to reverence women; the reason given, or rather conveyed, being that he had had and still was having a mother. Which he was never to forget. In hours of temptation. In hours of danger. Mr. Twist, with his virginal white mind, used to wonder when the hours of temptation and of danger would begin, and rather wish, in the elegant leisure of his half-holidays, that they soon would so that he might show how determined he was to avoid them. For the ten years from his father's death till he went to Harvard, he lived with his mother and sister and was their assiduous attendant. His mother took the loss of his father badly. She didn't get over it, as widows sometimes do, and grow suddenly ten years younger. The sight of her, so black and broken, of so daily recurring a patience, of such frequent deliberate brightening for the sake of her children, kept Mr. Twist, as he grew up, from those thoughts which sometimes occur to young men and have to do with curves and dimples. He was too much absorbed by his mother to think on such lines. He was flooded with reverence and pity. Through her, all women were holy to him. They were all mothers, either actual or to be--after, of course, the proper ceremonies. They were all people for whom one leapt up and opened doors, placed chairs out of draughts, and fetched black shawls. On warm spring days, when he was about eighteen, he told himself earnestly that it would be a profanity, a terrible secret sinning, to think amorously--yes, he supposed the word was amorously--while there under his eyes, pervading his days from breakfast to bedtime, was that mourning womanhood, that lopped life, that example of brave doing without any hope or expectation except what might be expected or hoped from heaven. His mother was wonderful the way she bore things. There she was, with nothing left to look forward to in the way of pleasures except the resurrection, yet she did not complain. But after he had been at Harvard a year a change came over Mr. Twist. Not that he did not remain dutiful and affectionate, but he perceived that it was possible to peep round the corners of his mother, the rock-like corners that had so long jutted out between him and the view, and on the other side there seemed to be quite a lot of interesting things going on. He continued, however, only to eye most of them from afar, and the nearest he got to temptation while at Harvard was to read "Madame Bovary." After Harvard he was put into an engineering firm, for the Twists only had what would in English money be five thousand pounds a year, and belonged therefore, taking dollars as the measure of standing instead of birth, to the middle classes. Aunt Alice would have described such an income as ample means; Mrs. Twist called it straitened circumstances, and lived accordingly in a condition of perpetual self-sacrifice and doings without. She had a car, but it was only a car, not a Pierce-Arrow; and there was a bathroom to every bedroom, but there were only six bedrooms; and the house stood on a hill and looked over the most beautiful woods, but they were somebody else's woods. She felt, as she beheld the lives of those of her neighbours she let her eyes rest on, who were the millionaires dotted round about the charming environs of Clark, that she was indeed a typical widow,--remote, unfriended, melancholy, poor. Mrs. Twist might feel poor, but she was certainly comfortable. It was her daughter Edith's aim in life to secure for her the comfort and leisure necessary for any grief that wishes to be thorough. The house was run beautifully by Edith. There were three servants, of whom Edith was one. She was the lady's maid, the head cook, and the family butler. And Mr. Twist, till he went to Harvard, might be described as the page-boy, and afterwards in his vacations as the odd man about the house. Everything centred round their mother. She made a good deal of work, because of being so anxious not to give trouble. She wouldn't get out of the way of evil, but bleakly accepted it. She wouldn't get out of a draught, but sat in it till one or other of her children remembered they hadn't shut the door. When the inevitable cold was upon her and she was lamentably coughing, she would mention the door for the first time, and quietly say she hadn't liked to trouble them to shut it, they had seemed so busy with their own affairs. But after he had been in the engineering firm a little while, a further change came over Mr. Twist. He was there to make money, more money, for his mother. The first duty of an American male had descended on him. He wished earnestly to fulfil it creditably, in spite of his own tastes being so simple that his income of £5000--it was his, not his mother's, but it didn't feel as if it were--would have been more than sufficient for him. Out of engineering, then, was he to wrest all the things that might comfort his mother. He embarked on his career with as determined an expression on his mouth as so soft and friendly a mouth could be made to take, and he hadn't been in it long before he passed out altogether beyond the line of thinking his mother had laid down for him, and definitely grew up. The office was in New York, far enough away from Clark for him to be at home only for the Sundays. His mother put him to board with her brother Charles, a clergyman, the rector of the Church of Angelic Refreshment at the back of Tenth Street, and the teapot out of which Uncle Charles poured his tea at his hurried and uncomfortable meals--for he practised the austerities and had no wife--dribbled at its spout. Hold it as carefully as one might it dribbled at its spout, and added to the confused appearance of the table by staining the cloth afresh every time it was used. Mr. Twist, who below the nose was nothing but kindliness and generosity, his slightly weak chin, his lavishly-lipped mouth, being all amiability and affection, above the nose was quite different. In the middle came his nose, a nose that led him to improve himself, to read and meditate the poets, to be tenacious in following after the noble; and above were eyes in which simplicity sat side by side with appreciation; and above these was the forehead like a dome; and behind this forehead were inventions. He had not been definitely aware that he was inventive till he came into daily contact with Uncle Charles's teapot. In his boyhood he had often fixed up little things for Edith,--she was three years older than he, and was even then canning and preserving and ironing,--little simplifications and alleviations of her labour; but they had been just toys, things that had amused him to put together and that he forgot as soon as they were done. But the teapot revealed to him clearly what his forehead was there for. He would not and could not continue, being the soul of considerateness, to spill tea on Uncle Charles's table-cloth at every meal--they had tea at breakfast, and at luncheon, and at supper--and if he were thirsty he spilled it several times at every meal. For a long time he coaxed the teapot. He was thoughtful with it. He handled it with the most delicate precision. He gave it time. He never hurried it. He never filled it more than half full. And yet at the end of every pouring, out came the same devastating dribble on to the cloth. Then he went out and bought another teapot, one of a different pattern, with a curved spout instead of a straight one. The same thing happened. Then he went to Wanamaker's, and spent an hour in the teapot section trying one pattern after the other, patiently pouring water, provided by a tipped but languid and supercilious assistant, out of each different make of teapot into cups. They all dribbled. Then Mr. Twist went home and sat down and thought. He thought and thought, with his dome-like forehead resting on his long thin hand; and what came out of his forehead at last, sprang out of it as complete in every detail as Pallas Athene when she very similarly sprang, was that now well-known object on every breakfast table, Twist's Non-Trickler Teapot. In five years Mr. Twist made a fortune out of the teapot. His mother passed from her straitened circumstances to what she still would only call a modest competence, but what in England would have been regarded as wallowing in money. She left off being middle-class, and was received into the lower upper-class, the upper part of this upper-class being reserved for great names like Astor, Rockefeller and Vanderbilt. With these Mrs. Twist could not compete. She would no doubt some day, for Edward was only thirty and there were still coffee-pots; but what he was able to add to the family income helped her for a time to bear the loss of the elder Twist with less of bleakness in her resignation. It was as though an east wind veered round for a brief space a little to the south. Being naturally, however, inclined to deprecation, when every other reason for it was finally removed by her assiduous son she once more sought out and firmly laid hold of the departed Twist, and hung her cherished unhappiness up on him again as if he were a peg. When the novelty of having a great many bedrooms instead of six, and a great deal of food not to eat but to throw away, and ten times of everything else instead of only once, began to wear off, Mrs. Twist drooped again, and pulled the departed Twist out of the decent forgetfulness of the past, and he once more came to dinner in the form of his favourite dishes, and assisted in the family conversations by means of copious quotations from his alleged utterances. Mr. Twist's income was anything between sixty and seventy thousand pounds a year by the time the war broke out. Having invented and patented the simple device that kept the table-cloths of America, and indeed of Europe, spotless, all he had to do was to receive his percentages; sit still, in fact, and grow richer. But so much had he changed since his adolescence that he preferred to stick to his engineering and his office in New York rather than go home and be happy with his mother. She could not understand this behaviour in Edward. She understood his behaviour still less when he went off to France in 1915, himself equipping and giving the ambulance he drove. For a year his absence, and the dangers he was running, divided Mrs. Twist's sorrows into halves. Her position as a widow with an only son in danger touched the imagination of Clark, and she was never so much called upon as during this year. Now Edward was coming home for a rest, and there was a subdued flutter about her, rather like the stirring of the funeral plumes on the heads of hearse-horses. While he was crossing the Atlantic and Red-Crossing the Twinklers--this was one of Anna-Felicitas's epigrams and she tried Anna-Rose's patience severely by asking her not once but several times whether she didn't think it funny, whereas Anna-Rose disliked it from the first because of the suggestion it contained that Mr. Twist regarded what he did for them as works of mercy--while Mr. Twist was engaged in these activities, at his home in Clark all the things Edith could think of that he used most to like to eat were being got ready. There was an immense slaughtering of chickens, and baking and churning. Edith, who being now the head servant of many instead of three was more than double as hard-worked as she used to be, was on her feet those last few days without stopping. And she had to go and meet Edward in New York as well. Whether Mrs. Twist feared that he might not come straight home or whether it was what she said it was, that dear Edward must not be the only person on the boat who had no one to meet him, is not certain; what is certain is that when it came to the point, and Edith had to start, Mrs. Twist had difficulty in maintaining her usual brightness. Edith would be a whole day away, and perhaps a night if the _St. Luke_ got in late, for Clark is five hours' train journey from New York, and during all that time Mrs. Twist would be uncared for. She thought Edith surprisingly thoughtless to be so much pleased to go. She examined her flat and sinewy form with disapproval when she came in hatted and booted to say good-bye. No wonder nobody married Edith. And the money wouldn't help her either now--she was too old. She had missed her chances, poor thing. Mrs. Twist forgot the young man there had been once, years before, when Edward was still in the school room, who had almost married Edith. He was a lusty and enterprising young man, who had come to Clark to stay with a neighbour, and he had had nothing to do through a long vacation, and had taken to dropping in at all hours and interrupting Edith in her housekeeping; and Edith, even then completely flat but of a healthy young uprightness and bright of eyes and hair, had gone silly and forgotten how to cook, and had given her mother, who surely had enough sorrows already, an attack of indigestion. Mrs. Twist, however, had headed the young man off. Edith was too necessary to her at that time. She could not possibly lose Edith. And besides, the only way to avoid being a widow is not to marry. She told herself that she could not bear the thought of poor Edith's running the risk of an affliction similar to her own. If one hasn't a husband one cannot lose him, Mrs. Twist clearly saw. If Edith married she would certainly lose him unless he lost her. Marriage had only two solutions, she explained to her silent daughter,--she would not, of course, discuss with her that third one which America has so often flown to for solace and relief,--only two, said Mrs. Twist, and they were that either one died oneself, which wasn't exactly a happy thing, or the other one did. It was only a question of time before one of the married was left alone to mourn. Marriage began rosily no doubt, but it always ended black. "And think of my having to see you like _this_" she said, with a gesture indicating her sad dress. Edith was intimidated; and the young man presently went away whistling. He was the only one. Mrs. Twist had no more trouble. He passed entirely from her mind; and as she looked at Edith dressed for going to meet Edward in the clothes she went to church in on Sundays, she unconsciously felt a faint contempt for a woman who had had so much time to get married in and yet had never achieved it. She herself had been married at twenty; and her hair even now, after all she had gone through, was hardly more gray than Edith's. "Your hat's crooked," she said, when Edith straightened herself after bending down to kiss her good-bye; and then, after all unable to bear the idea of being left alone while Edith, with that pleased face, went off to New York to see Edward before she did, she asked her, if she still had a minute to spare, to help her to the sofa, because she felt faint. "I expect the excitement has been too much for me," she murmured, lying down and shutting her eyes; and Edith, disciplined in affection and attentiveness, immediately took off her hat and settled down to getting her mother well again in time for Edward. Which is why nobody met Mr. Twist on his arrival in New York, and he accordingly did things, as will be seen, which he mightn't otherwise have done. CHAPTER IX When the _St. Luke_ was so near its journey's end that people were packing up, and the word Nantucket was frequent in the scraps of talk the twins heard, they woke up from the unworried condition of mind Mr. Twist's kindness and the dreamy monotony of the days had produced in them, and began to consider their prospects with more attention. This attention soon resulted in anxiety. Anna-Rose showed hers by being irritable. Anna-Felicitas didn't show hers at all. It was all very well, so long as they were far away from America and never quite sure that a submarine mightn't settle their future for them once and for all, to feel big, vague, heroic things about a new life and a new world and they two Twinklers going to conquer it; but when the new world was really upon them, and the new life, with all the multitudinous details that would have to be tackled, going to begin in a few hours, their hearts became uneasy and sank within them. England hadn't liked them. Suppose America didn't like them either? Uncle Arthur hadn't liked them. Suppose Uncle Arthur's friends didn't like them either? Their hearts sank to, and remained in, their boots. Round Anna-Rose's waist, safely concealed beneath her skirt from what Anna-Felicitas called the predatory instincts of their fellow-passengers, was a chamois-leather bag containing their passports, a letter to the bank where their £200 was, a letter to those friends of Uncle Arthur's who were to be tried first, a letter to those other friends of his who were to be the second line of defence supposing the first one failed, and ten pounds in two £5 notes. Uncle Arthur, grievously grumbling, and having previously used in bed most of those vulgar words that made Aunt Alice so miserable, had given Anna-Rose one of the £5 notes for the extra expenses of the journey till, in New York, she should be able to draw on the £200, though what expenses there could be for a couple of girls whose passage was paid Uncle Arthur was damned, he alleged, if he knew; and Aunt Alice had secretly added the other. This was all Anna-Rose's ready money, and it would have to be changed into dollars before reaching New York so as to be ready for emergencies on arrival. She judged from the growing restlessness of the passengers that it would soon be time to go and change it. How many dollars ought she to get? Mr. Twist was absent, packing his things. She ought to have asked him long ago, but they seemed so suddenly to have reached the end of their journey. Only yesterday there was the same old limitless sea everywhere, the same old feeling that they were never going to arrive. Now the waves had all gone, and one could actually see land. The New World. The place all their happiness or unhappiness would depend on. She laid hold of Anna-Felicitas, who was walking about just as if she had never been prostrate on a deck-chair in her life, and was going to say something appropriate and encouraging on the Christopher and Columbus lines; but Anna-Felicitas, who had been pondering the £5 notes problem, wouldn't listen. "A dollar," said Anna-Felicitas, worrying it out, "isn't like a shilling or a mark, but on the other hand neither is it like a pound." "No," said Anna-Rose, brought back to her immediate business. "It's four times more than one, and five times less than the other," said Anna-Felicitas. "That's how you've got to count. That's what Aunt Alice said." "Yes. And then there's the exchange," said Anna-Rose, frowning. "As if it wasn't complicated enough already, there's the exchange. Uncle Arthur said we weren't to forget that." Anna-Felicitas wanted to know what was meant by the exchange, and Anna-Rose, unwilling to admit ignorance to Anna-Felicitas, who had to be kept in her proper place, especially when one was just getting to America and she might easily become above herself, said that it was something that varied. ("The exchange, you know, varies," Uncle Arthur had said when he gave her the £5 note. "You must keep your eye on the variations." Anna-Rose was all eagerness to keep her eye on them, if only she had known what and where they were. But one never asked questions of Uncle Arthur. His answers, if one did, were confined to expressions of anger and amazement that one didn't, at one's age, already know.) "Oh," said Anna-Felicitas, for a moment glancing at Anna-Rose out of the corner of her eye, considerately not pressing her further. "I wish Mr. Twist would come," said Anna-Rose uneasily, looking in the direction he usually appeared from. "We won't always have _him_" remarked Anna-Felicitas. "I never said we would," said Anna-Rose shortly. The young lady of the nails appeared at that moment in a hat so gorgeous that the twins stopped dead to stare. She had a veil on and white gloves, and looked as if she were going for a walk in Fifth Avenue the very next minute. "Perhaps we ought to be getting ready too," said Anna-Felicitas. "Yes. I wish Mr. Twist would come--" "Perhaps we'd better begin and practise not having Mr. Twist," said Anna-Felicitas, as one who addresses nobody specially and means nothing in particular. "If anybody's got to practise that, it'll be you," said Anna-Rose. "There'll be no one to roll you up in rugs now, remember. I won't." "But I don't want to be rolled up in rugs," said Anna-Felicitas mildly. "I shall be walking about New York." "Oh, _you'll_ see," said Anna-Rose irritably. She was worried about the dollars. She was worried about the tipping, and the luggage, and the arrival, and Uncle Arthur's friends, whose names were Mr. and Mrs. Clouston K. Sack; so naturally she was irritable. One is. And nobody knew and understood this better than Anna-Felicitas. "Let's go and put on our hats and get ready," she said, after a moment's pause during which she wondered whether, in the interests of Anna-Rose's restoration to calm, she mightn't have to be sick again. She did hope she wouldn't have to. She had supposed she had done with that. It is true there were now no waves, but she knew she had only to go near the engines and smell the oil. "Let's go and put on our hats," she suggested, slipping her hand through Anna-Rose's arm. Anna-Rose let herself be led away, and they went to their cabin; and when they came out of it half an hour later, no longer with that bald look their caps had given them, the sun catching the little rings of pale gold hair that showed for the first time, and clad, instead of in the disreputable jerseys that they loved, in neat black coats and skirts--for they still wore mourning when properly dressed--with everything exactly as Aunt Alice had directed for their arrival, the young men of the second class could hardly believe their eyes. "You'll excuse me saying so," said one of them to Anna-Felicitas as she passed him, "but you're looking very well to-day." "I expect that's because I _am_ well," said Anna-Felicitas amiably. Mr. Twist, when he saw them, threw up his hands and ejaculated "My!" "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas, who was herself puzzled by the difference the clothes had made in Anna-Rose after ten solid days of cap and jersey, "I think it's our hats. They do somehow seem very splendid." "Splendid?" echoed Mr. Twist. "Why, they'd make the very angels jealous, and get pulling off their haloes and kicking them over the edge of heaven." "What is so wonderful is that Aunt Alice should ever have squeezed them out of Uncle Arthur," said Anna-Rose, gazing lost in admiration at Anna-Felicitas. "He didn't disgorge nice hats easily at all." And one of the German ladies muttered to the other, as her eye fell on Anna-Felicitas, "_Ja, ja, die hat Rasse._" And it was only because it was the other German lady's hair that spent the night in a different part of the cabin from her head and had been seen doing it by Anna-Felicitas, that she cavilled and was grudging. "_Gewiss_," she muttered back, "_bis auf der Nase. Die Nase aber entfremdet mich. Die ist keine echte Junkernase_." So that the Twinklers had quite a success, and their hearts came a little way out of their boots; only a little way, though, for there were the Clouston K. Sacks looming bigger into their lives every minute now. Really it was a beautiful day, and, as Aunt Alice used to say, that does make such a difference. A clear pale loveliness of light lay over New York, and there was a funny sprightliness in the air, a delicate dry crispness. The trees on the shore, when they got close, were delicate too--delicate pale gold, and green, and brown, and they seemed so composed and calm, the twins thought, standing there quietly after the upheavals and fidgetiness of the Atlantic. New York was well into the Fall, the time of year when it gets nearest to beauty. The beauty was entirely in the atmosphere, and the lights and shadows it made. It was like an exquisite veil flung over an ugly woman, hiding, softening, encouraging hopes. Everybody on the ship was crowding eagerly to the sides. Everybody was exhilarated, and excited, and ready to be friendly and talkative. They all waved whenever another boat passed. Those who knew America pointed out the landmarks to those who didn't. Mr. Twist pointed them out to the twins, and so did the young man who had remarked favourably on Anna-Felicitas's looks, and as they did it simultaneously and there was so much to look at and so many boats to wave to, it wasn't till they had actually got to the statue of Liberty that Anna-Rose remembered her £10 and the dollars. The young man was saying how much the statue of Liberty had cost, and the word dollars made Anna-Rose turn with a jump to Mr. Twist. "Oh," she exclaimed, clutching at her chamois leather bag where it very visibly bulged out beneath her waistband, "I forgot--I must get change. And how much do you think we ought to tip the stewardess? I've never tipped anybody yet ever, and I wish--I wish I hadn't to." She got quite red. It seemed to her dreadful to offer money to someone so much older than herself and who till almost that very morning had treated her and Anna-Felicitas like the naughtiest of tiresome children. Surely she would be most offended at being tipped by people such years younger than herself? Mr. Twist thought not. "A dollar," said the young man. "One dollar. That's the figure. Not a cent more, or you girls'll get inflating prices and Wall Street'll bust up." Anna-Rose, not heeding him and clutching nervously the place where her bag was, told Mr. Twist that the stewardess hadn't seemed to mind them quite so much last night, and still less that morning, and perhaps some little memento--something that wasn't money-- "Give her those caps of yours," said the young man, bursting into hilarity; but indeed it wasn't his fault that he was a low young man. Mr. Twist, shutting him out of the conversation by interposing a shoulder, told Anna-Rose he had noticed stewardesses, and also stewards, softened when journeys drew near their end, but that it didn't mean they wanted mementos. They wanted money; and he would do the tipping for her if she liked. Anna-Rose jumped at it. This tipping of the stewardess had haunted her at intervals throughout the journey whenever she woke up at night. She felt that, not having yet in her life tipped anybody, it was very hard that she couldn't begin with somebody more her own size. "Then if you don't mind coming behind the funnel," she said, "I can give you my £5 notes, and perhaps you would get them changed for me and deduct what you think the stewardess ought to have." Mr. Twist, and also Anna-Felicitas, who wasn't allowed to stay behind with the exuberant young man though she was quite unconscious of his presence, went with Anna-Rose behind the funnel, where after a great deal of private fumbling, her back turned to them, she produced the two much-crumpled £5 notes. "The steward ought to have something too," said Mr. Twist. "Oh, I'd be glad if you'd do him as well," said Anna-Rose eagerly. "I don't think I _could_ offer him a tip. He has been so fatherly to us. And imagine offering to tip one's father." Mr. Twist laughed, and said she would get over this feeling in time. He promised to do what was right, and to make it clear that the tips he bestowed were Twinkler tips; and presently he came back with messages of thanks from the tipped--such polite ones from the stewardess that the twins were astonished--and gave Anna-Rose a packet of very dirty-looking slices of green paper, which were dollar bills, he said, besides a variety of strange coins which he spread out on a ledge and explained to her. "The exchange was favourable to you to-day," said Mr. Twist, counting out the money. "How nice of it," said Anna-Rose politely. "Did you keep your eye on its variations?" she added a little loudly, with a view to rousing respect in Anna-Felicitas who was lounging against a seat and showing a total absence of every kind of appropriate emotion. "Certainly," said Mr. Twist after a slight pause. "I kept both my eyes on all of them." Mr. Twist had, it appeared, presented the steward and stewardess each with a dollar on behalf of the Misses Twinkler, but because the exchange was so favourable this had made no difference to the £5 notes. Reducing each £5 note into German marks, which was the way the Twinklers, in spite of a year in England, still dealt in their heads with money before they could get a clear idea of it, there would have been two hundred marks; and as it took, roughly, four marks to make a dollar, the two hundred marks would have to be divided by four; which, leaving aside that extra complication of variations in the exchange, and regarding the exchange for a moment and for purposes of simplification as keeping quiet for a bit and resting, should produce, also roughly, said Anna-Rose a little out of breath as she got to the end of her calculation, fifty dollars. "Correct," said Mr. Twist, who had listened with respectful attention. "Here they are." "I said roughly," said Anna-Rose. "It can't be _exactly_ fifty dollars. The tips anyhow would alter that." "Yes, but you forget the exchange." Anna-Rose was silent. She didn't want to go into that before Anna-Felicitas. Of the two, she was supposed to be the least bad at sums. Their mother had put it that way, refusing to say, as Anna-Rose industriously tried to trap her into saying, that she was the better of the two. But even so, the difference entitled her to authority on the subject with Anna-Felicitas, and by dint of doing all her calculations roughly, as she was careful to describe her method, she allowed room for withdrawal and escape where otherwise the inflexibility of figures might have caught her tight and held her down while Anna-Felicitas looked on and was unable to respect her. Evidently the exchange was something beneficent. She decided to rejoice in it in silence, accept whatever it did, and refrain from asking questions. "So I did. Of course. The exchange," she said, after a little. She gathered up the dollar bills and began packing them into her bag. They wouldn't all go in, and she had to put the rest into her pocket, for which also there were too many; but she refused Anna-Felicitas's offer to put some of them in hers on the ground that sooner or later she would be sure to forget they weren't her handkerchief and would blow her nose with them. "Thank you very much for being so kind," she said to Mr. Twist, as she stuffed her pocket full and tried by vigorous patting to get it to look inconspicuous. "We're never going to forget you, Anna-F. and me. We'll write to you often, and we'll come and see you as often as you like." "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas dreamily, as she watched the shore of Long Island sliding past. "Of course you've got your relations, but relations soon pall, and you may be quite glad after a while of a little fresh blood." Mr. Twist thought this very likely, and agreed with several other things Anna-Felicitas, generalizing from Uncle Arthur, said about relations, again with that air of addressing nobody specially and meaning nothing in particular, while Anna-Rose wrestled with the obesity of her pocket. "Whether you come to see me or not," said Mr. Twist, whose misgivings as to the effect of the Twinklers on his mother grew rather than subsided, "I shall certainly come to see you." "Perhaps Mr. Sack won't allow followers," said Anna-Felicitas, her eyes far away. "Uncle Arthur didn't. He wouldn't let the maids have any, so they had to go out and do the following themselves. We had a follower once, didn't we, Anna-R.?" she continued her voice pensive and reminiscent. "He was a friend of Uncle Arthur's. Quite old. At least thirty or forty. I shouldn't have thought he _could_ follow. But he did. And he used to come home to tea with Uncle Arthur and produce boxes of chocolate for us out of his pockets when Uncle Arthur wasn't looking. We ate them and felt perfectly well disposed toward him till one day he tried to kiss one of us--I forget which. And that, combined with the chocolates, revealed him in his true colours as a follower, and we told him they weren't allowed in that house and urged him to go to some place where they were, or he would certainly be overtaken by Uncle Arthur's vengeance, and we said how surprised we were, because he was so old and we didn't know followers were as old as that ever." "It seemed a very shady thing," said Anna-Rose, having subdued the swollenness of her pocket, "to eat his chocolates and then not want to kiss him, but we don't hold with kissing, Anna-F. and me. Still, we were full of his chocolates; there was no getting away from that. So we talked it over after he had gone, and decided that next day when he came we'd tell him he might kiss one of us if he still wanted to, and we drew lots which it was to be, and it was me, and I filled myself to the brim with chocolates so as to feel grateful enough to bear it, but he didn't come." "No," said Anna-Felicitas. "He didn't come again for a long while, and when he did there was no follow left in him. Quite the contrary." Mr. Twist listened with the more interest to this story because it was the first time Anna-Felicitas had talked since he knew her. He was used to the inspiriting and voluble conversation of Anna-Rose who had looked upon him as her best friend since the day he had wiped up her tears; but Anna-Felicitas had been too unwell to talk. She had uttered languid and brief observations from time to time with her eyes shut and her head lolling loosely on her neck, but this was the first time she had been, as it were, an ordinary human being, standing upright on her feet, walking about, looking intelligently if pensively at the scenery, and in a condition of affable readiness, it appeared, to converse. Mr. Twist was a born mother. The more trouble he was given the more attached he became. He had rolled Anna-Felicitas up in rugs so often that to be not going to roll her up any more was depressing to him. He was beginning to perceive this motherliness in him himself, and he gazed through his spectacles at Anna-Felicitas while she sketched the rise and fall of the follower, and wondered with an almost painful solicitude what her fate would be in the hands of the Clouston Sacks. Equally he wondered as to the other one's fate; for he could not think of one Twinkler without thinking of the other. They were inextricably mixed together in the impression they had produced on him, and they dwelt together in his thoughts as one person called, generally, Twinklers. He stood gazing at them, his motherly instincts uppermost, his hearty yearning over them now that the hour of parting was so near and his carefully tended chickens were going to be torn from beneath his wing. Mr. Twist was domestic. He was affectionate. He would have loved, though he had never known it, the sensation of pattering feet about his house, and small hands clinging to the apron he would never wear. And it was entirely characteristic of him that his invention, the invention that brought him his fortune, should have had to do with a teapot. But if his heart was uneasy within him at the prospect of parting from his charges their hearts were equally uneasy, though not in the same way. The very name of Clouston K. Sack was repugnant to Anna-Rose; and Anna-Felicitas, less quick at disliking, turned it over cautiously in her mind as one who turns over an unknown and distasteful object with the nose of his umbrella. Even she couldn't quite believe that any good thing could come out of a name like that, especially when it had got into their lives through Uncle Arthur. Mr. Twist had never heard of the Clouston Sacks, which made Anna-Rose still more distrustful. She wasn't in the least encouraged when he explained the bigness of America and that nobody in it ever knew everybody--she just said that everybody had heard of Mr. Roosevelt, and her heart was too doubtful within her even to mind being told, as he did immediately tell her within ear-shot of Anna-Felicitas, that her reply was unreasonable. Just at the end, as they were all three straining their eyes, no one with more anxiety than Mr. Twist, to try and guess which of the crowd on the landing-stage were the Clouston Sacks, they passed on their other side the _Vaterland_, the great interned German liner at its moorings, and the young man who had previously been so very familiar, as Anna-Rose said, but who was only, Mr. Twist explained, being American, came hurrying boldly up. "You mustn't miss this," he said to Anna-Felicitas, actually seizing her by the arm. "Here's something that'll make you feel home-like right away." And he led her off, and would have dragged her off but for Anna-Felicitas's perfect non-resistance. "He _is_ being familiar," said Anna-Rose to Mr. Twist, turning very red and following quickly after him. "That's not just being American. Everybody decent knows that if there's any laying hold of people's arms to be done one begins with the eldest sister." "Perhaps he doesn't realize that you _are_ the elder," said Mr. Twist. "Strangers judge, roughly, by size." "I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with her," said Anna-Rose, not heeding his consolations. "It isn't a sinecure, I assure you, being left sole guardian and protector of somebody as pretty as all that. And the worst of it is she's going on getting prettier. She hasn't nearly come to the end of what she can do in that direction. I see it growing on her. Every Sunday she's inches prettier than she was the Sunday before. And wherever I take her to live, and however out of the way it is, I'm sure the path to our front door is going to be black with suitors." This dreadful picture so much perturbed her, and she looked up at Mr. Twist with such worried eyes, that he couldn't refrain from patting her on her shoulder. "There, there," said Mr. Twist, and he begged her to be sure to let him know directly she was in the least difficulty, or even perplexity,--"about the suitors, for instance, or anything else. You must let me be of some use in the world, you know," he said. "But we shouldn't like it at all if we thought you were practising being useful on us," said Anna-Rose "It's wholly foreign to our natures to enjoy being the objects of anybody's philanthropy." "Now I just wonder where you get all your long words from," said Mr. Twist soothingly; and Anna-Rose laughed, and there was only one dimple in the Twinkler family and Anna-Rose had got it. "What do you want to get looking at _that_ for?" she asked Anna-Felicitas, when she had edged through the crowd staring at the _Vaterland_, and got to where Anna-Felicitas stood listening abstractedly to the fireworks of American slang the young man was treating her to,--that terse, surprising, swift hitting-of-the-nail-on-the-head form of speech which she was hearing in such abundance for the first time. The American passengers appeared one and all to be rejoicing over the impotence of the great ship. Every one of them seemed to be violently pro-Ally, derisively conjecturing the feelings of the _Vaterland_ as every day under her very nose British ships arrived and departed and presently arrived again,--the same ships she had seen depart coming back unharmed, unhindered by her country's submarines. Only the two German ladies, once more ignoring their American allegiance, looked angry. It was incredible to them, simply _unfassbar_ as they said in their thoughts, that any nation should dare inconvenience Germans, should dare lay a finger, even the merest friendliest detaining one, on anything belonging to the mighty, the inviolable Empire. Well, these Americans, these dollar-grubbing Yankees, would soon get taught a sharp, deserved lesson--but at this point they suddenly remembered they were Americans themselves, and pulled up their thoughts violently, as it were, on their haunches. They turned, however, bitterly to the Twinkler girl as she pushed her way through to her sister,--those renegade Junkers, those contemptible little apostates--and asked her, after hearing her question to Anna-Felicitas, with an extraordinary breaking out of pent-up emotion where she, then, supposed she would have been at that moment if it hadn't been for Germany. "Not here I think," said Anna-Rose, instantly and fatally ready as she always was to answer back and attempt what she called reasoned conversation. "There wouldn't have been a war, so of course I wouldn't have been here." "Why, you wouldn't so much as have been born without Germany," said the lady whose hair came off, with difficulty controlling a desire to shake this insolent and perverted Junker who could repeat the infamous English lie as to who began the war. "You owe your very existence to Germany. You should be giving thanks to her on your knees for her gift to you of life, instead of jeering at this representative--" she flung a finger out toward the _Vaterland_--"this patient and dignified-in -temporary-misfortune representative, of her power." "I wasn't jeering," said Anna-Rose, defending herself and clutching at Anna-Felicitas's sleeve to pull her away. "You wouldn't have had a father at all but for Germany," said the other lady, the one whose hair grew. "And perhaps you will tell me," said the first one, "where you would have been _then_." "I don't believe," said Anna-Rose, her nose in the air, "I don't believe I'd have ever been at a loss for a father." The ladies, left speechless a moment by the arrogance as well as several other things about this answer gave Anna-Rose an opportunity for further reasoning with them, which she was unable to resist. "There are lots of fathers," she said, "in England, who would I'm sure have been delighted to take me on if Germany had failed me." "England!" "Take you on!" "An English father for you? For a subject of the King of Prussia?" "I--I'm afraid I--I'm going to be sick," gasped Anna-Felicitas suddenly. "You're never going to be sick in this bit of bathwater, Miss Twinkler?" exclaimed the young man, with the instant ungrudging admiration of one who is confronted by real talent. "My, what a gift!" Anna-Rose darted at Anna-Felicitas's drooping head, that which she had been going to say back to the German ladies dissolving on her tongue. "Oh no--_no_--" she wailed. "Oh _no_--not in your best hat, Columbus darling--you can't--it's not done--and your hat'll shake off into the water, and then there'll only be one between us and we shall never be able to go out paying calls and things at the same time--come away and sit down--Mr. Twist--Mr. Twist--oh, please come--" Anna-Felicitas allowed herself to be led away, just in time as she murmured, and sat down on the nearest seat and shut her eyes. She was thankful Anna-Rose's attention had been diverted to her so instantly, for it would have been very difficult to be sick with the ship as quiet as one's own bedroom. Nothing short of the engine-room could have made her sick now. She sat keeping her eyes shut and Anna-Rose's attention riveted, wondering what she would do when there was no ship and Anna-Rose was on the verge of hasty and unfortunate argument. Would she have to learn to faint? But that would terrify poor Christopher so dreadfully. Anna-Felicitas pondered, her eyes shut, on this situation. Up to now in her life she had always found that situations solved themselves. Given time. And sometimes a little assistance. So, no doubt, would this one. Anna-Rose would ripen and mellow. The German ladies would depart hence and be no more seen; and it was unlikely she and Anna-Rose would meet at such close quarters as a ship's cabin any persons so peculiarly and unusually afflicting again. All situations solved themselves; or, if they showed signs of not going to, one adopted the gentle methods that helped them to get solved. Early in life she had discovered that objects which cannot be removed or climbed over can be walked round. A little deviousness, and the thing was done. She herself had in the most masterly manner when she was four escaped church-going for several years by a simple method, that seemed to her looking back very like an inspiration, of getting round it. She had never objected to going, had never put into words the powerful if vague dislike with which it filled her when Sunday after Sunday she had to go and dangle her legs helplessly for two hours from the chair she was put on in the enclosed pew reserved for the _hohe gräfliche Herrschaften_ from the Slosh. Her father, a strict observer of the correct and a pious believer in God for other people, attended Divine Service as regularly as he wound the clocks and paid the accounts. He _repräsentierte_, as the German phrase went; and his wife and children were expected to _repräsentieren_ too. Which they did uncomplainingly; for when one has to do with determined husbands and fathers it is quickest not to complain. But the pins and needles that patient child endured, Anna-Felicitas remembered, looking back through the years at the bunched-up figure on the chair as at a stranger, were something awful. The edge of the chair just caught her legs in the pins and needles place. If she had been a little bigger or a little smaller it wouldn't have happened; as it was, St. Paul wrestling with beasts at Ephesus wasn't more heroic than Anna-Felicitas perceived that distant child to have been, silently Sunday after Sunday bearing her legs. Then one Sunday something snapped inside her, and she heard her own voice floating out into the void above the heads of the mumbling worshippers, and it said with a terrible distinctness in a sort of monotonous wail: "I only had a cold potato for breakfast,"--and a second time, in the breathless suspension of mumbling that followed upon this: "I only had a cold potato for breakfast,"--and a third time she opened her mouth to repeat the outrageous statement, regardless of her mother's startled hand laid on her arm, and of Anna-Rose's petrified stare, and of the lifted faces of the congregation, and of the bent, scandalized brows of the pastor,--impelled by something that possessed her, unable to do anything but obey it; but her father, a man of deeds, rose up in his place, took her in his arms, and carried her down the stairs and out of the church. And the minute she found herself really rescued, and out where the sun and wind, her well-known friends, were larking about among the tombstones, she laid her cheek as affectionately against her father's head as if she were a daughter to be proud of, and would have purred if she had had had a purr as loudly as the most satisfied and virtuous of cats. "_Mein Kind_," said her father, standing her up on a convenient tomb so that her eyes were level with his, "is it then true about the cold potato?" "No," said Anna-Felicitas patting his face, pleased at what her legs were feeling like again. "_Mein Kind_," said her father, "do you not know it is wrong to lie?" "No," said Anna-Felicitas placidly, the heavenly blue of her eyes, gazing straight into his, exactly like the mild sky above the trees. "No?" echoed her father, staring at her. "But, _Kind_, you know what a lie is?" "No," said Anna-Felicitas, gazing at him tenderly in her satisfaction at being restored to a decent pair of legs; and as he still stood staring at her she put her hands one on each of his cheeks and squeezed his face together and murmured, "Oh, I do _love_ you." CHAPTER X Lost in the contemplation of a distant past Anna-Felicitas sat with her eyes shut long after she needn't have. She had forgotten about the German ladies, and America, and the future so instantly pressing on her, and was away on the shores of the Baltic again, where bits of amber where washed up after a storm, and the pale rushes grew in shallow sunny water that was hardly salt, and the air seemed for ever sweet with lilac. All the cottage gardens in the little village that clustered round a clearing in the trees had lilac bushes in them, for there was something in the soil that made lilacs be more wonderful there than anywhere else in the world, and in May the whole forest as far as one could walk was soaked with the smell of it. After rain on a May evening, what a wonder it was; what a wonder, that running down the black, oozing forest paths between wet pine stems, out on to the shore to look at the sun setting below the great sullen clouds of the afternoon over on one's left where Denmark was, and that lifting of one's face to the exquisite mingling of the delicate sea smell and the lilac. And then there was home to come back to when the forest began to look too dark and its deep silence made one's flesh creep--home, and a light in the window where ones mother was. Incredible the security of those days, the safe warmth of them, the careless roominess.... "You know if you _could_ manage to feel a little better, Anna-F.," said Anna-Rose's voice entreatingly in her ear, "it's time we began to get off this ship." Anna-Felicitas opened her eyes, and got up all confused and self-reproachful. Everybody had melted away from that part of the deck except herself and Anna-Rose. The ship was lying quiet at last alongside the wharf. She had over-done being ill this time. She was ashamed of herself for having wandered off so easily and comfortably into the past, and left poor Christopher alone in the difficult present. "I'm so sorry," she said smiling apologetically, and giving her hat a tug of determination symbolic of her being ready for anything, especially America. "I think I must have gone to sleep. Have you--" she hesitated and dropped her voice. "Are they--are the Clouston Sacks visible yet?" "I thought I saw them," said Anna-Rose, dropping her voice too, and looking round uneasily over her shoulder. "I'd have come here sooner to see how you were getting on, but I thought I saw them, and they looked so like what I think they will look like that I went into our cabin again for a few minutes. But it wasn't them. They've found the people they were after, and have gone." "There's a great crowd waiting," said Mr. Twist, coming up, "and I think we ought to go and look for your friends. As you don't know what they're like and they don't know what you're like it may be difficult. Heaven forbid," he continued, "that I should hurry you, but I have to catch a train if I'm to get home to-night, and I don't intend to catch it until I've handed you over safely to the Sacks." "Those Sacks--" began Anna-Rose; and then she finished irrelevantly by remarking that it was the details of life that were discouraging,--from which Anna Felicitas knew that Christopher's heart was once more in her boots. "Come along," said Mr. Twist, urging them to wards the gangway. "Anything you've got to say about life I shall be glad to hear, but at some time when we're more at leisure." It had never occurred to either of the twins that the Clouston Sacks would not meet them. They had taken it for granted from the beginning that some form of Sack, either male or female, or at least their plenipotentiary, would be on the wharf to take them away to the Sack lair, as Anna-Felicitas alluded to the family mansion. It was, they knew, in Boston, but Boston conveyed nothing to them. Only Mr. Twist knew how far away it was. He had always supposed the Sacks would meet their young charges, stay that night in New York, and continue on to Boston next day. The twins were so certain they would be met that Mr. Twist was certain too. He had concluded, with a growingly empty feeling in his heart as the time of separation drew near, that all that now remained for him to do on behalf of the Twinklers was to hand them over to the Sacks. And then leave them. And then go home to that mother he loved but had for some time known he didn't like,--go home a bereft and lonely man. But out of the crowd on the pier, any of whom might have been Sacks for all the Twinklers, eagerly scanning faces, knew, nobody in fact seemed to be Sacks. At least, nobody came forward and said, "Are you the Twinklers?" Other people fell into each other's arms; the air was full of the noise of kissing, the loud legitimate kissing of relations; but nobody took any notice of the twins. For a long while they stood waiting. Their luggage was examined, and Mr. Twist's luggage--only his was baggage--was examined, and the kissing and exclaiming crowd swayed hither and thither, and broke up into groups, and was shot through by interviewers, and got packed off into taxis, and grew thinner and thinner, and at last was so thin that the concealment of the Sacks in it was no longer possible. There were no Sacks. To the last few groups of people left in the great glass-roofed hall piled with bags of wool and sulphur, Mr. Twist went up boldly and asked if they were intending to meet some young ladies called Twinkler. His tone, owing to perturbation, was rather more than one of inquiry, it almost sounded menacing; and the answers he got were cold. He wandered about uncertainly from group to group, his soft felt hat on the back of his head and his brow getting more and more puckered; and Anna-Rose, anxiously looking on from afar, became impatient at last of these refusals of everybody to be Sacks, and thought that perhaps Mr. Twist wasn't making himself clear. Impetuous by nature and little given to calm waiting, she approached a group on her own account and asked them, enunciating her words very clearly, whether they were by any chance Mr. and Mrs. Clouston Sack. The group, which was entirely female, stared round and down at her in astonished silence, and shook its heads; and as she saw Mr. Twist being turned away for the fifth time in the distance a wave of red despair came over her, and she said, reproach in her voice and tears in her eyes, "But _somebody's_ got to be the Sacks." Upon which the group she was addressing stared at her in a more astonished silence than ever. Mr. Twist came up mopping his brow and took he arm and led her back to Anna-Felicitas, who was taking care of the luggage and had sat down philosophically to await developments on a bag of sulphur. She didn't yet know what sulphur looked like on one's clothes after one has sat on it, and smiled cheerfully and encouragingly at Anna-Rose as she came towards her. "There _are_ no Sacks," said Anna-Rose, facing the truth. "It's exactly like that Uncle Arthur of yours," said Mr. Twist, mopping his forehead and speaking almost vindictively. "Exactly like him. A man like that _would_ have the sort of friends that don't meet one." "Well, we must do without the Sacks," said Anna-Felicitas, rising from the sulphur bag with the look of serene courage that can only dwell on the face of one who is free from care as to what has happened to him behind. "And it isn't," she added sweetly to Mr. Twist, "as if we hadn't got _you_." "Yes," said Anna-Rose, suddenly seeing daylight. "Of course. What do Sacks really matter? I mean, for a day or two? You'll take us somewhere where we can wait till we've found them." "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "Some nice quiet old-fashioned coffee-house sort of place, like the one the Brontes went to in St. Paul's Churchyard the first time they were launched into the world." "Yes. Some inexpensive place." "Suited to the frugal." "Because although we've got £200, even that will need watching or it will go." During this conversation Mr. Twist stood mopping his forehead. As often as he mopped it it broke out afresh and had to be mopped again. They were the only passengers left now, and had become very conspicuous. He couldn't but perceive that a group of officials with grim, locked-up-looking mouths were eyeing him and the Twinklers attentively. Always zealous in the cause of virtue, America provided her wharves and landing-places with officials specially appointed to guard the purity of family life. Family life obviously cannot be pure without a marriage being either in it or having at some time or other passed through it. The officials engaged in eyeing Mr. Twist and the twins were all married themselves, and were well acquainted with that awful purity. But eye the Twist and Twinkler party as they might, they could see no trace of marriage anywhere about it. On the contrary, the man of the party looked so uneasy that it amounted to conscious illegality. "Sisters?" said the chief official, stepping forward abruptly. "Eh?" said Mr. Twist, pausing in the wiping of his forehead. "These here--" said the official, jerking his thumb at the twins. "They your sisters?" "No," said Mr. Twist stiffly. "No," said the twins, with one voice. "Do you think we look like him?" "Daughters?" "No," said Mr. Twist stiffly. "No," said the twins, with an ever greater vigour of repudiation. "You _can't_ really think we look as much like him as all that?" "Wife and sister-in-law?" Then the Twinklers laughed. They laughed aloud, even Anna-Rose forgetting her cares for a moment. But they were flattered, because it was at least a proof that they looked thoroughly grown-up. "Then if they ain't your sisters, and they ain't your daughters, and they ain't your wife and sister-in-law, p'raps you'll tell me--" "These young ladies are not anything at all of mine, sir," said Mr. Twist vehemently. "Don't you get sir-ing me, now," said the official sticking out his jaw. "This is a free country, and I'll have no darned cheek." "These young ladies in no way belong to me," said Mr. Twist more patiently. "They're my friends." "Oh. Friends, are they? Then p'raps you'll tell me what you're going to do with them next." "Do with them?" repeated Mr. Twist, as he stared with puckered brow at the twins. "That's exactly what I wish I knew." The official scanned him from head to foot with triumphant contempt. He had got one of them, anyhow. He felt quite refreshed already. There had been a slump in sinners the past week, and he was as full of suppressed energy and as much tormented by it as an unexercised and overfed horse. "Step this way," he ordered curtly, waving Mr. Twist towards a wooden erection that was apparently an office. "Oh, don't you worry about the girls," he added, as his prey seemed disinclined to leave them. But Mr. Twist did worry. He saw Ellis Island looming up behind the two figures that were looking on in an astonishment that had not yet had time to turn into dismay as he was marched off out of sight. "I'll be back in a minute," he called over his shoulder. "That's as may be," remarked the official grimly. But he was back; if not in a minute in a little more than five minutes, still accompanied by the official, but an official magically changed into tameness and amiability, desirous to help, instructing his inferiors to carry Mr. Twist's and the young ladies' baggage to a taxi. It was the teapot that had saved him,--that blessed teapot that was always protruding itself benevolently into his life. Mr. Twist had identified himself with it, and it had instantly saved him. In the shelter of his teapot Mr. Twist could go anywhere and do anything in America. Everybody had it. Everybody knew it. It was as pervasive of America as Ford's cars, but cosily, quietly pervasive. It was only less visible because it stayed at home. It was more like a wife than Ford's cars were. From a sinner caught red-handed, Mr. Twist, its amiable creator, leapt to the position of one who can do no wrong, for he had not only placed his teapot between himself and judgment but had accompanied his proofs of identity by a suitable number of dollar bills, pressed inconspicuously into the official's conveniently placed hand. The twins found themselves being treated with distinction. They were helped into the taxi by the official himself, and what was to happen to them next was left entirely to the decision and discretion of Mr. Twist--a man so much worried that at that moment he hadn't any of either. He couldn't even answer when asked where the taxi was to go to. He had missed his train, and he tried not to think of his mother's disappointment, the thought was so upsetting. But he wouldn't have caught it if he could, for how could he leave these two poor children? "I'm more than ever convinced," he said, pushing his hat still further off his forehead, and staring at the back of the Twinkler trunks piled up in front of him next to the driver, while the disregarded official at the door still went on asking him where he wished the cab to go to, "that children should all have parents." CHAPTER XI The hotel they were finally sent to by the official, goaded at last by Mr. Twist's want of a made-up mind into independent instructions to the cabman, was the Ritz. He thought this very suitable for the evolver of Twist's Non-Trickler, and it was only when they were being rushed along at what the twins, used to the behaviour of London taxis and not altogether unacquainted with the prudent and police-supervised deliberation of the taxis of Berlin, regarded as a skid-collision-and-mutilation-provoking speed, that a protest from Anna-Rose conveyed to Mr. Twist where they were heading for. "An hotel called Ritz sounds very expensive," she said. "I've heard Uncle Arthur talk of one there is in London and one there is in Paris, and he said that only damned American millionaires could afford to stay in them. Anna-Felicitas and me aren't American millionaires--" "Or damned," put in Anna-Felicitas. "--but quite the contrary," said Anna-Rose, "hadn't you better take us somewhere else?" "Somewhere like where the Brontes stayed in London," said Anna-Felicitas harping on this idea. "Where cheapness is combined with historical associations." "Oh Lord, it don't matter," said Mr. Twist, who for the first time in their friendship seemed ruffled. "Indeed it does," said Anna-Rose anxiously. "You forget we've got to husband our resources," said Anna-Felicitas. "You mustn't run away with the idea that because we've got £200 we're the same as millionaires," said Anna-Rose. "Uncle Arthur," said Anna-Felicitas, "frequently told us that £200 is a very vast sum; but he equally frequently told us that it isn't." "It was when he was talking about having given to us that he said it was such a lot," said Anna-Rose. "He said that as long as we had it we would be rich," said Anna-Felicitas, "but directly we hadn't it we would be poor." "So we'd rather not go to the Ritz, please," said Anna-Rose, "if you don't mind." The taxi was stopped, and Mr. Twist got out and consulted the driver. The thought of his Uncle Charles as a temporary refuge for the twins floated across his brain, but was rejected because Uncle Charles would speak to no woman under fifty except from his pulpit, and approached those he did speak to with caution till they were sixty. He regarded them as one of the chief causes of modern unrest. He liked them so much that he hated them. He could practise abstinence, but not temperance. Uncle Charles was no good as a refuge. "Well now, see here," said the driver at last, after Mr. Twist had rejected such varied suggestions of something small and quiet as the Waldorf-Astoria, the Plaza and the Biltmore, "you tell me where you want to go to and I'll take you there." "I want to go to the place your mother would stay in if she came up for a day or two from the country," said Mr. Twist helplessly. "Get right in then, and I'll take you back to the Ritz," said the driver. But finally, when his contempt for Mr. Twist, of whose identity he was unaware, had grown too great even for him to bandy pleasantries with him, he did land his party at an obscure hotel in a street off the less desirable end of Fifth Avenue, and got rid of him. It was one of those quiet and cheap New York hotels that yet are both noisy and expensive. It was full of foreigners,--real foreigners, the twins perceived, not the merely technical sort like themselves, but people with yellow faces and black eyes. They looked very seedy and shabby, and smoked very much, and talked volubly in unknown tongues. The entrance hall, a place of mottled marble, with clerks behind a counter all of whose faces looked as if they were masks, was thick with them; and it was when they turned to stare and whisper as Anna-Felicitas passed and Anna-Rose was thinking proudly, "Yes, you don't see anything like that every day, do you," and herself looked fondly at her Columbus, that she saw that it wasn't Columbus's beauty at all but the sulphur on the back of her skirt. This spoilt Anna-Rose's arrival in New York. All the way up in the lift to the remote floor on which their bedroom was she was trying to brush it off, for the dress was Anna-F.'s very best one. "That's all your grips, ain't it?" said the youth in buttons who had come up with them, dumping their bags down on the bedroom floor. "Our what?" said Anna-Rose, to whom the expression was new. "Do you mean our bags?" "No. Grips. These here," said the youth. "Is that what they're called in America?" asked Anna-Felicitas, with the intelligent interest of a traveller determined to understand and appreciate everything, while Anna-Rose, still greatly upset by the condition of the best skirt but unwilling to expatiate upon it before the youth, continued to brush her down as best she could with her handkerchief. "I don't call them. It's what they are," said the youth. "What I want to know is, are they all here?" "How interesting that you don't drop your h's," said Anna-Felicitas, gazing at him. "The rest of you is so _like_ no h's." The youth said nothing to that, the line of thought being one he didn't follow. "Those _are_ all our--grips, I think," said Anna-Rose counting them round the corner of Anna-Felicitas's skirt. "Thank you very much," she added after a pause, as he still lingered. But this didn't cause him to disappear as it would have in England. Instead, he picked up a metal bottle with a stopper off the table, and shook it and announced that their ice-water bottle was empty. "Want some ice water?" he inquired. "What for?" asked Anna-Felicitas. "What for?" echoed the youth. "Thank you," said Anna-Rose, who didn't care about the youth's manner which seemed to her familiar, "we don't want ice water, but we should be glad of a little hot water." "You'll get all you want of that in there," said the youth, jerking his head towards a door that led into a bathroom. "It's ice water and ink that you get out of me." "Really?" said Anna-Felicitas, gazing at him with even more intelligent interest, almost as if she were prepared, it being America, a country, she had heard, of considerable mechanical ingenuity, to find his person bristling with taps which only needed turning. "We don't want either, thank you," said Anna-Rose. The youth lingered. Anna-Rose's brushing began to grow vehement. Why didn't he go? She didn't want to have to be rude to him and hurt his feelings by asking him to go, but why didn't he? Anna-Felicitas, who was much too pleasantly detached, thought Anna-Rose, for such a situation, the door being wide open to the passage and the ungetridable youth standing there staring, was leisurely taking off her hat and smoothing her hair. "Suppose you're new to this country," said the youth after a pause. "Brand," said Anna-Felicitas pleasantly. "Then p'raps," said the youth, "you don't know that the feller who brings up your grips gets a tip." "Of course we know that," said Anna-Rose, standing up straight and trying to look stately. "Then if you know why don't you do it?" "Do it?" she repeated, endeavouring to chill him into respectfulness by haughtily throwing back her head. "Of course we shall do it. At the proper time and place." "Which is, as you must have noticed," added Anna-Felicitas gently, "departure and the front door." "That's all right," said the youth, "but that's only one of the times and places. That's the last one. Where we've got to now is the first one." "Do I understand," said Anna-Rose, trying to be very dignified, while her heart shrank within her, for what sort of sum did one offer people like this?--"that to America one tips at the beginning as well?" "Yep," said the youth. "And in the middle too. Right along through. Never miss an opportunity, is as good a slogan as you'll get when it comes to tipping." "I believe you'd have liked Kipps," said Anna-Felicitas meditatively, shaking some dust off her hat and remembering the orgy of tipping that immortal young man went in for at the seaside hotel. "What I like now," said the youth, growing more easy before their manifest youth and ignorance, "is tips. Guess you can call it Kipps if it pleases you." Anna-Rose began to fumble nervously in her purse "It's horrid, I think, to ask for presents," she said to the youth in deep humiliation, more on his account than hers. "Presents? I'm not asking for presents. I'm telling you what's done," said the youth. And he had spots on his face. And he was repugnant to her. Anna-Rose gave him what looked like a shilling. He took it, and remarking that he had had a lot of trouble over it, went away; and Anna-Rose was still flushed by this encounter when Mr. Twist knocked and asked if they were ready to be taken down to tea. "He might have said thank you," she said indignantly to Anna-Felicitas, giving a final desperate brushing to the sulphur. "I expect he'll come to a bad end," said Anna-Felicitas soothingly. They had tea in the restaurant and were the only people doing such a thing, a solitary cluster in a wilderness of empty tables laid for dinner. It wasn't the custom much in America, explained Mr. Twist, to have tea, and no preparations were made for it in hotels of that sort. The very waiters, feeling it was a meal to be discouraged, were showing their detachment from it by sitting in a corner of the room playing dominoes. It was a big room, all looking-glasses and windows, and the street outside was badly paved and a great noise of passing motor-vans came in and drowned most of what Mr. Twist was saying. It was an unlovely place, a place in which one might easily feel homesick and that the world was empty of affection, if one let oneself go that way. The twins wouldn't. They stoutly refused, in their inward recesses, to be daunted by these externals. For there was Mr. Twist, their friend and stand-by, still with them, and hadn't they got each other? But they felt uneasy all the same; for Mr. Twist, though he plied them with buttered toast and macaroons and was as attentive as usual, had a somnambulatory quality in his attention. He looked like a man who is doing things in a dream. He looked like one who is absorbed in something else. His forehead still was puckered, and what could it be puckered about, seeing that he had got home, and was going back to his mother, and had a clear and uncomplicated future ahead of him, and anyhow was a man? "Have you got something on your mind?" asked Anna-Rose at last, when he hadn't even heard a question she asked,--he, the polite, the interested, the sympathetic friend of the journey across. Mr. Twist, sitting tilted back in his chair, his hands deep in his pockets, looked up from the macaroons he had been staring at and said, "Yes." "Tell us what it is," suggested Anna-Felicitas. "You," said Mr. Twist. "Me?" "Both of you. You both of you go together. You're in one lump in my mind. And on it too," finished Mr. Twist ruefully. "That's only because," explained Anna-Felicitas, "you've got the idea we want such a lot of taking care of. Get rid of that, and you'll feel quite comfortable again. Why not regard us merely as pleasant friends?" Mr. Twist looked at her in silence. "Not as objects to be protected," continued Anna Felicitas, "but as co-equals. Of a reasonable soul and human flesh subsisting." Mr. Twist continued to look at her in silence. "We didn't come to America to be on anybody's mind," said Anna-Rose, supporting Anna-Felicitas. "We had a good deal of that in England," said Anna-Felicitas. "For instance, we're quite familiar with Uncle Arthur's mind, we were on it so heavily and so long." "It's our fixed determination," said Anna-Rose, "now that we're starting a new life, to get off any mind we find ourselves on _instantly_." "We wish to carve out our own destinies," said Anna-Felicitas. "We more than wish to," corrected Anna-Rose, "we intend to. What were we made in God's image for if it wasn't to stand upright on our own feet?" "Anna-Rose and I had given this a good deal of thought," said Anna-Felicitas, "first and last, and we're prepared to be friends with everybody, but only as co-equals and of a reasonable soul and human flesh subsisting." "I don't know exactly," said Mr. Twist, "what that means, but it seems to give you a lot of satisfaction." "It does. It's out of the Athanasian Creed, and suggests such perfect equality. If you'll regard us as co-equals instead of as objects to be looked after, you'll see how happy we shall all be." "Not," said Anna-Rose, growing tender, for indeed in her heart she loved and clung to Mr. Twist, "that we haven't very much liked all you've done for us and the way you were so kind to us on the boat,--we've been _most_ obliged to you, and we shall miss you very much indeed, I know." "But we'll get over that of course in time," put in Anna-Felicitas, "and we've got to start life now in earnest." "Well then," said Mr. Twist, "will you two Annas kindly tell me what it is you propose to do next?" "Next? After tea? Go and look at the sights." "I mean to-morrow," said Mr. Twist. "To-morrow," said Anna-Rose, "we proceed to Boston." "To track the Clouston Sacks to their lair," said Anna-Felicitas. "Ah. You've made up your minds to do that. They've behaved abominably," said Mr. Twist. "Perhaps they missed the train," said Anna-Felicitas mildly. "It's the proper course to pursue," said Anna-Rose. "To proceed to Boston." "I suppose it is," said Mr. Twist, again thinking that the really proper and natural course was for him to have been able to take them to his mother. Pity one's mother wasn't-- He pulled himself up on the brink of an unfiliality. He was on the verge of thinking it a pity one's mother wasn't a different one. CHAPTER XII "Then," said Mr. Twist, "if this is all you're going to see of New York, this one evening, let us go and look at it." He beckoned to the waiter who came up with the bill. Anna-Rose pulled out her purse. Mr. Twist put up his hand with severe determination. "You're my guest," he said, "as long as I am with you. Useless to protest, young lady. You'll not get me to belie my American manhood. I only listened with half an ear to all the things you both said in the taxi, because I hadn't recovered from the surprise of finding myself still with you instead of on the train for Clark, and because you both of you do say so very many things. But understand once and for all that in this country everything female has to be paid for by some man. I'm that man till I've left you on the Sack doorstep, and then it'll be Sack--confound him," finished Mr. Twist suddenly. And he silenced Anna-Rose's protests, which persisted and were indignant, by turning on her with, an irascibility she hadn't yet seen in him, and inquiring of her whether then she really wished to put him to public shame? "You wouldn't wish to go against an established custom, surely," he said more gently. So the twins gave themselves up for that one evening to what Anna-Felicitas called government by wealth, otherwise plutocracy, while reserving complete freedom of action in regard to Mr. Sack, who was, in their ignorance of his circumstances, an unknown quantity. They might be going to be mothers' helps in the Sack _ménage_ for all they knew,--they might, they said, be going to be anything, from honoured guests to typists. "Can you type?" asked Mr. Twist. "No," said the twins. He took them in a taxi to Riverside Drive, and then they walked down to the charming footpath that runs along by the Hudson for three enchanting miles. The sun had set some time before they got there, and had left a clear pale yellow sky, and a wonderful light on the river. Lamps were being lit, and hung like silver globes in the thin air. Steep grass slopes, and groups of big trees a little deeper yellow than the sky, hid that there were houses and a street above them on their right. Up and down the river steamers passed, pierced with light, their delicate smoke hanging in the air long after they had gone their way. It was so great a joy to walk in all this after ten days shut up on the _St. Luke_ and to see such blessed things as grass and leaves again, that the twins felt suddenly extraordinarily brisked up and cheerful. It was impossible not to be cheerful, translated from the _St. Luke_ into such a place, trotting along in the peculiar dry air that made one all tingly. The world seemed suddenly quite good,--the simplest, easiest of objects to tackle. All one had to do was not to let it weigh on one, to laugh rather than cry. They trotted along humming bits of their infancy's songs, feeling very warm and happy inside, felicitously full of tea and macaroons and with their feet comfortably on something that kept still and didn't heave or lurch beneath them. Mr. Twist, too, was gayer than he had been for some hours. He seemed relieved; and he was. He had sent a telegram to his mother, expressing proper sorrow at being detained in New York, but giving no reason for it, and promising he would be with her rather late the next evening; and he had sent a telegram to the Clouston Sacks saying the Twinklers, who had so unfortunately missed them in New York, would arrive in Boston early next afternoon. His mind was clear again owing to the determination of the twins to go to the Sacks. He was going to take them there, hand them over, and then go back to Clark, which fortunately was only three hours' journey from Boston. If the twins had shown a disinclination to go after the Sacks who, in Mr. Twist's opinion, had behaved shamefully already, he wouldn't have had the heart to press them to go; and then what would he have done with them? Their second and last line of defence, supposing they had considered the Sacks had failed and were to be ruled out, was in California, a place they spoke of as if it were next door to Boston and New York. How could he have let them set out alone on that four days' journey, with the possibility of once more at its end not being met? No wonder he had been abstracted at tea. He was relieved to the extent of his forehead going quite smooth again at their decision to proceed to the Sacks. For he couldn't have taken them to his mother without preparation and explanation, and he couldn't have left them in New York while he went and prepared and explained. Great, reflected Mr. Twist, the verb dropping into his mind with the _aplomb_ of an inspiration, are the difficulties that beset a man directly he begins to twinkle. Already he had earnestly wished to knock the reception clerk in the hotel office down because of, first, his obvious suspicion of the party before he had heard Mr. Twist's name, and because of, second, his politeness, his confidential manner as of an understanding sympathizer with a rich man's recreations, when he had. The tea, which he, had poured out of one of his own teapots, had been completely spoilt by the knowledge that it was only this teapot that had saved him from being treated as a White Slave Trafficker. He wouldn't have got into that hotel at all with the Twinklers, or into any other decent one, except for his teapot. What a country, Mr. Twist had thought, fresh from his work in France, fresh from where people were profoundly occupied with the great business of surviving at all. Here he came back from a place where civilization toppled, where deadly misery, deadly bravery, heroism that couldn't be uttered, staggered month after month among ruins, and found America untouched, comfortable, fat, still with time to worry over the suspected amorousness of the rich, still putting people into uniforms in order to buttonhole a man on landing and cross-question him as to his private purities. He had been much annoyed, but he too couldn't resist the extreme pleasure of real exercise on such a lovely evening, nor could he resist the infection of the cheerfulness of the Twinklers. They walked along, talking and laughing, and seeming to walk much faster than he did, especially Anna-Rose who had to break into a run every few steps because of his so much longer legs, his face restored to all its usual kindliness as he listened benevolently to their remarks, and just when they were beginning to feel as if they soon might be tired and hungry a restaurant with lamp-hung gardens appeared as punctually as if they had been in Germany, that land of nicely arranged distances between meals. They had an extremely cheerful little supper out of doors, with things to eat that thrilled the Twinklers in their delicious strangeness; heavenly food, they thought it after the rigours of the second-class cooking on the _St. Luke_, and the biggest ices they had seen in their lives,--great dollops of pink and yellow divineness. Then Mr. Twist took them in a taxi to look at the illuminated advertisements in Broadway, and they forgot everything but the joy of the moment. Whatever the next day held, this evening was sheer happiness. Their eyes shone and their cheeks flushed, and Mr. Twist was quite worried that they were so pretty. People at the other tables at the restaurant had stared at them with frank admiration, and so did the people in the streets whenever the taxi was blocked. On the ship he had only sometimes been aware of it,--there would come a glint of sunshine and settle on Anna-Rose's little cheek where the dimple was, or he would lift his eyes from the Culture book and suddenly see the dark softness of Anna-Felicitas's eyelashes as she slept in her chair. But now, dressed properly, and in their dryland condition of cheerful animation, he perceived that they were very pretty indeed, and that Anna-Felicitas was more than very pretty. He couldn't help thinking they were a most unsuitable couple to be let loose in America with only two hundred pounds to support them. Two hundred pounds was just enough to let them slip about if it should enter their heads to slip about,--go off without explanation, for instance, if they wanted to leave the Clouston Sacks,--but of course ridiculous as a serious background to life. A girl should either have enough money or be completely dependent on her male relations. As a girl was usually young reflected Mr. Twist, his spectacles with the Broadway lights in them blazing on the two specimens opposite him, it was safest for her to be dependent. So were her actions controlled, and kept within the bounds of wisdom. And next morning, as he sat waiting for the twins for breakfast at ten o'clock according to arrangement the night before, their grape-fruit in little beds of ice on their plates and every sort of American dish ordered, from griddle cakes and molasses to chicken pie, a page came in with loud cries for Mr. Twist, which made him instantly conspicuous--a thing he particularly disliked--and handed him a letter. The twins had gone. CHAPTER XIII They had left early that morning for Boston, determined, as they wrote, no longer to trespass on his kindness. There had been a discussion in their bedroom the night before when they got back in which Anna-Rose supplied the heat and Anna-Felicitas the arguments, and it ended in Anna-Felicitas succeeding in restoring Anna-Rose to her original standpoint of proud independence, from which, lured by the comfort and security of Mr. Twist's companionship, she had been inclined to slip. It took some time, because of Anna-Rose being the eldest. Anna-Felicitas had had to be as wary, and gentle, and persistently affectionate as a wife whom necessity compels to try and get reason into her husband. Anna-Rose's feathers, even as the feathers of a husband, bristled at the mere breath of criticism of her superior intelligence and wisdom. She was the leader of the party, the head and guide, the one who had the dollars in her pocket, and being the eldest naturally must know best. Besides, she was secretly nervous about taking Anna-Felicitas about alone. She too had observed the stares of the public, and had never supposed that any of them might be for her. How was she to get to Boston successfully with so enchanting a creature, through all the complications of travel in an unknown country, without the support and counsel of Mr. Twist? Just the dollars and quarters and dimes and cents cowed her. The strangeness of everything, while it delighted her so long as she could peep at it from behind Mr. Twist, appalled her the minute she was left alone with it. America seemed altogether a foreign country, a strange place whose inhabitants by accident didn't talk in a strange language. They talked English; or rather what sounded like English till you found that it wasn't really. But Anna-Felicitas prevailed. She had all Anna-Rose's inborn horror of accepting money or other benefits from people who had no natural right to exercise their benevolences upon her, to appeal to. Christopher, after long wrestling restored at last to pride, did sit down and write the letter that so much spoilt Mr. Twist's breakfast next morning, while Columbus slouched about the room suggesting sentences. It was a letter profuse in thanks for all Mr. Twist had done for them, and couched in language that betrayed the particular share Anna-Felicitas had taken in the plan; for though they both loved long words Anna-Felicitas's were always a little the longer. In rolling sentences that made Mr. Twist laugh in spite of his concern, they pointed out that his first duty was to his mother, and his second was not to squander his possessions in paying the hotel and railway bills of persons who had no sort of claim on him, except those general claims of humanity which he had already on the _St. Luke_ so amply discharged. They would refrain from paying their hotel bill, remembering his words as to the custom of the country, though their instincts were altogether against this course, but they could and would avoid causing him the further expense and trouble and waste of his no doubt valuable time of taking them to Boston, by the simple process of going there without him. They promised to write from the Sacks and let him know of their arrival to the address at Clark he had given them, and they would never forget him as long as they lived and remained his very sincerely, A.-R., and A.-F. Twinkler. Mr. Twist hurried out to the office. The clerk who had been so confidential in his manner the evening before looked at him curiously. Yes, the young ladies had left on the 8.15 for Boston. They had come downstairs, baggage and all, at seven o'clock, had asked for a taxi, had said they wished to go to Boston, inquired about the station, etc., and had specially requested that Mr. Twist should not be disturbed. "They seemed in a slight hurry to be off," said the clerk, "and didn't like there being no train before the 8.15. I thought you knew all about it, Mr. Twist," he added inquisitively. "So I did--so I did," said Mr. Twist, turning away to go back to his breakfast for three. "So he did--so he did," muttered the clerk with a wink to the other clerk; and for a few minutes they whispered, judging from the expressions on their faces, what appeared to be very exciting things to each other. Meanwhile the twins, after a brief struggle of extraordinary intensity at the station in getting their tickets, trying to understand the black man who seized and dealt with their luggage, and closely following him wherever he went in case he should disappear, were sitting in a state of relaxation and relief in the Boston express, their troubles over for at least several hours. The black porter, whose heart happened not to be black and who had children of his own, perceived the helpless ignorance that lay behind the twins' assumption a of severe dignity, and took them in hand and got seats for them in the parlour car. As they knew nothing about cars, parlour or otherwise, but had merely and quite uselessly reiterated to the booking-clerk, till their porter intervened, that they wanted third-class tickets, they accepted these seats, thankful in the press and noise round them to get anything so roomy and calm as these dignified arm-chairs; and it wasn't till they had been in them some time, their feet on green footstools, with attendants offering them fruit and chocolates and magazines at intervals just as if they had been in heaven, as Anna-Felicitas remarked admiringly, that counting their money they discovered what a hole the journey had made in it. But they were too much relieved at having accomplished so much on their own, quite uphelped for the first time since leaving Aunt Alice, to take it particularly to heart; and, as Anna-Felicitas said, there was still the £200, and, as Anna-Rose said, it wasn't likely they'd go in a train again for ages; and anyhow, as Anna-Felicitas said, whatever it had cost they were bound to get away from being constant drains on Mr. Twist's purse. The train journey delighted them. To sit so comfortably and privately in chairs that twisted round, so that if a passenger should start staring at Anna-Felicitas one could make her turn her back altogether on him; to have one's feet on footstools when they were the sort of feet that don't reach the ground; to see the lovely autumn country flying past, hills and woods and fields and gardens golden in the October sun, while the horrible Atlantic was nowhere in sight; to pass through towns so queerly reminiscent of English and German towns shaken up together and yet not a bit like either; to be able to have the window wide open without getting soot in one's eyes because one of the ministering angels--clad, this one, appropriately to heaven, in white, though otherwise black--pulled up the same sort of wire screen they used to have in the windows at home to keep out the mosquitoes; to imitate about twelve, when they grew bold because they were so hungry, the other passengers and cause the black angel to spread a little table between them and bring clam broth, which they ordered in a spirit of adventure and curiosity and concealed from each other that they didn't like; to have the young man who passed up and down with the candy, and whose mouth was full of it, grow so friendly that he offered them toffee from his own private supply at last when they had refused regretfully a dozen suggestions to buy--"Have a bit," he said, thrusting it under their noses. "As a gentleman to ladies--no pecuniary obligations--come on, now;" all this was to the twins too interesting and delightful for words. They accepted the toffee in the spirit in which it was offered, and since nobody can eat somebody's toffee without being pleasant in return, intermittent amenities passed between them and the young man as he journeyed up and down through the cars. "First visit to the States?" he inquired, when with some reluctance, for presently it appeared to the twins that the clam broth and the toffee didn't seem to be liking each other now they had got together inside them, and also for fear of hurting his feelings if they refused, they took some more. They nodded and smiled stickily. "English, I guess." They hesitated, covering their hesitation with the earnest working of their toffee-filled jaws. Then Anna-Felicitas, her cheek distorted, gave him the answer she had given the captain of the _St. Luke,_ and said, "Practically." "Ah," said the young man, turning this over in his mind, the r in "practically" having rolled as no English or American r ever did; but the conductor appearing in the doorway he continued on his way. "It's evident," said Anna-Rose, speaking with difficulty, for her jaws clave together because of the toffee, "that we're going to be asked that the first thing every time a fresh person speaks to us. We'd better decide what we're going to say, and practise saying it without hesitation." Anna-Felicitas made a sound of assent. "That answer of yours about practically," continued Anna-Rose, swallowing her bit of toffee by accident and for one moment afraid it would stick somewhere and make her die, "causes first surprise, then reflection, and then suspicion." "But," said Anna-Felicitas after a pause during which she had disentangled her jaws, "it's going to be difficult to say one is German when America seems to be so very neutral and doesn't like Germans. Besides, it's only in the eye of the law that we are. In God's eye we're not, and that's the principal eye after all." Her own eyes grew thoughtful. "I don't believe," she said, "that parents when they marry have any idea of all the difficulties they're going to place their children in." "I don't believe they think about it at all," said Anna-Rose. "I mean," she added quickly, lest she should be supposed to be questioning the perfect love and forethought of their mother, "fathers don't." They were silent a little after this, each thinking things tinged to sobriety by the effect of the inner conflict going on between the clam broth and the toffee. Also Boston was rushing towards them, and the Clouston Sacks. Quite soon they would have to leave the peaceful security of the train and begin to be active again, and quick and clever. Anna-Felicitas, who was slow, found it difficult ever to be clever till about the week after, and Anna-Rose, who was impetuous, was so impetuous that she entirely outstripped her scanty store of cleverness and landed panting and surprised in situations she hadn't an idea what to do with. The Clouston Sacks, now--Aunt Alice had said, "You must take care to be very tactful with Mr. and Mrs. Clouston Sack;" and when Anna-Rose, her forehead as much puckered as Mr. Twist's in her desire to get exactly at what tactful was in order to be able diligently to be it, asked for definitions, Aunt Alice only said it was what gentlewomen were instinctively. "Then," observed Anna-Felicitas, when on nearing Boston Anna-Rose repeated Aunt Alice's admonishment and at the same time provided Anna-Felicitas for her guidance with the definition, "seeing that we're supposed to be gentlewomen, all we've got to do is to behave according to our instincts." But Anna-Rose wasn't sure. She doubted their instincts, especially Anna-Felicitas's. She thought her own were better, being older, but even hers were extraordinarily apt to develop in unexpected directions according to the other person's behaviour. Her instinct, for instance, when engaged by Uncle Arthur in conversation had usually been to hit him. Was that tact? Yet she knew she was a gentlewoman. She had heard that, since first she had heard words at all, from every servant, teacher, visitor and relation--except her mother--in her Prussian home. Indeed, over there she had been told she was more than a gentlewoman, for she was a noblewoman and therefore her instincts ought positively to drip tact. "Mr. Dodson," Aunt Alice had said one afternoon towards the end, when the twins came in from a walk and found the rector having tea, "says that you can't be too tactful in America. He's been there." "Sensitive--sensitive," said Mr. Dodson, shaking his head at his cup. "Splendidly sensitive, just as they are splendidly whatever else they are. A great country. Everything on a vast scale, including sensitiveness. It has to be met vastly. But quite easy really---" He raised a pedagogic finger at the twins. "You merely add half as much again to the quantity of your tact as the quantity you encounter of their sensitiveness, and it's all right." "Be sure you remember that now," said Aunt Alice, pleased. As Boston got nearer, Anna-Rose, trying to learn Mr. Dodson's recipe for social success by heart, became more silent. On the ship, when the meeting with the Sacks was imminent, she had fled in sudden panic to her cabin to hide from them. That couldn't have been tact. But it was instinct. And she was a gentlewoman. Now once again dread took possession of her and she wanted to hide, not to get there, to stay in the train and go on and on. She said nothing, of course, of her dread to Anna-Felicitas in order not to undermine that young person's _morale_, but she did very much wish that principles weren't such important things and one needn't have cut oneself off from the protecting figure of Mr. Twist. "Now remember what Aunt Alice said," she whispered severely to Anna-Felicitas, gripping her arm as they stood jammed in the narrow passage to the door waiting to be let out at Boston. On the platform, they both thought, would be the Sacks,--certainly one Sack, and they had feverishly made themselves tidy and composed their faces into pleasant smiles preparatory to the meeting. But once again no Sacks were there. The platform emptied itself just as the great hall of the landing-stage had emptied itself, and nobody came to claim the Twinklers. "These Sacks," remarked Anna-Felicitas patiently at last, when it was finally plain that there weren't any, "don't seem to have acquired the meeting habit." "No," said Anna-Rose, vexed but relieved. "They're like what Aunt Alice used to complain about the housemaids,--neither punctual nor methodical." "But it doesn't matter," said Anna-Felicitas. "They shall not escape us. I'm getting quite hungry for the Sacks as a result of not having them. We will now proceed to track them to their lair." For one instant Anna-Rose looked longingly at the train. It was still there. It was going on further and further away from the Sacks. Happy train. One little jump, and they'd be in it again. But she resisted, and engaged a porter. Even as soon as this the twins were far less helpless than they had been the day before. The Sack address was in Anna-Rose's hand, and they knew what an American porter looked like. The porter and a taxi were engaged with comparative ease and assurance, and on giving the porter, who had staggered beneath the number of their grips, a dime, and seeing a cloud on his face, they doubled it instantly sooner than have trouble, and trebled it equally quickly on his displaying yet further dissatisfaction, and they departed for the Sacks, their grips piled up round them in the taxi as far as their chins, congratulating themselves on how much easier it was to get away from a train than to get into one. But the minute their activities were over and they had time to think, silence fell upon them again. They were both nervous. They both composed their faces to indifference to hide that they were nervous, examining the streets they passed through with a calm and _blasé_ stare worthy of a lorgnette. It was the tact part of the coming encounter that was chiefly unnerving Anna-Rose, and Anna-Felicitas was dejected by her conviction that nobody who was a friend of Uncle Arthur's could possibly be agreeable. "By their friends ye shall know them," thought Anna-Felicitas, staring out of the window at the Boston buildings. Also the persistence of the Sacks in not being on piers and railway stations was discouraging. There was no eagerness about this persistence; there wasn't even friendliness. Perhaps they didn't like her and Anna-Rose being German. This was always the twins' first thought when anybody wasn't particularly cordial. Their experiences in England had made them a little jumpy. They were conscious of this weak spot, and like a hurt finger it seemed always to be getting in the way and being knocked. Anna-Felicitas once more pondered on the inscrutable behaviour of Providence which had led their mother, so safely and admirably English, to leave that blessed shelter and go and marry somebody who wasn't. Of course there was this to be said for it, that she wasn't their mother then. If she had been, Anna-Felicitas felt sure she wouldn't have. Then, perceiving that her thoughts were getting difficult to follow she gave them up, and slid her hand through Anna-Rose's arm and gave it a squeeze. "Now for the New World, Christopher," she said, pretending to be very eager and brave and like the real Columbus, as the taxi stopped. CHAPTER XIV The taxi had stopped in front of a handsome apartment house, and almost before it was quiet a boy in buttons darted out across the intervening wide pavement and thrust his face through the window. "Who do you want?" he said, or rather jerked out. He then saw the contents of the taxi, and his mouth fell open; for it seemed to him that grips and passengers were piled up inside it in a seething mass. "We want Mr. and Mrs. Clouston Sack," said Anna-Rose in her most grown-up voice. "They're expecting us." "They ain't," said the boy promptly. "They ain't?" repeated Anna-Rose, echoing his language in her surprise. "How do you know?" asked Anna-Felicitas. "That they ain't? Because they ain't," said the boy. "I bet you my Sunday shirt they ain't." The twins stared at him. They were not accustomed in their conversations with the lower classes to be talked to about shirts. The boy seemed extraordinarily vital. His speech was so quick that it flew out with the urgency and haste of squibs going off. "Please open the door," said Anna-Rose recovering herself. "We'll go up and see for ourselves." "You won't see," said the boy. "Kindly open the door," repeated Anna-Rose. "You won't see," he said, pulling it open, "but you can look. If you do see Sacks up there I'm a Hun." The minute the door opened, grips fell out. There were two umbrellas, two coats, a knapsack of a disreputable bulged appearance repugnant to American ideas of baggage which run on big simple lines of huge trunks, an _attaché_ case, a suit case, a hold-all, a basket and a hat-box. Outside beside the driver were two such small and modest trunks that they might almost as well have been grips themselves. "Do you mind taking those in?" asked Anna-Rose, getting out with difficulty over the umbrella that had fallen across the doorway, and pointing to the gutter in which the other umbrella and the knapsack lay and into which the basket, now that her body no longer kept it in, was rolling. "In where?" crackled the boy. "In," said Anna-Rose severely. "In to wherever Mr. and Mrs. Clouston Sack are." "It's no good your saying they are when they ain't," said the boy, increasing the loudness of his crackling. "Do you mean they don't live here?" asked Anna-Felicitas, in her turn disentangling herself from that which was still inside the taxi, and immediately followed on to the pavement by the hold-all and the _attaché_ case. "They did live here till yesterday," said the boy, "but now they don't. One does. But that's not the same as two. Which is what I meant when you said they're expecting you and I said they ain't." "Do you mean to say--" Anna-Rose stopped with a catch of her breath. "Do you mean," she went on in an awe-struck voice, "that one of them--one of them is dead?" "Dead? Bless you, no. Anything but dead. The exact opposite. Gone. Left. Got," said the boy. "Oh," said Anna-Rose greatly relieved, passing over his last word, whose meaning escaped her, "oh--you mean just gone to meet us. And missed us. You see," she said, turning to Anna-Felicitas, "they did try to after all." Anna-Felicitas said nothing, but reflected that whichever Sack had tried to must have a quite unusual gift for missing people. "Gone to meet you?" repeated the boy, as one surprised by a new point of view. "Well, I don't know about that--" "We'll go up and explain," said Anna-Rose. "Is it Mr. or Mrs. Clouston Sack who is here?" "Mr.," said the boy. "Very well then. Please bring in our things." And Anna-Rose proceeded, followed by Anna-Felicitas, to walk into the house. The boy, instead of bringing them in, picked up the articles lying on the pavement and put them back again into the taxi. "No hurry about them, I guess," he said to the driver. "Time enough to take them up when the gurls ask again--" and he darted after the gurls to hand them over to his colleague who worked what he called the elevator. "Why do you call it the elevator," inquired Anna-Felicitas, mildly inquisitive, of this boy, who on hearing that they wished to see Mr. Sack stared at them with profound and unblinking interest all the way up, "when it is really a lift?" "Because it is an elevator," said the boy briefly. "But we, you see," said Anna-Felicitas, "are equally convinced that it's a lift." The boy didn't answer this. He was as silent as the other one wasn't; but there was a thrill about him too, something electric and tense. He stared at Anna-Felicitas, then turned quickly and stared at Anna-Rose, then quickly back to Anna-Felicitas, and so on all the way up. He was obviously extraordinarily interested. He seemed to have got hold of an idea that had not struck the squib-like boy downstairs, who was entertaining the taxi-driver with descriptions of the domestic life of the Sacks. The lift stopped at what the twins supposed was going to be the door of a landing or public corridor, but it was, they discovered, the actual door of the Sack flat. At any moment the Sacks, if they wished to commit suicide, could do so simply by stepping out of their own front door. They would then fall, infinitely far, on to the roof of the lift lurking at the bottom. The lift-boy pressed a bell, the door opened, and there, at once exposed to the twins, was the square hall of the Sack flat with a manservant standing in it staring at them. Obsessed by his idea, the lift-boy immediately stepped out of his lift, approached the servant, introduced his passengers to him by saying, "Young ladies to see Mr. Sack," took a step closer, and whispered in his ear, but perfectly audibly to the twins who, however, regarded it as some expression peculiarly American and were left unmoved by it, "The co-respondents." The servant stared uncertainly at them. His mistress had only been gone a few hours, and the flat was still warm with her presence and authority. She wouldn't, he well knew, have permitted co-respondents to be about the place if she had been there, but on the other hand she wasn't there. Mr. Sack was in sole possession now. Nobody knew where Mrs. Sack was. Letters and telegrams lay on the table for her unopened, among them Mr. Twist's announcing the arrival of the Twinklers. In his heart the servant sided with Mr. Sack, but only in his heart, for the servant's wife was the cook, and she, as she frequently explained, was all for strict monogamy. He stared therefore uncertainly at the twins, his brain revolving round their colossal impudence in coming there before Mrs. Sack's rooms had so much as had time to get, as it were, cold. "We want to see Mr. Clouston Sack," began Anna-Rose in her clear little voice; and no sooner did she begin to speak than a door was pulled open and the gentleman himself appeared. "I heard a noise of arrival--" he said, stopping suddenly when he saw them. "I heard a noise of arrival, and a woman's voice--" "It's us," said Anna-Rose, her face covering itself with the bright conciliatory smiles of the arriving guest. "Are you Mr. Clouston Sack?" She went up to him and held out her hand. They both went up to him and held out their hands. "We're the Twinklers," said Anna-Rose. "We've come," said Anna-Felicitas, in case he shouldn't have noticed it. Mr. Sack let his hand be shaken, and it was a moist hand. He looked like a Gibson young man who has grown elderly. He had the manly profile and shoulders, but they sagged and stooped. There was a dilapidation about him, a look of blurred edges. His hair lay on his forehead in disorder, and his tie had been put on carelessly and had wriggled up to the rim of his collar. "The Twinklers," he repeated. "The Twinklers. Do I remember, I wonder?" "There hasn't been much time to forget," said Anna-Felicitas. "It's less than two months since there were all those letters." "Letters?" echoed Mr. Sack. "Letters?" "So now we've got here," said Anna-Rose, the more brightly that she was unnerved. "Yes. We've come," said Anna-Felicitas, also with feverish brightness. Bewildered, Mr. Sack, who felt that he had had enough to bear the last few hours, stood staring at them. Then he caught sight of the lift-boy, lingering and he further saw the expression on his servant's face Even to his bewilderment it was clear what he was thinking. Mr. Sack turned round quickly and led the way into the dining-room. "Come in, come in," he said distractedly. They went in. He shut the door. The lift-boy and the servant lingered a moment making faces at each other; then the lift-boy dropped away in his lift, and the servant retired to the kitchen. "I'm darned," was all he could articulate. "I'm darned." "There's our luggage," said Anna-Rose, turning to Mr. Sack on getting inside the room, her voice gone a little shrill in her determined cheerfulness. "Can it be brought up?" "Luggage?" repeated Mr. Sack, putting his hand to his forehead. "Excuse me, but I've got such a racking headache to-day--it makes me stupid--" "Oh, I'm _very_ sorry," said Anna-Rose solicitously. "And so am I--_very_," said Anna-Felicitas, equally solicitous. "Have you tried aspirin? Sometimes some simple remedy like that--" "Oh thank you--it's good of you, it's good of you. The effect, you see, is that I can't think very clearly. But do tell me--why luggage? Luggage--luggage. You mean, I suppose, baggage." "Why luggage?" asked Anna-Rose nervously. "Isn't there--isn't there always luggage in America too when people come to stay with one?" "You've come to stay with me," said Mr. Sack, putting his hand to his forehead again. "You see," said Anna-Felicitas, "we're the Twinklers." "Yes, yes--I know. You've told me that." "So naturally we've come." "But _is_ it natural?" asked Mr. Sack, looking at them distractedly. "We sent you a telegram," said Anna-Rose, "or rather one to Mrs. Sack, which is the same thing--" "It isn't, it isn't," said the distressed Mr. Sack. "I wish it were. It ought to be. Mrs. Sack isn't here--" "Yes--we're very sorry to have missed her. Did she go to meet us in New York, or where?" "Mrs. Sack didn't go to meet you. She's--gone." "Gone where?" "Oh," cried Mr. Sack, "somewhere else, but not to meet you. Oh," he went on after a moment in which, while the twins gazed at him, he fought with and overcame emotion, "when I heard you speaking in the hall I thought--I had a moment's hope--for a minute I believed--she had come back. So I went out. Else I couldn't have seen you. I'm not fit to see strangers--" The things Mr. Sack said, and his fluttering, unhappy voice, were so much at variance with the stern lines of his Gibson profile that the twins viewed him with the utmost surprise. They came to no conclusion and passed no judgment because they didn't know but what if one was an American one naturally behaved like that. "I don't think," said Anna-Felicitas gently, "that you can call us strangers. We're the Twinklers." "Yes, yes--I know--you keep on telling me that," said Mr. Sack. "But I can't call to mind--" "Don't you remember all Uncle Arthur's letters about us? We're the nieces he asked you to be kind to for a bit--as I'm sure," Anna-Felicitas added politely, "you're admirably adapted for being." Mr. Sack turned his bewildered eyes on to her. "Oh, aren't you a pretty girl," he said, in the same distressed voice. "You mustn't make her vain," said Anna-Rose, trying not to smile all over her face, while Anna-Felicitas remained as manifestly unvain as a person intent on something else would be. "We know you got Uncle Arthur's letters about us," she continued, "because he showed us your answers back. You invited us to come and stay with you. And, as you perceive, we've done it." "Then it must have been months ago--months ago," said Mr. Sack, "before all this--do I remember something about it? I've had such trouble since--I've been so distracted one way and another--it may have slipped away out of my memory under the stress--Mrs. Sack--" He paused and looked round the room helplessly. "Mrs. Sack--well, Mrs. Sack isn't here now." "We're _very_ sorry you've had trouble," said Anna-Felicitas sympathetically. "It's what everybody has, though. Man that is born of woman is full of misery. That's what the Burial Service says, and it ought to know." Mr. Sack again turned bewildered eyes on to her. "Oh, aren't you a pretty--" he again began. "When do you think Mrs. Sack will be back?" interrupted Anna-Rose. "I wish I knew--I wish I could hope--but she's gone for a long while, I'm afraid--" "Gone not to come back at all, do you mean?" asked Anna-Felicitas. Mr. Sack gulped. "I'm afraid that is her intention," he said miserably. There was a silence, in which they all stood looking at each other. "Didn't she like you?" then inquired Anna-Felicitas. Anna-Rose, sure that this wasn't tactful, gave her sleeve a little pull. "Were you unkind to her?" asked Anna-Felicitas, disregarding the warning. Mr. Sack, his fingers clasping and unclasping themselves behind his back, started walking up and down the room. Anna-Felicitas, forgetful of what Aunt Alice would have said, sat down on the edge of the table and began to be interested in Mrs. Sack. "The wives I've seen," she remarked, watching Mr. Sack with friendly and interested eyes, "who were chiefly Aunt Alice--that's Uncle Arthur's wife, the one we're the nieces of--seemed to put up with the utmost contumely from their husbands and yet didn't budge. You must have been something awful to yours." "I worshipped Mrs. Sack," burst out Mr. Sack. "I worshipped her. I do worship her. She was the handsomest, brightest woman in Boston. I was as proud of her as any man has ever been of his wife." "Then why did she go?" asked Anna-Felicitas. "I don't think that's the sort of thing you should ask," rebuked Anna-Rose. "But if I don't ask I won't be told," said Ann Felicitas, "and I'm interested." "Mrs. Sack went because I was able--I was so constructed--that I could be fond of other people as well as of her," said Mr. Sack. "Well, _that's_ nothing unusual," said Anna-Felicitas. "No," said Anna-Rose, "I don't see anything in that." "I think it shows a humane and friendly spirit," said Anna-Felicitas. "Besides, it's enjoined in the Bible," said Anna-Rose. "I'm sure when we meet Mrs. Sack," said Anna-Felicitas very politely indeed, "much as we expect to like her we shall nevertheless continue to like other people as well. You, for instance. Will she mind that?" "It wasn't so much that I liked other people," said Mr. Sack, walking about and thinking tumultuously aloud rather than addressing anybody, "but that I liked other people so _much_." "I see," said Anna-Felicitas, nodding. "You overdid it. Like over-eating whipped cream. Only it wasn't you but Mrs. Sack who got the resulting ache." "And aren't I aching? Aren't I suffering?" "Yes, but you did the over-eating," said Anna-Felicitas. "The world," said the unhappy Mr. Sack, quickening his pace, "is so full of charming and delightful people. Is one to shut one's eyes to them?" "Of course not," said Anna-Felicitas. "One must love them." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Sack. "Exactly. That's what I did." "And though I wouldn't wish," said Anna-Felicitas, "to say anything against somebody who so very nearly was my hostess, yet really, you know, wasn't Mrs. Sack's attitude rather churlish?" Mr. Sack gazed at her. "Oh, aren't you a pretty--" he began again, with a kind of agonized enthusiasm; but he was again cut short by Anna-Rose, on whom facts of a disturbing nature were beginning to press. "Aunt Alice," she said, looking and feeling extremely perturbed as the situation slowly grew clear to her, "told us we were never to stay with people whose wives are somewhere else. Unless they have a mother or other female relative living with them. She was most particular about it, and said whatever else we did we weren't ever to do this. So I'm afraid," she continued in her politest voice, determined to behave beautifully under circumstances that were trying, "much as we should have enjoyed staying with you and Mrs. Sack if she had been here to stay with, seeing that she isn't we manifestly can't." "You can't stay with me," murmured Mr. Sack, turning his bewildered eyes to her. "Were you going to?" "Of course we were going to. It's what we've come for," said Anna-Felicitas. "And I'm afraid," said-Anna-Rose, "disappointed as we are, unless you can produce a mother--" "But where on earth are we to go to, Anna-R.?" inquired Anna-Felicitas, who, being lazy, having got to a place preferred if possible to stay in it, and who besides was sure that in their forlorn situation a Sack in the hand was worth two Sacks not in it, any day. Also she liked the look of Mr. Sack, in spite of his being so obviously out of repair. He badly wanted doing up she said to herself, but on the other hand he seemed to her lovable in his distress, with much of the pathetic helplessness her own dear Irish terrier, left behind in Germany, had had the day he caught his foot in a rabbit trap. He had looked at Anna-Felicitas, while she was trying to get him out of it, with just the same expression on his face that Mr. Sack had on his as he walked about the room twisting and untwisting his fingers behind his back. Only, her Irish terrier hadn't had a Gibson profile. Also, he had looked much more efficient. "Can't you by any chance produce a mother?" she asked. Mr. Sack stared at her. "Of course we're very sorry," said Anna-Rose. Mr. Sack stared at her. "But you understand, I'm sure, that under the circumstances--" "Do you say," said Mr. Sack, stopping still after a few more turns in front of Anna-Rose, and making a great effort to collect his thoughts, "that I--that we--had arranged to look after you?" "Arranged with Uncle Arthur," said Anna-Rose. "Uncle Arthur Abinger. Of course you had. That's why we're here. Why, you wrote bidding us welcome. He showed us the letter." "Abinger. Abinger. Oh--_that_ man," said Mr. Sack, his mind clearing. "We thought you'd probably feel like that about him," said Anna-Felicitas sympathetically. "Why, then," said Mr. Sack, his mind getting suddenly quite clear, "you must be--why, you _are_ the Twinklers." "We've been drawing your attention to that at frequent intervals since we got here," said Anna-Felicitas. "But whether you now remember or still don't realize," said Anna-Rose with great firmness, "I'm afraid we've got to say good-bye." "That's all very well, Anna-R.," again protested Anna-Felicitas, "but where are we to go to?" "Go?" said Anna-Rose with a dignity very creditable in one of her size, "Ultimately to California, of course, to Uncle Arthur's other friends. But now, this afternoon, we get back into a train and go to Clark, to Mr. Twist. He at least has a mother." CHAPTER XV And so it came about that just as the reunited Twists, mother, son and daughter, were sitting in the drawing-room, a little tired after a long afternoon of affection, waiting for seven o'clock to strike and, with the striking, Amanda the head maid to appear and announce supper, but waiting with lassitude, for they had not yet recovered from an elaborate welcoming dinner, the Twinklers, in the lovely twilight of a golden day, were hastening up the winding road from the station towards them. Silent, and a little exhausted, the unconscious Twists sat in their drawing-room, a place of marble and antimacassars, while these light figures, their shoes white with the dust of a country-side that had had no rain for weeks, sped every moment nearer. The road wound gently upwards through fields and woods, through quiet, delicious evening country, and there was one little star twinkling encouragingly at the twins from over where they supposed Clark would be. At the station there had been neither porter nor conveyance, nor indeed anybody or anything at all except themselves, their luggage, and a thin, kind man who represented authority. Clark is two miles away from its station, and all the way to it is uninhabited. Just at the station are a cluster of those hasty buildings America flings down in out-of-the-way places till she shall have leisure to make a splendid city; but the road immediately curved away from these up into solitude and the evening sky. "You can't miss it," encouraged the station-master. "Keep right along after your noses till they knock up against Mrs. Twist's front gate. I'll look after the menagerie--" thus did he describe the Twinkler luggage. "Guess Mrs. Twist'll be sending for it as soon as you get there. Guess she forgot you. Guess she's shaken up by young Mr. Twist's arriving this very day. _I_ wouldn't have forgotten you. No, not for a dozen young Mr. Twists," he added gallantly. "Why do you call him young Mr. Twist," inquired Anna-Felicitas, "when he isn't? He must be at least thirty or forty or fifty." "You see, we know him quite well," said Anna-Rose proudly, as they walked off. "He's a _great_ friend of ours." "You don't say," said the station-master, who was chewing gum; and as the twins had not yet seen this being done they concluded he had been interrupted in the middle of a meal by the arrival of the train. "Now mind," he called after them, "you do whatever the road does. Give yourselves up to it, and however much it winds about stick to it. You'll meet other roads, but don't you take any notice of them." Freed from their luggage, and for a moment from all care, the twins went up the hill. It was the nicest thing in the world to be going to see their friend again in quite a few minutes. They had, ever since the collapse of the Sack arrangements, been missing him very much. As they hurried on through the scented woods, past quiet fields, between yellow-leaved hedges, the evening sky growing duskier and the beckoning star lighter, they remembered Mr. Twist's extraordinary kindness, his devoted and unfailing care, with the warmest feelings of gratitude and affection. Even Anna-Felicitas felt warm. How often had he rearranged her head when it was hopelessly rolling about; how often had he fed her when she felt better enough to be hungry. Anna-Felicitas was very hungry. She still thought highly of pride and independence, but now considered their proper place was after a good meal. And Anna-Rose, with all the shameless cheerfulness of one who for a little has got rid of her pride and is feeling very much more comfortable in consequence remarked that one mustn't overdo independence. "Let's hurry," said Anna-Felicitas. "I'm so dreadfully hungry. I do so terribly want supper. And I'm sure it's supper-time, and the Twists will have finished and we mightn't get any." "As though Mr. Twist wouldn't see to that!" exclaimed Anna-Rose, proud and confident. But she did begin to run, for she too was very hungry, and they raced the rest of the way; which is why they arrived on the Twist doorstep panting, and couldn't at first answer Amanda the head maid's surprised and ungarnished inquiry as to what they wanted, when she opened the door and found them there. "We want Mr. Twist," said Anna-Rose, as soon as she could speak. Amanda eyed them. "You from the village?" she asked, thinking perhaps they might be a deputation of elder school children sent to recite welcoming poems to Mr. Twist on his safe return from the seat of war. Yet she knew all the school children and everybody else in Clark, and none of them were these. "No--from the station," panted Anna-Rose. "We didn't see any village," panted Anna-Felicitas. "We want Mr. Twist please," said Anna-Rose struggling with her breath. Amanda eyed them. "Having supper," she said curtly. "Fortunate creature," gasped Anna-Felicitas, "I hope he isn't eating it all." "Will you announce us please?" said Anna-Rose putting on her dignity. "The Miss Twinklers." "The who?" said Amanda. "The Miss Twinklers," said Anna-Rose, putting on still more dignity, for there was that in Amanda's manner which roused the Junker in her. "Can't disturb him at supper," said Amanda briefly. "I assure you," said Anna-Felicitas, with the earnestness of conviction, "that he'll like it. I think I can undertake to promise he'll show no resentment whatever." Amanda half shut the door. "We'll come in please," said Anna-Rose, inserting herself into what was left of the opening. "Will you kindly bear in mind that we're totally unaccustomed to the doorstep?" Amanda, doubtful, but unpractised in such a situation, permitted herself, in spite of having as she well knew the whole of free and equal America behind her, to be cowed. Well, perhaps not cowed, but taken aback. It was the long words and the awful politeness that did it. She wasn't used to beautiful long words like that, except on Sundays when the clergyman read the prayers in church, and she wasn't used to politeness. That so much of it should come out of objects so young rendered Amanda temporarily dumb. She wavered with the door. Instantly Anna-Rose slipped through it; instantly Anna-Felicitas followed her. "Kindly tell your master the Miss Twinklers have arrived," said Anna-Rose, looking every inch a Junker. There weren't many inches of Anna-Rose, but every one of them at that moment, faced by Amanda's want of discipline, was sheer Junker. Amanda, who had never met a Junker in her happy democratic life, was stirred into bristling emotion by the word master. She was about to fling the insult of it from her by an impetuous and ill-considered assertion that if he was her master she was his mistress and so there now, when the bell which had rung once already since they had been standing parleying rang again and more impatiently, and the dining-room door opened and a head appeared. The twins didn't know that it was Edith's head, but it was. "Amanda--" began Edith, in the appealing voice that was the nearest she ever dared get to rebuke without Amanda giving notice; but she stopped on seeing what, in the dusk of the hall, looked like a crowd. "Oh--" said Edith, taken aback. "Oh--" And was for withdrawing her head and shutting the door. But the twins advanced towards her and the stream of light shining behind her and the agreeable smell streaming past her, with outstretched hands. "How do you do," they both said cordially. "_Don't_ go away again." Edith, feeling that here was something to protect her quietly feeding mother from, came rather hastily through the door and held it to behind her, while her unresponsive and surprised hand was taken and shaken even as Mr. Sack's had been. "We've come to see Mr. Twist," said Anna-Rose. "He's our friend," said Anna-Felicitas. "He's our best friend," said Anna-Rose. "Is he in there?" asked Anna-Felicitas, appreciatively moving her nose, a particularly delicate instrument, round among the various really heavenly smells that were issuing from the dining-room and sorting them out and guessing what they probably represented, the while water rushed into her mouth. The sound of a chair being hastily pushed back was heard and Mr. Twist suddenly appeared in the doorway. "What is it, Edward?" a voice inside said. Mr. Twist was a pale man, whose skin under no circumstances changed colour except in his ears. These turned red when he was stirred, and they were red now, and seemed translucent with the bright light behind him shining through them. The twins flew to him. It was wonderful how much pleased they were to see him again. It was as if for years they had been separated from their dearest friend. The few hours since the night before had been enough to turn their friendship and esteem for him into a warm proprietary affection. They felt that Mr. Twist belonged to them. Even Anna-Felicitas felt it, and her eyes as she beheld him were bright with pleasure. "Oh there you are," cried Anna-Rose darting forward, gladness in her voice, and catching hold of his arm. "We've come," said Anna-Felicitas, beaming and catching hold of his other arm. "We got into difficulties," said Anna-Rose. "We got into them at once," said Anna-Felicitas. "They weren't our difficulties--" "They were the Sacks'--" "But they reacted on us--" "And so here we are." "Who is it, Edward?" asked the voice inside. "Mrs. Sack ran away yesterday from Mr. Sack," went on Anna-Rose eagerly. "Mr. Sack was still quite warm and moist from it when we got there," said Anna-Felicitas. "Aunt Alice said we weren't ever to stay in a house where they did that," said Anna-Rose. "Where there wasn't a lady," said Anna-Felicitas "So when we saw that she wasn't there because she'd gone, we turned straight round to you," said Anna. Rose. "Like flowers turning to the sun," said Anna-Felicitas, even in that moment of excitement not without complacency at her own aptness. "And left our things at the station," Anna-Rose rushed on. "And ran practically the whole way," said Anna-Felicitas, "because of perhaps being late for supper and you're having eaten it all, and we so dreadfully hungry--" "Who is it, Edward?" again called the voice inside, louder and more insistently. Mr. Twist didn't answer. He was quickly turning over the situation in his mind. He had not mentioned the twins to his mother, which would have been natural, seeing how very few hours he had of reunion with her, if she hadn't happened to have questioned him particularly as to his fellow-passengers on the boat. Her questions had been confined to the first-class passengers, and he had said, truthfully, that he had hardly spoken to one of them, and not at all to any of the women. Mrs. Twist had been relieved, for she lived in dread of Edward's becoming, as she put it to herself, entangled with ladies. Sin would be bad enough--for Mrs. Twist was obliged reluctantly to know that even with ladies it is possible to sin--but marriage for Edward would be even worse, because it lasted longer. Sin, terrible though it was, had at least this to be said for it, that it could be repented of and done with, and repentance after all was a creditable activity; but there was no repenting of marriage with any credit. It was a holy thing, and you don't repent of holy things,--at least, you oughtn't to. If, as ill-advised young men so often would, Edward wanted as years went on to marry in spite of his already having an affectionate and sympathetic home with feminine society in it, then it seemed to Mrs. Twist most important, most vital to the future comfort of the family, that it should be someone she had chosen herself. She had observed him from infancy, and knew much better than he what was needed for his happiness; and she also knew, if there must be a wife, what was needed for the happiness of his mother and sister. She had not thought to inquire about the second-class passengers, for it never occurred to her that a son of hers could drift out of his natural first-class sphere into the slums of a ship, and Mr. Twist had seen no reason for hurrying the Twinklers into her mental range. Not during those first hours, anyhow. There would be plenty of hours, and he felt that sufficient unto the day would be the Twinklers thereof. But the part that was really making his ears red was that he had said nothing about the evening with the twins in New York. When his mother asked with the fondness of the occasion what had detained him, he said as many another honest man, pressed by the searching affection of relations, has said before him, that it was business. Now it appeared that he would have to go into the dining-room and say, "No. It wasn't business. It was these." His ears glowed just to think of it. He hated to lie. Specially he hated to have lied,--at the moment, one plunged in spurred by sudden necessity, and then was left sorrowfully contemplating one's degradation. His own desire was always to be candid; but his mother, he well knew, could not bear the pains candour gave her. She had been so terribly hurt, so grievously wounded when, fresh from praying,--for before he went to Harvard he used to pray--he had on one or two occasions for a few minutes endeavoured not to lie to her that sheer fright at the effect of his unfiliality made him apologize and beg her to forget it and forgive him. Now she was going to be still more wounded by his having lied. The meticulous tortuousness of family life struck Mr. Twist with a sudden great impatience. After that large life over there in France, to come back to this dreary petticoat lying, this feeling one's way about among tender places ... "Who is it, Edward?" called the voice inside for the third time. "There's someone in there seems quite particularly to want to know who we are," said Anna-Felicitas. "Why not tell her?" "I expect it's your mother," said Anna-Rose, feeling the full satisfaction of having got to a house from which the lady hadn't run anywhere. "It is," said Mr. Twist briefly. "Edith!" called the voice, much more peremptorily. Edith started and half went in, but hesitated and quite stayed out. She was gazing at the Twinklers with the same kind eyes her brother had, but without the disfiguring spectacles. Astonishment and perplexity and anxiety were mixed with the kindness. Amanda also gazed; and if the twins hadn't been so sure of their welcome, even they might gradually have begun to perceive that it wasn't exactly open-armed. "Edith--Edward--Amanda," called the voice, this time with unmistakable anger. For one more moment Mr. Twist stood uncertain, looking down at the happy confident faces turned up to him exactly, as Anna-Felicitas had just said, like flowers turning to the sun. Visions of France flashed before him, visions of what he had known, what he had just come back from. His friends over there, the gay courage, the helpfulness, the ready, uninquiring affection, the breadth of outlook, the quick friendliness, the careless assumption that one was decent, that one's intentions were good,--why shouldn't he pull some of the splendid stuff into his poor, lame little home? Why should he let himself drop back from heights like those to the old ridiculous timidities, the miserable habit of avoiding the truth? Rebellion, hope, determination, seized Mr. Twist. His eyes shone behind his spectacles. His ears were two red flags of revolution. He gripped hold of the twins, one under each arm. "You come right in," he said, louder than he had ever spoken in his life. "Edith, see these girls? They're the two Annas. Their other name is Twinkler, but Anna'll see you through. They want supper, and they want beds, and they want affection, and they're going to get it all. So hustle with the food, and send the Cadillac for their baggage, and fix up things for them as comfortably as you know how. And as for Mrs. Sack," he said, looking first at one twin and then at the other, "if it hadn't been for her running away from her worthless husband--I'm convinced that fellow Sack is worthless--you might never have come here at all. So you see," he finished, laughing at Anna-Rose, "how good comes out of evil." And with the sound of these words preceding him he pushed open the dining-room door and marched them in. CHAPTER XVI At the head of the table sat his mother; long, straight, and grave. She was in the seat of authority, the one with its back to the windows and its face to the door, from whence she could see what everybody did, especially Amanda. Having seen what Amanda did, she then complained to Edith. She didn't complain direct to Amanda, because Amanda could and did give notice. Her eyes were fixed on the door. Between it and her was the table, covered with admirable things to eat, it being supper and therefore, according to a Twist tradition surviving from penurious days, all the food, hot and cold, sweet and salt, being brought in together, and Amanda only attending when rung for. Half-eaten oyster patties lay on Mrs. Twist's plate. In her glass neglected champagne had bubbled itself flat. Her hand still held her fork, but loosely, as an object that had lost its interest, and her eyes and ears for the last five minutes had not departed from the door. At first she had felt mere resigned annoyance that Amanda shouldn't have answered the bell, but she didn't wish to cast a shadow over Edward's homecoming by drawing poor Edith's attention before him to how very badly she trained the helps, and therefore she said nothing at the moment; then, when Edith, going in search of Amanda, had opened the door and let in sounds of argument, she was surprised, for she knew no one so intimately that they would be likely to call at such an hour; but when Edward too leapt up, and went out and stayed out and failed to answer her repeated calls, she was first astonished, then indignant, and then suddenly was overcome by a cold foreboding. Mrs. Twist often had forebodings, and they were always cold. They seized her with bleak fingers; and one of Edith's chief functions was to comfort and reassure her for as long a while each time as was required to reach the stage of being able to shake them off. Here was one, however, too icily convincing to be shaken off. It fell upon her with the swiftness of a revelation. Something unpleasant was going to happen to her; something perhaps worse than unpleasant,--disastrous. And something immediate. Those excited voices out in the hall,--they were young, surely, and they were feminine. Also they sounded most intimate with Edward. What had he been concealing from her? What disgracefulness had penetrated through him, through the son the neighbourhood thought so much of, into her very home? She was a widow. He was her only son. Impossible to believe he would betray so sacred a position, that he whom she had so lovingly and proudly welcomed a few hours before would allow his--well, she really didn't know what to call them, but anyhow female friends of whom she had been told nothing, to enter that place which to every decent human being is inviolable, his mother's home. Yet Mrs. Twist did instantly believe it. Then Edward's voice, raised and defiant--surely defiant?--came through the crack in the door, and every word he said was quite distinct. Anna; supper; affection ... Mrs. Twist sat frozen. And then the door was flung open and Edward tumultuously entered, his ears crimson, his face as she had never seen it and in each hand, held tightly by the arm, a girl. Edward had been deceiving her. "Mother--" he began. "How do you do," said the girls together, and actually with smiles. Edward had been deceiving her. That whole afternoon how quiet he had been, how listless. Quite gentle, quite affectionate, but listless and untalkative. She had thought he must be tired; worn out with his long journey across from Europe. She had made allowances for him; been sympathetic, been considerate. And look at him now. Never had she seen him with a face like that. He was--Mrs. Twist groped for the word and reluctantly found it--rollicking. Yes; that was the word that exactly described him--rollicking. If she hadn't observed his languor up to a few minutes ago at supper, and seen him with her own eyes refuse champagne and turn his back on cocktails, she would have been forced to the conclusion, dreadful though it was to a mother, that he had been drinking. And the girls! Two of them. And so young. Mrs. Twist had known Edward, as she sometimes informed Edith, all his life, and had not yet found anything in his morals which was not blameless. Watch him with what loving care she might she had found nothing; and she was sure her mother's instinct would not have failed her. Nevertheless, even with that white past before her--he hadn't told her about "Madame Bovary"--she now instantly believed the worst. It was the habit of Clark to believe the worst. Clark was very small, and therefore also very virtuous. Each inhabitant was the careful guardian of his neighhour's conduct. Nobody there ever did anything that was wrong; there wasn't a chance. But as Nature insists on a balance, the minds of Clark dwelt curiously on evil. They were minds active in suspicion. They leapt with an instantaneous agility at the worst conclusions. Nothing was ever said in Clark, but everything was thought. The older inhabitants, made fast prisoners in their mould of virtue by age, watched with jealous care the behaviour of those still young enough to attract temptation. The younger ones, brought up in inhibitions, settled down to wakefulness in regard to each other. Everything was provided and encouraged in Clark, a place of pleasant orchards and gentle fields, except the things that had to do with love. Husbands were there; and there was a public library, and social afternoons, and an Emerson society. The husbands died before the wives, being less able to cope with virtue; and a street in Clark of smaller houses into which their widows gravitated had been christened by the stationmaster--a more worldly man because of his three miles off and all the trains--Lamentation Lane. In this village Mrs. Twist had lived since her marriage, full of dignity and honour. As a wife she had been full of it, for the elder Mr. Twist had been good even when alive, and as a widow she had been still fuller, for the elder Mr. Twist positively improved by being dead. Not a breath had ever touched her and her children. Not the most daring and distrustful Clark mind had ever thought of her except respectfully. And now here was this happening to her; at her age; when she was least able to bear it. She sat in silence, staring with sombre eyes at the three figures. "Mother--" began Edward again; but was again interrupted by the twins, who said together, as they had now got into the habit of saying when confronted by silent and surprised Americans, "We've come." It wasn't that they thought it a particularly good conversational opening, it was because silence and surprise on the part of the other person seemed to call for explanation on theirs, and they were constitutionally desirous of giving all the information in their power. "How do you do," they then repeated, loosening themselves from Mr. Twist and advancing down the room with outstretched hands. Mr. Twist came with them. "Mother," he said, "these are the Twinkler girls. Their name's Twinkler. They---" Freed as he felt he was from his old bonds, determined as he felt he was on emulating the perfect candour and simplicity of the twins and the perfect candour and simplicity of his comrades in France, his mother's dead want of the smallest reaction to this announcement tripped him up for a moment and prevented his going on. But nothing ever prevented the twins going on. If they were pleased and excited they went on with cheerful gusto, and if they were unnerved and frightened they still went on,--perhaps even more volubly, anxiously seeking cover behind a multitude of words. Mrs. Twist had not yet unnerved and frightened them, because they were too much delighted that they had got to her at all. The relief Anna-Rose experienced at having safely piloted that difficult craft, the clumsy if adorable Columbus, into a respectable Port was so immense that it immediately vented itself in words of warmest welcome to the lady in the chair to her own home. "We're _so_ glad to see you here," she said, smiling till her dimple seemed to be everywhere at once hardly able to refrain from giving the lady a welcome hug instead of just inhospitably shaking her hand. She couldn't even shake her hand, however, because it still held, immovably, the fork. "It would have been too awful," Anna-Rose therefore finished, putting the heartiness of the handshake she wanted to give into her voice instead, "if _you_ had happened to have run away too." "As Mrs. Sack has done from her husband," Anna-Felicitas explained, smiling too, benevolently, at the black lady who actually having got oyster patties on her plate hadn't bothered to eat them. "But of course you couldn't," she went on, remembering in time to be tactful and make a Sympathetic reference to the lady's weeds; which, indeed, considering Mr. Twist had told her and Anna-Rose that his father had died when he was ten, nearly a quarter of a century ago, seemed to have kept their heads up astonishingly and stayed very fresh. And true to her German training, and undaunted by the fork, she did that which Anna-Rose in her contentment had forgotten, and catching up Mrs. Twist's right hand, fork and all, to her lips gave it the brief ceremonious kiss of a well brought up Junker. Like Amanda's, Mrs. Twist's life had been up to this empty of Junkers. She had never even heard of them till the war, and pronounced their name, and so did the rest of Clark following her lead, as if it had been junket, only with an r instead of a t at the end. She didn't therefore recognize the action; but even she, outraged as she was, could not but see its grace. And looking up in sombre hostility at the little head bent over her hand and at the dark line of eyelashes on the the flushed face, she thought swiftly, "_She's_ the one." "You see, mother," said Mr. Twist, pulling a chair vigorously and sitting on it with determination, "it's like this. (Sit down, you two, and get eating. Start on anything you see in this show that hits your fancy. Edith'll be fetching you something hot, I expect--soup, or something--but meanwhile here's enough stuff to go on with.) You see, mother--" he resumed, turning squarely to her, while the twins obeyed him with immense alacrity and sat down and began to eat whatever happened to be nearest them, "these two girls--well, to start with they're twins--" Mr. Twist was stopped again by his mother's face. She couldn't conceive why he should lie. Twins the world over matched in size and features; it was notorious that they did. Also, it was the custom for them to match in age, and the tall one of these was at least a year older than the other one. But still, thought Mrs. Twist, let that pass. She would suffer whatever it was she had to suffer in silence. The twins too were silent, because they were so busy eating. Perfectly at home under the wing they knew so well, they behaved with an easy naturalness that appeared to Mrs. Twist outrageous. But still--let that too pass. These strangers helped themselves and helped each other, as if everything belonged to them; and the tall one actually asked her--her, the mistress of the house--if she could get _her_ anything. Well, let that pass too. "You see, mother--" began Mr. Twist again. He was finding it extraordinarily difficult. What a tremendous hold one's early training had on one, he reflected, casting about for words; what a deeply rooted fear there was in one, subconscious, lurking in one's foundations, of one's mother, of her authority, of her quickly wounded affection. Those Jesuits, with their conviction that they could do what they liked with a man if they had had the bringing up of him till he was seven, were pretty near the truth. It took a lot of shaking off, the unquestioning awe, the habit of obedience of one's childhood. Mr. Twist sat endeavouring to shake it off. He also tried to bolster himself up by thinking he might perhaps be able to assist his mother to come out from her narrowness, and discover too how warm and glorious the sun shone outside, where people loved and helped each other. Then he rejected that as priggish. "You see, mother," he started again, "I came across them--across these two girls--they're both called Anna, by the way, which seems confusing but isn't really--I came across them on the boat----" He again stopped dead. Mrs. Twist had turned her dark eyes to him. They had been fixed on Anna-Felicitas, and on what she was doing with the dish of oyster patties in front of her. What she was doing was not what Mrs. Twist was accustomed to see done at her table. Anna-Felicitas was behaving badly with the patties, and not even attempting to conceal, as the decent do, how terribly they interested her. "You came across them on the boat," repeated Mrs. Twist, her eyes on her son, moved in spite of her resolution to speech. And he had told her that very afternoon that he had spoken to nobody except men. Another lie. Well, let that pass too ... Mr. Twist sat staring back at her through his big gleaming spectacles. He well knew the weakness of his position from his mother's point of view; but why should she have such a point of view, such a niggling, narrow one, determined to stay angry and offended because he had been stupid enough to continue, under the influence of her presence, the old system of not being candid with her, of being slavishly anxious to avoid offending? Let her try for once to understand and forgive. Let her for once take the chance offered her of doing a big, kind thing. But as he stared at her it entered his mind that he couldn't very well start moving her heart on behalf of the twins in their presence. He couldn't tell her they were orphans, alone in the world, helpless, poor, and so unfortunately German, with them sitting there. If he did, there would be trouble. The twins seemed absorbed for the moment in getting fed, but he had no doubt their ears were attentive, and at the first suggestion of sympathy being invoked for them they would begin to say a few of those things he was so much afraid his mother mightn't be able to understand. Or, if she understood, appreciate. He decided that he would be quiet until Edith came back, and then ask his mother to go to the drawing-room with him, and while Edith was looking after the Annas he would, well out of earshot, explain them to his mother, describe their situation, commend them to her patience and her love. He sat silent therefore, wishing extraordinarily hard that Edith would be quick. But Anna-Felicitas's eyes were upon him now, as well as his mother's. "Is it possible," she asked with her own peculiar gentleness, balancing a piece of patty on her fork, "that you haven't yet mentioned us to your mother?" And Anna-Rose, struck in her turn at such an omission, paused too with food on the way to her mouth, and said, "And we such friends?" "Almost, as it were, still red-not from being with you?" said Anna-Felicitas. Both the twins looked at Mrs. Twist in their surprise. "I thought the first thing everybody did when they got back to their mother," said Anna-Rose, addressing her, "was to tell her everything from the beginning." Mrs. Twist, after an instant's astonishment at this unexpected support, bowed her head--it could hardly be called a nod--in her son's direction. "You see--" the movement seemed to say, "even these ..." "And ever since the first day at sea," said Anna-Felicitas, also addressing Mrs. Twist, "up to as recently as eleven o'clock last night, he has been what I think can be quite accurately described as our faithful two-footed companion." "Yes," said Anna-Rose. "As much as that we've been friends. Practically inseparable." "So that it really is _very_ surprising," said Anna-Felicitas to Mr. Twist, "that you didn't tell your mother about us." Mr. Twist got up. He wouldn't wait for Edith. It was unhealthy in that room. He took his mother's arm and helped her to get up. "You're very wise, you two," he flung at the twins in the voice of the goaded, "but you may take it from me you don't know everything yet. Mother, come into the drawing-room, and we'll talk. Edith'll see to these girls. I expect I ought to have talked sooner," he went on, as he led her to the door, "but confound it all, I've only been home about a couple of hours." "Five," said Mrs. Twist. "Five then. What's five? No time at all." "Ample," said Mrs Twist; adding icily, "and did I you say confound, Edward?" "Well, damn then," said Edward very loud, in a rush of rank rebellion. CHAPTER XVII This night was the turning-point in Mr. Twist's life. In it he broke loose from his mother. He spent a terrible three hours with her in the drawing-room, and the rest of the night he strode up and down his bedroom. The autumn morning, creeping round the house in long white wisps, found him staring out of his window very pale, his mouth pulled together as tight as it would go. His mother had failed him. She had not understood. And not only simply not understood, but she had said things when at last she did speak, after he had explained and pleaded for at least an hour, of an incredible bitterness and injustice. She had seemed to hate him. If she hadn't been his mother Mr. Twist would have been certain she hated him, but he still believed that mothers couldn't hate their children. It was stark against nature; and Mr. Twist still believed in the fundamental rightness of that which is called nature. She had accused him of gross things--she, his mother, who from her conversation since he could remember was unaware, he had judged, of the very existence of such things. Those helpless children ... Mr. Twist stamped as he strode. Well, he had made her take that back; and indeed she had afterwards admitted that she said it in her passion of grief and disappointment, and that it was evident these girls were not like that. But before they reached that stage, for the first time in his life he had been saying straight out what he wanted to say to his mother just as if she had been an ordinary human being. He told her all he knew of the twins, asked her to take them in for the present and be good to them, and explained the awkwardness of their position, apart from its tragedy, as Germans by birth stranded in New England, where opinion at that moment was so hostile to Germans. Then, continuing in candour, he had told his mother that here was her chance of doing a fine and beautiful thing, and it was at this point that Mrs. Twist suddenly began, on her side, to talk. She had listened practically in silence to the rest; had only started when he explained the girls' nationality; but when he came to offering her these girls as the great opportunity of her life to do something really good at last, she, who felt she had been doing nothing else but noble and beautiful things, and doing them with the most single-minded devotion to duty and the most consistent disregard of inclination, could keep silence no longer. Had she not borne her great loss without a murmur? Had she not devoted all her years to bringing up her son to be a good man? Had she ever considered herself? Had she ever flagged in her efforts to set an example of patience in grief, of dignity in misfortune? She began to speak. And just as amazed as she had been at the things this strange, unknown son had been saying to her and at the manner of their delivery, so was he amazed at the things this strange, unknown mother was saying to him, and at the manner of their delivery. Yet his amazement was not so great after all as hers. Because for years, away down hidden somewhere inside him, he had doubted his mother; for years he had, shocked at himself, covered up and trampled on these unworthy doubts indignantly. He had doubted her unselfishness; he had doubted her sympathy and kindliness; he had even doubted her honesty, her ordinary honesty with money and accounts; and lately, before he went to Europe, he had caught himself thinking she was cruel. Nevertheless this unexpected naked justification of his doubts was shattering to him. But Mrs. Twist had never doubted Edward. She thought she knew him inside out. She had watched him develop. Watched him during the long years of his unconsciousness. She had been quite secure; and rather disposed, also somewhere down inside her, to a contempt for him, so easy had he been to manage, so ready to do everything she wished. Now it appeared that she no more knew Edward than if he had been a stranger in the street. The bursting of the dykes of convention between them was a horrible thing to them both. Mr. Twist had none of the cruelty of the younger generation to support him: he couldn't shrug his shoulder and take comfort in the thought that this break between them was entirely his mother's fault, for however much he believed it to be her fault the belief merely made him wretched; he had none of the pitiless black pleasure to be got from telling himself it served her right. So naturally kind was he--weak, soft, stupid, his mother shook out at him--that through all his own shame at this naked vision of what had been carefully dressed up for years in dignified clothes of wisdom and affection, he was actually glad, when he had time in his room to think it over, glad she should be so passionately positive that he, and only he, was in the wrong. It would save her from humiliation; and of the painful things of late Mr. Twist could least bear to see a human being humiliated. That was, however, towards morning. For hours raged, striding about his room, sorting out the fragments into which his life as a son had fallen, trying to fit them into some sort of a pattern, to see clear about the future. Clearer. Not clear. He couldn't hope for that yet. The future seemed one confused lump. All he could see really clear of it was that he was going, next day, and taking the twins. He would take them to the other people they had a letter to, the people in California, and then turn his face back to Europe, to the real thing, to the greatness of life where death is. Not an hour longer than he could help would he or they stay in that house. He had told his mother he would go away, and she had said, "I hope never to see you again." Who would have thought she had so much of passion in her? Who would have thought he had so much of it in him? Fury against her injustice shook and shattered Mr. Twist. Not so could fair and affectionate living together be conducted, on that basis of suspicion, distrust, jealousy. Through his instinct, though not through his brain, shot the conviction that his mother was jealous of the twins,--jealous of the youth of the twins, and of their prettiness, and goodness, and of the power, unknown to them, that these things gave them. His brain was impervious to such a conviction, because it was an innocent brain, and the idea would never have entered it that a woman of his mother's age, well over sixty, could be jealous in that way; but his instinct knew it. The last thing his mother said as he left the drawing-room was, "You have killed me. You have killed your own mother. And just because of those girls." And Mr. Twist, shocked at this parting shot of unfairness, could find, search as he might, nothing to be said for his mother's point of view. It simply wasn't true. It simply was delusion. Nor could she find anything to be said for his, but then she didn't try to, it was so manifestly unforgivable. All she could do, faced by this bitter sorrow, was to leave Edward to God. Sternly, as he flung out of the room at last, unsoftened, untouchable, deaf to her even when she used the tone he had always obeyed the tone of authority, she said to herself she must leave her son to God. God knew. God would judge. And Clark too would know; and Clark too would judge. Left alone in the drawing-room on this terrible night of her second great bereavement, Mrs. Twist was yet able, she was thankful to feel, to resolve she would try to protect her son as long as she could from Clark. From God she could not, if she would, protect him; but she would try to protect him even now, as she had always protected him, from earthly harm and hurt. Clark would, however, surely know in time, protect as she might, and judge between her and Edward. God knew already, and was already judging. God and Clark.... Poor Edward. CHAPTER XVIII The twins, who had gone to bed at half-past nine, shepherded by Edith, in the happy conviction that they had settled down comfortably for some time, were surprised to find at breakfast that they hadn't. They had taken a great fancy to Edith, in spite of a want of restfulness on her part that struck them while they were finishing their supper, and to which at last they drew her attention. She was so kind, and so like Mr. Twist; but though she looked at them with hospitable eyes and wore an expression of real benevolence, it didn't escape their notice that she seemed to be listening to something that wasn't, anyhow, them, and to be expecting something that didn't, anyhow, happen. She went several times to the door through which her brother and mother had disappeared, and out into whatever part of the house lay beyond it, and when she came back after a minute or two was as wanting in composure as ever. At last, finding these abrupt and repeated interruptions hindered any real talk, they pointed out to her that reasoned conversation was impossible if one of the parties persisted in not being in the room, and inquired of her whether it were peculiar to her, or typical of the inhabitants of America, to keep on being somewhere else. Edith smiled abstractedly at them, said nothing, and went out again. She was longer away this time, and the twins having eaten, among other things, a great many meringues, grew weary of sitting with those they hadn't eaten lying on the dish in front of them reminding them of those they had. They wanted, having done with meringues, to get away from them and forget them. They wanted to go into another room now, where there weren't any. Anna-Felicitas felt, and told Anna-Rose who was staring listlessly at the left-over meringues, that it was like having committed murder, and being obliged to go on looking at the body long after you were thoroughly tired of it. Anna-Rose agreed, and said that she wished now she hadn't committed meringues,--anyhow so many of them. Then at last Edith came back, and told them she was sure they were very tired after their long day, and suggested their going upstairs to their rooms. The rooms were ready, said Edith, the baggage had come, and she was sure they would like to have nice hot baths and go to bed. The twins obeyed her readily, and she checked a desire on their part to seek out her mother and brother first and bid them good-night, on the ground that her mother and brother were busy; and while the twins were expressing polite regret, and requesting her to convey their regret for them to the proper quarter in a flow of well-chosen words that astonished Edith, who didn't know how naturally Junkers make speeches, she hurried them by the drawing-room door through which, shut though it was, came sounds of people being, as Anna-Felicitas remarked, very busy indeed; and Anna-Rose, impressed by the quality and volume of Mr. Twist's voice as it reached her passing ears, told Edith that intimately as she knew her brother she had never known him as busy as that before. Edith said nothing, but continued quickly up the stairs. They found they each had a bedroom, with a door between, and that each bedroom had a bathroom of its own, which filled them with admiration and pleasure. There had only been one bathroom at Uncle Arthur's, and at home in Pomerania there hadn't been any at all. The baths there had been vessels brought into one's bedroom every night, into which servants next morning poured water out of buckets, having previously pumped the water into the bucket from the pump in the backyard. They put Edith in possession of these facts while she helped them unpack and brushed and plaited their hair for them, and she was much astonished,--both at the conditions of discomfort and slavery they revealed as prevalent in other countries, and at the fact that they, the Twinklers, should hail from Pomerania. Pomerania, reflected Edith as she tied up their pigtails with the ribbons handed to her for that purpose, used to be in Germany when she went to school, and no doubt still was. She became more thoughtful than ever, though she still smiled at them, for how could she help it? Everyone, Edith was certain, must needs smile at the Twinklers even if they didn't happen to be one's own dear brother's _protegees_. And when they came out, very clean and with scrubbed pink ears, from their bath, she not only smiled at them as she tucked them up in bed, but she kissed them good-night. Edith, like her brother, was born to be a mother,--one of the satisfactory sort that keeps you warm and doesn't argue with you. Germans or no Germans the Twinklers were the cutest little things, thought Edith; and she kissed them, with the same hunger with which, being now thirty-eight, she was beginning to kiss puppies. "You remind me so of Mr. Twist," murmured Anna-Felicitas sleepily, as Edith tucked her up and kissed her. "You do all the sorts of things he does," murmured Anna-Rose, also sleepily, when it was her turn to be tucked up and kissed; and in spite of a habit now fixed in her of unquestioning acceptance and uncritical faith. Edith went downstairs to her restless vigil outside the drawing-room door a little surprised. At breakfast the twins learnt to their astonishment that, though appearances all pointed the other way what they were really doing was not being stationary at all, but merely having a night's lodging and breakfast between, as it were, two trains. Mr. Twist, who looked pale and said shortly when the twins remarked solicitously on it that he felt pale, briefly announced the fact. "What?" exclaimed Anna-Rose, staring at Mr. Twist and then at Edith--Mrs. Twist, they were told, was breakfasting in bed--"Why, we've unpacked." "You will re-pack," said Mr. Twist. They found difficulty in believing their ears. "But we've settled in," remonstrated Anna-Felicitas, after an astonished pause. "You will settle out," said Mr. Twist. He frowned. He didn't look at them, he frowned at his own teapot. He had made up his mind to be very short with the Annas until they were safely out of the house, and not permit himself to be entangled by them in controversy. Also, he didn't want to look at them if he could help it. He was afraid that if he did he might be unable not to take them both in his arms and beg their pardon for the whole horridness of the world. But if he didn't look at them, they looked at him. Four round, blankly surprised eyes were fixed, he knew, unblinkingly on him. "We're seeing you in quite a new light," said Anna-Rose at last, troubled and upset. "Maybe," said Mr. Twist, frowning at his teapot. "Perhaps you will be so good," said Anna-Felicitas stiffly, for at all times she hated being stirred up and uprooted, "as to tell us where you think we're going to." "Because," said Anna-Rose, her voice trembling a little, not only at the thought of fresh responsibilities, but also with a sense of outraged faith, "our choice of residence, as you may have observed, is strictly limited." Mr. Twist, who had spent an hour before breakfast with Edith, whose eyes were red, informed them that they were _en route_ for California. "To those other people," said Anna-Rose. "I see." She held her head up straight. "Well, I expect they'll be very glad to see us," she said after a silence; and proceeded, her chin in the air, to look down her nose, because she didn't want Mr. Twist, or Edith or Anna-Felicitas, to notice that her eyes had gone and got tears in them. She angrily wished she hadn't got such damp eyes. They were no better than swamps, she thought--undrained swamps; and directly fate's foot came down a little harder than usual, up oozed the lamentable liquid. Not thus should the leader of an expedition behave. Not thus, she was sure, did the original Christopher. She pulled herself together; and after a minute's struggle was able to leave off looking down her nose. But meanwhile Anna-Felicitas had informed Mr. Twist with gentle dignity that he was obviously tired of them. "Not at all," said Mr. Twist. Anna-Felicitas persisted. "In view of the facts," she said gently, "I'm afraid your denial carries no weight." "The facts," said Mr. Twist, taking up his teapot and examining it with care, "are that I'm coming with you." "Oh are you," said Anna-Felicitas much more briskly; and it was here that Anna-Rose's eyes dried up. "That rather dishes your theory," said Mr. Twist, still turning his teapot about in his hands. "Or would if it didn't happen that I--well, I happen to have some business to do in California, and I may as well do it now as later. Still, I could have gone by a different route or train, so you see your theory _is_ rather dished, isn't it?" "A little," admitted Anna-Felicitas. "Not altogether. Because if you really like our being here, here we are. So why hurry us off somewhere else so soon?" Mr. Twist perceived that he was being led into controversy in spite of his determination not to be. "You're very wise," he said shortly, "but you don't know everything. Let us avoid conjecture and stick to facts. I'm going to take you to California, and hand you over to your friends. That's all you know, and all you need to know." "As Keats very nearly said," said Anna-Rose "And if our friends have run away?" suggested Anna-Felicitas. "Oh Lord," exclaimed Mr. Twist impatiently, putting the teapot down with a bang, "do you think we're running away all the time in America?" "Well, I think you seem a little restless," said Anna-Felicitas. Thus it was that two hours later the twins found themselves at the Clark station once more, once more starting into the unknown, just as if they had never done it before, and gradually, as they adapted themselves to the sudden change, such is the india-rubber-like quality of youth, almost with the same hopefulness. Yet they couldn't but meditate, left alone on the platform while Mr. Twist checked the baggage, on the mutability of life. They seemed to live in a kaleidoscope since the war began what a series of upheavals and readjustments had been theirs! Silent, and a little apart on the Clark platform, they reflected retrospectively; and as they counted up their various starts since the days, only fourteen months ago, when they were still in their home in Germany, apparently as safely rooted, as unshakably settled as the pine trees in their own forests, they couldn't but wonder at the elusiveness of the unknown, how it wouldn't let itself be caught up with and at the trouble it was giving them. They had had so many changes in the last year that they did want now to have time to become familiar with some one place and people. Already however, being seventeen, they were telling themselves, and each other that after all, since the Sacks had failed them, California was their real objective. Not Clark at all. Clark had never been part of their plans. Uncle Arthur and Aunt Alice didn't even know it existed. It was a side-show; just a little thing of their own, an extra excursion slipped in between the Sacks and the Delloggs. True they had hoped to stay there some time, perhaps even for months,--anyhow, time to mend their stockings in, which were giving way at the toes unexpectedly, seeing how new they were; but ultimately California was the place they had to go to. It was only that it was a little upsetting to be whisked out of Clark at a moment's notice. "I expect you'll explain everything to us when we're in the train and have lots of time," Anna-Rose had said to Mr. Twist as the car moved away from the house and Edith, red-eyed, waved her handkerchief from the doorstep. Mrs. Twist had not come down to say good-bye, and they had sent her many messages. "I expect I will," Mr. Twist had answered. But it was not till they were the other side of Chicago that he really began to be himself again. Up to then--all that first day, and the next morning in New York where he took them to the bank their £200 was in and saw that they got a cheque-book, and all the day after that waiting in the Chicago hotel for the train they were to go on in to California--Mr. Twist was taciturn. They left Chicago in the evening; a raw, wintery October evening with cold rain in the air, and the twins, going early to bed in their compartment, a place that seemed to them so enchanting that their spirits couldn't fail to rise, saw no more of him till breakfast next morning. They then noticed that the cloud had lifted a little; and as the day went on it lifted still more. They were going to be three days together in that train, and it would be impossible for Mr. Twist, they were sure, to go on being taciturn as long as that. It wasn't his nature. His nature was conversational. And besides, shut up like that in a train, the sheer getting tired of reading all day would make him want to talk. So after lunch, when they were all three on the platform of the observation car, though there was nothing to observe except limitless flat stretches of bleak and empty country, the twins suggested that he should now begin to talk again. They pointed out that his body was bound to get stiff on that long journey from want of exercise, but that his mind needn't, and he had better stretch it by conversing agreeably with them as he used to before the day, which seemed so curiously long ago, when they landed in America. "It does indeed seem long ago," agreed Mr. Twist, lighting another cigarette. "I have difficulty in realizing it isn't a week yet." And he reflected that the Annas had managed to produce pretty serious havoc in America considering they had only been in it five days. He and his mother permanently estranged; Edith left alone at Clark sitting there in the ruins of her loving preparations for his return, with nothing at all that he could see to look forward to and live for except the hourly fulfilment of what she regarded as duty; every plan upset; the lives, indeed, of his mother and of his sister and of himself completely altered,--it was a pretty big bag in the time, he thought, flinging the match back towards Chicago. Mr. Twist felt sore. He felt like somebody who had had a bad tumble, and is sore and a little dizzy; but he recognized that these great ruptures cannot take place without aches and doubts. He ached, and he doubted and he also knew through his aches and doubts that he was free at last from what of late years he had so grievously writhed under--the shame of pretence. And the immediate cause of his being set free was, precisely, the Annas. It had been a violent, a painful setting free, but it had happened; and who knew if, without their sudden appearance at Clark and the immediate effect they produced on his mother, he wouldn't have lapsed after all, in spite of the feelings and determinations he had brought back with him from Europe, into the old ways again under the old influence, and gone on ignobly pretending to agree, to approve, to enjoy, to love, when he was never for an instant doing anything of the sort? He might have trailed on like that for years--Mr. Twist didn't like the picture of his own weakness, but he was determined to look at himself as he was--trailed along languidly when he was at home, living another life when he was away, getting what he absolutely must have, the irreducible minimum of personal freedom necessary to sanity, by means of small and shabby deceits. My goodness, how he hated deceits, how tired he was of the littleness of them! He turned his head and looked at the profiles of the Annas sitting alongside him. His heart suddenly grew warm within him. They had on the blue caps again which made them look so bald and cherubic, and their eyes were fixed on the straight narrowing lines of rails that went back and back to a point in the distance. The dear little things; the dear, dear little things,--so straightforward, so blessedly straight and simple, thought Mr. Twist. Fancy his mother losing a chance like this. Fancy _anybody_, thought the affectionate and kind man, missing an opportunity of helping such unfortunately placed children. The twins felt he was looking at them, and together they turned and looked at him. When they saw his expression they knew the cloud had lifted still more, and their faces broke into broad smiles of welcome. "It's pleasant to see you back again," said Anna-Felicitas heartily, who was next to him. "We've missed you very much," said Anna-Rose. "It hasn't been like the same place, the world hasn't," said Anna-Felicitas, "since you've been away." "Since you walked out of the dining-room that night at Clark," said Anna-Rose. "Of course we know you can't always be with us," said Anna-Felicitas. "Which we deeply regret," interjected Anna-Rose. "But while you are with us," said Anna-Felicitas, "for these last few days, I would suggest that we should be happy. As happy as we used to be on the _St. Luke_ when we weren't being sea-sick." And she thought she might even go so far as to enjoy hearing the "Ode to Dooty," now. "Yes," said Anna-Rose, leaning forward. "In three days we shall have disappeared into the maw of the Delloggs. Do let us be happy while we can. Who knows what their maw will be like? But whatever it's like," she added firmly, "we're going to stick in it." "And perhaps," said Anna-Felicitas, "now that you're a little restored to your normal condition, you'll tell us what has been the matter." "For it's quite clear," said Anna-Rose, "that something _has_ been the matter." "We've been talking it over," said Anna-Felicitas, "and putting two and two together, and perhaps you'll tell us what it was, and then we shall know if we're right." "Perhaps I will," said Mr. Twist, cogitating, as he continued benevolently to gaze at them. "Let's see--" He hesitated, and pushed his hat off his forehead. "I wonder if you'd understand--" "We'll give our minds to it," Anna-Felicitas assured him. "These caps make us look more stupid than we are," Anna-Rose assured him, deducing her own appearance from that of Anna-Felicitas. Encouraged, but doubtful of their capabilities of comprehension on this particular point, Mr. Twist embarked rather gingerly on his explanations. He was going to be candid from now on for the rest of his days, but the preliminary plunges were, he found, after all a little difficult. Even with the pellucidly candid Annas, all ready with ears pricked up attentively and benevolently and minds impartial, he found it difficult. It was because, on the subject of mothers, he feared he was up against their one prejudice. He felt rather than knew that their attitude on this one point might be uncompromising,--mothers were mothers, and there was an end of it; that sort of attitude, coupled with extreme reprobation of himself for supposing anything else. He was surprised and relieved to find he was wrong. Directly they got wind of the line his explanations were taking, which was very soon for they were giving their minds to it as they promised and Mr. Twist's hesitations were illuminating, they interrupted. "So we were right," they said to each other. "But you don't know yet what I'm going to say," said Mr. Twist. "I've only started on the preliminaries." "Yes we do. You fell out with your mother," said Anna-Rose. "Quarrelled," said Anna-Felicitas, nodding "We didn't think so at the time," said Anna-Rose. "We just felt there was an atmosphere of strain about Clark," said Anna-Felicitas. "But talking it over privately, we concluded that was what had happened." Mr. Twist was so much surprised that for a moment he could only say "Oh." Then he said, "And you're terribly shocked, I suppose." "Oh no," they said airily and together. "No?" "You see--" began Anna-Felicitas. "You see--" began Anna-Rose. "You see, as a general principle," said Anna-Felicitas, "it's reprehensible to quarrel with one's mother." "But we've not been able to escape observing--" said Anna-Rose. "In the course of our brief and inglorious career," put in Anna-Felicitas. "--that there are mothers and mothers," said Anna-Rose. "Yes," said Mr. Twist; and as they didn't go on he presently added, "Yes?" "Oh, that's all," said the twins, once more airily and together. CHAPTER XIX After this brief _éclaircissement_ the rest of the journey was happy. Indeed, it is doubtful if any one can journey to California and not be happy. Mr. Twist had never been further west than Chicago and break up or no break up of his home he couldn't but have a pleasant feeling of adventure. Every now and then the realization of this feeling gave his conscience a twinge, and wrung out of it a rebuke. He was having the best of it in this business; he was the party in the quarrel who went away, who left the dreariness of the scene of battle with all its corpses of dead illusions, and got off to fresh places and people who had never heard of him. Just being in a train, he found, and rushing on to somewhere else was extraordinarily nerve-soothing. At Clark there would be gloom and stagnation, the heavy brooding of a storm that has burst but not moved on, a continued anger on his mother's side, naturally increasing with her inactivity, with her impotence. He was gone, and she could say and do nothing more to him. In a quarrel, thought Mr. Twist, the morning he pushed up his blinds and saw the desert at sunrise, an exquisite soft thing just being touched into faint colours,--in a quarrel the one who goes has quite unfairly the best of it. Beautiful new places come and laugh at him, people who don't know him and haven't yet judged and condemned him are ready to be friendly. He must, of course, go far enough; not stay near at hand in some familiar place and be so lonely that he ends by being remorseful. Well, he was going far enough. Thanks to the Annas he was going about as far as he could go. Certainly he was having the best of it in being the one in the quarrel who went; and he was shocked to find himself cynically thinking, on top of that, that one should always, then, take care to be the one who did go. But the desert has a peculiarly exhilarating air. It came in everywhere, and seemed to tickle him out of the uneasy mood proper to one who has been cutting himself off for good and all from his early home. For the life of him he couldn't help feeling extraordinarily light and free. Edith--yes, there was Edith, but some day he would make up to Edith for everything. There was no helping her now: she was fast bound in misery and iron, and didn't even seem to know it. So would he have been, he supposed, if he had never left home at all. As it was, it was bound to come, this upheaval. Just the mere fact of inevitable growth would have burst the bands sooner or later. There oughtn't, of course, to have been any bands; or, there being bands, he ought long ago to have burst them. He pulled his kind slack mouth firmly together and looked determined. Long ago, repeated Mr. Twist, shaking his head at his own weak past. Well, it was done at last, and never again--never, never again, he said to himself, sniffing in through his open window the cold air of the desert at sunrise. By that route, the Santa Fé, it is not till two or three hours before you get to the end of the journey that summer meets you. It is waiting for you at a place called San Bernardino. There is no trace of it before. Up to then you are still in October; and then you get to the top of the pass, and with a burst it is June,--brilliant, windless, orange-scented. The twins and Mr. Twist were in the restaurant-car lunching when the miracle happened. Suddenly the door opened and in came summer, with a great warm breath of roses. In a moment the car was invaded by the scent of flowers and fruit and of something else strange and new and very aromatic. The electric fans were set twirling, the black waiters began to perspire, the passengers called for cold things to eat, and the twins pulled off their knitted caps and jerseys. From that point on to the end of the line in Los Angeles the twins could only conclude they were in heaven. It was the light that did it, the extraordinary glow of radiance. Of course there were orchards after orchards of orange trees covered with fruit, white houses smothered in flowers, gardens overrun with roses, tall groups of eucalyptus trees giving an impression of elegant nakedness, long lines of pepper trees with frail fern-like branches, and these things continued for the rest of the way; but they would have been as nothing without that beautiful, great bland light. The twins had had their hot summers in Pomerania, and their July days in England, but had not yet seen anything like this. Here was summer without sultriness, without gnats, mosquitoes, threatening thunderstorms, or anything to spoil it; it was summer as it might be in the Elysian fields, perfectly clear, and calm, and radiant. When the train stopped they could see how not a breath of wind stirred the dust on the quiet white roads, and the leaves of the magnolia trees glistened motionless in the sun. The train went slowly and stopped often, for there seemed to be one long succession of gardens and villages. After the empty, wind-driven plains they had come through, those vast cold expanses without a house or living creature in sight, what a laughing plenty, what a gracious fruitfulness, was here. And when they went back to their compartment it too was full of summer smells,--the smell of fruit, and roses, and honey. For the first time since the war began and with it their wanderings, the twins felt completely happy. It was as though the loveliness wrapped them round and they stretched themselves in it and forgot. No fear of the future, no doubt of it at all, they thought, gazing out of the window, the soft air patting their faces, could possibly bother them here. They never, for instance, could be cold here, or go hungry. A great confidence in life invaded them. The Delloggs, sun-soaked and orange-fed for years in this place, couldn't but be gentle too, and kind and calm. Impossible not to get a sort of refulgence oneself, they thought, living here, and absorb it and give it out again. They pictured the Delloggs as bland pillars of light coming forward effulgently to greet them, and bathing them in the beams of their hospitality. And the feeling of responsibility and anxiety that had never left Anna-Rose since she last saw Aunt Alice dropped off her in this place, and she felt that sun and oranges, backed by £200 in the bank, would be difficult things for misfortune to get at. As for Mr. Twist, he was even more entranced than the twins as he gazed out of the window, for being older he had had time to see more ugly things, had got more used to them and to taking them as principally making up life. He stared at what he saw, and thought with wonder of his mother's drawing-room at Clark, of its gloomy, velvet-upholstered discomforts, of the cold mist creeping round the house, and of that last scene in it, with her black figure in the middle of it, tall and thin and shaking with bitterness. He had certainly been in that drawing-room and heard her so terribly denouncing him, but it was very difficult to believe; it seemed so exactly like a nightmare, and this the happy normal waking up in the morning. They all three were in the highest spirits when they got out at Los Angeles and drove across to the Southern Pacific station--the name alone made their hearts leap--to catch the afternoon train on to where the Delloggs lived, and their spirits were the kind one can imagine in released souls on their first arriving in paradise,--high, yet subdued; happy, but reverential; a sort of rollicking awe. They were subdued, in fact, by beauty. And the journey along the edge of the Pacific to Acapulco, where the Delloggs lived, encouraged and developed this kind of spirits, for the sun began to set, and, as the train ran for miles close to the water with nothing but a strip of sand between it and the surf, they saw their first Pacific sunset. It happened to be even in that land of wonderful sunsets an unusually wonderful one, and none of the three had ever seen anything in the least like it. They could but sit silent and stare. The great sea, that little line of lovely islands flung down on it like a chain of amethysts, that vast flame of sky, that heaving water passionately reflecting it, and on the other side, through the other windows, a sharp wall of black mountains,--it was fantastically beautiful, like something in a poem or a dream. By the time they got to Acapulco it was dark. Night followed upon the sunset with a suddenness that astonished the twins, used to the leisurely methods of twilight on the Baltic; and the only light in the country outside the town as they got near it was the light from myriads of great stars. No Delloggs were at the station, but the twins were used now to not being met and had not particularly expected them; besides, Mr. Twist was with them this time, and he would see that if the Delloggs didn't come to them they would get safely to the Delloggs. The usual telegram had been sent announcing their arrival, and the taxi-driver, who seemed to know the Dellogg house well when Mr. Twist told him where they wanted to go, apparently also thought it natural they should want to go exactly there. In him, indeed, there did seem to be a trace of expecting them,--almost as if he had been told to look out for them; for hardly had Mr. Twist begun to give him the address than glancing at the twins he said, "I guess you're wanting Mrs. Dellogg"; and got down and actually opened the door for them, an attention so unusual in the taxi-drivers the twins had up to then met in America that they were more than ever convinced that nothing in the way of unfriendliness or unkindness could stand up against sun and oranges. "Relations?" he asked them through the window as he shut the door gently and carefully, while Mr. Twist went with a porter to see about the luggage. "I beg your pardon?" said Anna-Rose. "Relations of Delloggses?" "No," said Anna-Rose. "Friends." "At least," amended Anna-Felicitas, "practically." "Ah," said the driver, leaning with both his arms on the window-sill in the friendliest possible manner, and chewing gum and eyeing them with thoughtful interest. Then he said, after a pause during which his jaw rolled regularly from side to side and the twins watched the rolling with an interest equal to his interest in them, "From Los Angeles?" "No," said Anna-Rose. "From New York." "At least," amended Anna-Felicitas, "practically." "Well I call that a real compliment," said the driver slowly and deliberately because of his jaw going on rolling. "To come all that way, and without being relations--I call that a real compliment, and a friendship that's worth something. Anybody can come along from Los Angeles, but it takes a real friend to come from New York," and he eyed them now with admiration. The twins for their part eyed him. Not only did his rolling jaws fascinate them, but the things he was saying seemed to them quaint. "But we wanted to come," said Anna-Rose, after a pause. "Of course. Does you credit," said the driver. The twins thought this over. The bright station lights shone on their faces, which stood out very white in the black setting of their best mourning. Before getting to Los Angeles they had dressed themselves carefully in what Anna-Felicitas called their favourable-impression-on-arrival garments,--those garments Aunt Alice had bought for them on their mother's death, expressing the wave of sympathy in which she found herself momentarily engulfed by going to a very good and expensive dressmaker; and in the black perfection of these clothes the twins looked like two well-got-up and very attractive young crows. These were the clothes they had put on on leaving the ship, and had been so obviously admired in, to the uneasiness of Mr. Twist, by the public; it was in these clothes that they had arrived within range of Mr. Sack's distracted but still appreciative vision, and in them that they later roused the suspicions and dislike of Mrs. Twist. It was in these clothes that they were now about to start what they hoped would be a lasting friendship with the Delloggs, and remembering they had them on they decided that perhaps it wasn't only sun and oranges making the taxi-driver so attentive, but also the effect on him of their grown-up and awe-inspiring hats. This was confirmed by what he said next. "I guess you're old friends, then," he remarked, after a period of reflective jaw-rolling. "Must be, to come all that way." "Well--not exactly," said Anna-Rose, divided between her respect for truth and her gratification at being thought old enough to be somebody's old friend. "You see," explained Anna-Felicitas, who was never divided in her respect for truth, "we're not particularly old anything." The driver in his turn thought this over, and finding he had no observations he wished to make on it he let it pass, and said, "You'll miss Mr. Dellogg." "Oh?" said Anna-Rose, pricking up her ears, "Shall we?" "We don't mind missing Mr. Dellogg," said Anna-Felicitas. "It's Mrs. Dellogg we wouldn't like to miss." The driver looked puzzled. "Yes--that would be too awful," said Anna-Rose, who didn't want a repetition of the Sack dilemma. "You did say," she asked anxiously, "didn't you, that we were going to miss Mr. Dellogg?" The driver, looking first at one of them and then at the other, said, "Well, and who wouldn't?" And this answer seemed so odd to the twins that they could only as they stared at him suppose it was some recondite form of American slang, provided with its own particular repartee which, being unacquainted with the language, they were not in a position to supply. Perhaps, they thought, it was of the same order of mysterious idioms as in England such sentences as I don't think, and Not half,--forms of speech whose exact meaning and proper use had never been mastered by them. "There won't be another like Mr. Dellogg in these parts for many a year," said the driver, shaking his head. "Ah no. And that's so." "Isn't he coming back?" asked Anna-Rose. The driver's jaws ceased for a moment to roll. He stared at Anna-Rose with unblinking eyes. Then he turned his head away and spat along the station, and then, again fixing his eyes on Anna-Rose, he said, "Young gurl, you may be a spiritualist, and a table-turner, and a psychic-rummager, and a ghost-fancier, and anything else you please, and get what comfort you can out of your coming backs and the rest of the blessed truck, but I know better. And what I know, being a Christian, is that once a man's dead he's either in heaven or he's in hell, and whichever it is he's in, in it he stops." Anna-Felicitas was the first to speak. "Are we to understand," she inquired, "that Mr. Dellogg--" She broke off. "That Mr. Dellogg is--" Anna-Rose continued for her, but broke off too. "That Mr. Dellogg isn't--" resumed Anna-Felicitas with determination, "well, that he isn't alive?" "Alive?" repeated the driver. He let his hand drop heavily on the window-sill. "If that don't beat all," he said, staring at her. "What do you come his funeral for, then?" "His funeral?" "Yes, if you don't know that he ain't?" "Ain't--isn't what?" "Alive, of course. No, I mean dead. You're getting me all tangled up." "But we haven't." "But we didn't." "We had a letter from him only last month." "At least, an uncle we've got had." "And he didn't say a word in it about being dead--I mean, there was no sign of his being going to be--I mean, he wasn't a bit ill or anything in his letter--" "Now see here," interrupted the driver, sarcasm in his voice, "it ain't exactly usual is it--I put it to you squarely, and say it ain't _exactly_ usual (there may be exceptions, but it ain't exactly _usual_) to come to a gentleman's funeral, and especially not all the way from New York, without some sort of an idea that he's dead. Some sort of a _general_ idea, anyhow," he added still more sarcastically; for his admiration for the twins had given way to doubt and discomfort, and a suspicion was growing on him that with incredible and horrible levity, seeing what the moment was and what the occasion, they were filling up the time waiting for their baggage, among which were no doubt funeral wreaths, by making game of him. "Gurls like you shouldn't behave that way," he went on, his voice aggrieved as he remembered how sympathetically he had got down from his seat when he saw their mourning clothes and tired white faces and helped them into his taxi,--only for genuine mourners, real sorry ones, going to pay their last respects to a gentleman like Mr. Dellogg, would he, a free American have done that. "Nicely dressed gurls, well-cared for gurls. Daughters of decent people. Here you come all this way, I guess sent by your parents to represent them properly, and properly fitted out in nice black clothes and all, and you start making fun. Pretending. Playing kind of hide-and-seek with me about the funeral. Messing me up in a lot of words. I don't like it. I'm a father myself, and I don't like it. I don't like to see daughters going on like this when their father ain't looking. It don't seem decent to me. But I suppose you Easterners--" The twins, however, were not listening. They were looking at each other in dismay. How extraordinary, how terrible, the way Uncle Arthur's friends gave out. They seemed to melt away at one's mere approach. People who had been living with their husbands all their lives ran away just as the twins came on the scene; people who had been alive all their lives went and died, also at that very moment. It almost seemed as if directly anybody knew that they, the Twinklers, were coming to stay with them they became bent on escape. They could only look at each other in stricken astonishment at this latest blow of Fate. They heard no more of what the driver said. They could only sit and look at each other. And then Mr. Twist came hurrying across from the baggage office, wiping his forehead, for the night was hot. Behind him came the porter, ruefully balancing the piled-up grips on his truck. "I'm sorry to have been so--" began Mr. Twist, smiling cheerfully: but he stopped short in his sentence and left off smiling when he saw the expression in the four eyes fixed on him. "What has happened?" he asked quickly. "Only what we might have expected," said Anna-Rose. "Mr. Dellogg's dead," said Anna-Felicitas. "You don't say," said Mr. Twist; and after a pause he said again, "You don't say." Then he recovered himself. "I'm very sorry to hear it, of course," he said briskly, picking himself up, as it were, from this sudden and unexpected tumble, "but I don't see that it matters to you so long as Mrs. Dellogg isn't dead too." "Yes, but--" began Anna-Rose. "Mr. Dellogg isn't _very_ dead, you see," said Anna-Felicitas. Mr. Twist looked from them to the driver, but finding no elucidation there and only disapproval, looked back again. "He isn't dead and settled _down_," said Anna-Rose. "Not _that_ sort of being dead," said Anna-Felicitas. "He's _just_ dead." "Just got to the stage when he has a funeral," said Anna-Rose. "His funeral, it seems, is imminent," said Anna-Felicitas. "Did you not give us to understand," she asked, turning to the driver, "that it was imminent?" "I don't know about imminent," said the driver, who wasn't going to waste valuable time with words like that, "but it's to-morrow." "And you see what that means for us," said Anna-Felicitas, turning to Mr. Twist. Mr. Twist did. He again wiped his forehead, but not this time because the night was hot. CHAPTER XX Manifestly it is impossible to thrust oneself into a house where there is going to be a funeral next day, even if one has come all the way from New York and has nowhere else to go. Equally manifestly it is impossible to thrust oneself into it after the funeral till a decent interval has elapsed. But what the devil, Mr. Twist asked himself in language become regrettably natural to him since his sojourn at the front, is a decent interval? This Mr. Twist asked himself late that night, pacing up and down the sea-shore in the warm and tranquil darkness in front of the Cosmopolitan Hotel, while the twins, utterly tired out by their journey and the emotions at the end of it, crept silently into bed. How long does it take a widow to recover her composure? Recover, that is, the first beginnings of it? At what stage in her mourning is it legitimate to intrude on her with reminders of obligations incurred before she was a widow,--with, in fact, the Twinklers? Delicacy itself would shrink from doing it under a week thought Mr. Twist, or even under a fortnight, or even if you came to that, under a month; and meanwhile what was he to do with the Twinklers? Mr. Twist, being of the artistic temperament for otherwise he wouldn't have been so sympathetic nor would he have minded, as he so passionately did mind, his Uncle Charles's teapot dribbling on to the tablecloth--was sometimes swept by brief but tempestuous revulsions of feeling, and though he loved the Twinklers he did at this moment describe them mentally and without knowing it in the very words of Uncle Arthur, as those accursed twins. It was quite unjust, he knew. They couldn't help the death of the man Dellogg. They were the victims, from first to last, of a cruel and pursuing fate; but it is natural to turn on victims, and Mr. Twist was for an instant, out of the very depth of his helpless sympathy, impatient with the Twinklers. He walked up and down the sands frowning and pulling his mouth together, while the Pacific sighed sympathetically at his feet. Across the road the huge hotel standing in its gardens was pierced by a thousand lights. Very few people were about and no one at all was on the sands. There was an immense noise of what sounded like grasshoppers or crickets, and also at intervals distant choruses of frogs, but these sounds seemed altogether beneficent,--so warm, and southern, and far away from less happy places where in October cold winds perpetually torment the world. Even in the dark Mr. Twist knew he had got to somewhere that was beautiful. He could imagine nothing more agreeable than, having handed over the twins safely to the Delloggs, staying on a week or two in this place and seeing them every day,--perhaps even, as he had pictured to himself on the journey, being invited to stay with the Delloggs. Now all that was knocked on the head. He supposed the man Dellogg couldn't help being dead but he, Mr. Twist, equally couldn't help resenting it. It was so awkward; so exceedingly awkward. And it was so like what one of that creature Uncle Arthur's friends would do. Mr. Twist, it will be seen, was frankly unreasonable, but then he was very much taken aback and annoyed. What was he to do with the Annas? He was obviously not a relation of theirs--and indeed no profiles could have been less alike--and he didn't suppose Acapulco was behind other parts of America in curiosity and gossip. If he stayed on at the Cosmopolitan with the twins till Mrs. Dellogg was approachable again, whenever that might be, every sort of question would be being asked in whispers about who they were and what was their relationship, and presently whenever they sat down anywhere the chairs all round them would empty. Mr. Twist had seen the kind of thing happening in hotels before to other people,--never to himself; never had he been in any situation till now that was not luminously regular. And quite soon after this with the chairs had begun to happen, the people who created these vacancies were told by the manager--firmly in America, politely in England, and sympathetically in France--that their rooms had been engaged a long time ago for the very next day, and no others were available. The Cosmopolitan was clearly an hotel frequented by the virtuous rich. Mr. Twist felt that he and the Annas wouldn't, in their eyes, come under this heading, not, that is, when the other guests became aware of the entire absence of any relationship between him and the twins. Well, for a day or two nothing could happen; for a day or two, before his party had had time to sink into the hotel consciousness and the manager appeared to tell him the rooms were engaged, he could think things out and talk them over with his companions. Perhaps he might even see Mrs. Dellogg. The funeral, he had heard on inquiring of the hall porter was next day. It was to be a brilliant affair, said the porter. Mr. Dellogg had been a prominent inhabitant, free with his money, a supporter of anything there was to support. The porter talked of him as the taxi-driver had done, regretfully and respectfully; and Mr. Twist went to bed angrier than ever with a man who, being so valuable and so necessary, should have neglected at such a moment to go on living. Mr. Twist didn't sleep very well that night. He lay in his rosy room, under a pink silk quilt, and most of the time stared out through the open French windows with their pink brocade curtains at the great starry night, thinking. In that soft bed, so rosy and so silken as to have been worthy of the relaxations of, at least, a prima donna, he looked like some lean and alien bird nesting temporarily where he had no business to. He hadn't thought of buying silk pyjamas when the success of his teapot put him in the right position for doing so, because his soul was too simple for him to desire or think of anything less candid to wear in bed than flannel, and he still wore the blue flannel pyjamas of a careful bringing up. In that beautiful bed his pyjamas didn't seem appropriate. Also his head, so frugal of hair, didn't do justice to the lace and linen of a pillow prepared for the hairier head of, again at least, a prima donna. And finding he couldn't sleep, and wishing to see the stars he put on his spectacles, and then looked more out of place than ever. But as nobody was there to see him,--which, Mr. Twist sometimes thought when he caught sight of himself in his pyjamas at bed-time, is one of the comforts of being virtuously unmarried,--nobody minded. His reflections were many and various, and they conflicted with and contradicted each other as the reflections of persons in a difficult position who have Mr. Twist's sort of temperament often do. Faced by a dribbling teapot, an object which touched none of the softer emotions, Mr. Twist soared undisturbed in the calm heights of a detached and concentrated intelligence, and quickly knew what to do with it; faced by the derelict Annas his heart and his tenderness got in the ways of any clear vision. About three o'clock in the morning, when his mind was choked and strewn with much pulled-about and finally discarded plans, he suddenly had an idea. A real one. As far as he could see, a real good one. He would place the Annas in a school. Why shouldn't they go to school? he asked himself, starting off answering any possible objections. A year at a first-rate school would give them and everybody else time to consider. They ought never to have left school. It was the very place for luxuriant and overflowing natures like theirs. No doubt Acapulco had such a thing as a finishing school for young ladies in it, and into it the Annas should go, and once in it there they should stay put, thought Mr. Twist in vigorous American, gathering up his mouth defiantly. Down these lines of thought his relieved mind cantered easily. He would seek out a lawyer the next morning, regularize his position to the twins by turning himself into their guardian, and then get them at once into the best school there was. As their guardian he could then pay all their expenses, and faced by this legal fact they would, he hoped, be soon persuaded of the propriety of his paying whatever there was to pay. Mr. Twist was so much pleased by his idea that he was able to go to sleep after that. Even three months' school--the period he gave Mrs. Dellogg for her acutest grief--would do. Tide them over. Give them room to turn round in. It was a great solution. He took off his spectacles, snuggled down into his rosy nest, and fell asleep with the instantaneousness of one whose mind is suddenly relieved. But when he went down to breakfast he didn't feel quite so sure. The twins didn't look, somehow, as though they would want to go to school. They had been busy with their luggage, and had unpacked one of the trunks for the first time since leaving Aunt Alice, and in honour of the heat and sunshine and the heavenly smell of heliotrope that was in the warm air, had put on white summer frocks. Impossible to imagine anything cooler, sweeter, prettier and more angelically good than those two Annas looked as they came out on to the great verandah of the hotel to join Mr. Twist at breakfast. They instantly sank into the hotel consciousness. Mr. Twist had thought this wouldn't happen for a day or two, but he now perceived his mistake. Not a head that wasn't turned to look at them, not a newspaper that wasn't lowered. They were immediate objects of interest and curiosity, entirely benevolent interest and curiosity because nobody yet knew anything about them, and the wives of the rich husbands--those halves of the virtuous-rich unions which provided the virtuousness--smiled as they passed, and murmured nice words to each other like cute and cunning. Mr. Twist, being a good American, stood up and held the twins' chairs for them when they appeared. They loved this; it seemed so respectful, and made them feel so old and looked-up to. He had done it that night in New York at supper, and at all the meals in the train in spite of the train being so wobbly and each time they had loved it. "It makes one have such self-respect," they agreed, commenting on this agreeable practice in private. They sat down in the chairs with the gracious face of the properly treated, and inquired, with an amiability and a solicitous politeness on a par with their treatment how Mr. Twist had slept. They themselves had obviously slept well, for their faces were cherubic in their bland placidity, and already after one night wore what Mr. Twist later came to recognize as the Californian look, a look of complete unworriedness. Yet they ought to have been worried. Mr. Twist had been terribly worried up to the moment in the night when he got his great idea, and he was worried again, now that he saw the twins, by doubts. They didn't look as though they would easily be put to school. His idea still seemed to him magnificent, a great solution, but would the Annas be able to see it? They might turn out impervious to it; not rejecting it, but simply non-absorbent. As they slowly and contentedly ate their grape-fruit, gazing out between the spoonfuls at the sea shining across the road through palm trees, and looking unruffled itself, he felt it was going to be rather like suggesting to two cherubs to leave their serene occupation of adoring eternal beauty and learn lessons instead. Still, it was the one way out, as far as Mr. Twist could see, of the situation produced by the death of the man Dellogg. "When you've done breakfast," he said, pulling himself together on their reaching the waffle stage, "we must have a talk." "When we've done breakfast," said Anna-Rose, "we must have a walk." "Down there," said Anna-Felicitas, pointing with her spoon. "On the sands. Round the curve to where the pink hills begin." "Mr. Dellogg's death," said Mr. Twist, deciding it was necessary at once to wake them up out of the kind of happy somnolescence they seemed to be falling into, "has of course completely changed--" "How unfortunate," interrupted Anna-Rose, her eyes on the palms and the sea and the exquisite distant mountains along the back of the bay, "to have to be dead on a day like this." "It's not only his missing the fine weather that makes it unfortunate," said Mr. Twist. "You mean," said Anna-Rose, "it's our missing him." "Precisely," said Mr. Twist. "Well, we know that," said Anna-Felicitas placidly. "We knew it last night, and it worried us," said Anna-Rose. "Then we went to sleep and it didn't worry us. And this morning it still doesn't." "No," said Mr. Twist dryly. "You don't look particularly worried, I must say." "No," said Anna-Felicitas, "we're not. People who find they've got to heaven aren't usually worried, are they." "And having got to heaven," said Anna-Rose, "we've thought of a plan to enable us to stay in it." "Oh have you," said Mr. Twist, pricking up his ears. "The plan seemed to think of us rather than we of it," explained Anna-Felicitas. "It came and inserted itself, as it were, into our minds while we were dressing." "Well, I've thought of a plan too," said Mr. Twist firmly, feeling sure that the twins' plan would be the sort that ought to be instantly nipped in the bud. He was therefore greatly astonished when Anna-Rose said, "Have you? Is it about schools?" He stared at her in silence. "Yes," he then said slowly, for he was very much surprised. "It is." "So is ours," said Anna-Rose. "Indeed," said Mr. Twist. "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "We don't think much of it, but it will tide us over." "Exactly," said Mr. Twist, still more astonished at this perfect harmony of ideas. "Tide us over till Mrs. Dellogg is---" began Anna-Rose in her clear little voice that carried like a flute to all the tables round them. Mr. Twist got up quickly. "If you've finished let us go out of doors," he said; for he perceived that silence had fallen on the other tables, and attentiveness to what Anna-Rose was going to say next. "Yes. On the sands," said the twins, getting up too. On the sands, however, Mr. Twist soon discovered that the harmony of ideas was not as complete as he had supposed; indeed, something very like heated argument began almost as soon as they were seated on some rocks round the corner of the shore to the west of the hotel and they became aware, through conversation, of the vital difference in the two plans. The Twinkler plan, which they expounded at much length and with a profusion of optimistic detail, was to search for and find a school in the neighbourhood for the daughters of gentlemen, and go to it for three months, or six months, or whatever time Mrs. Dellogg wanted to recover in. Up to this point the harmony was complete, and Mr. Twist could only nod approval. Beyond it all was confusion, for it appeared that the twins didn't dream of entering a school in any capacity except as teachers. Professors, they said; professors of languages and literatures. They could speak German, as they pointed out, very much better than most people, and had, as Mr. Twist had sometimes himself remarked, an extensive vocabulary in English. They would give lessons in English and German literature. They would be able to teach quite a lot about Heine, for instance, the whole of whose poetry they knew by heart and whose sad life in Paris-- "It's no good running on like that," interrupted Mr. Twist. "You're not old enough." Not old enough? The Twinklers, from their separate rocks, looked at each other in surprised indignation. "Not old enough?" repeated Anna-Rose. "We're grown up. And I don't see how one can be more than grown up. One either is or isn't grown up. And there can be no doubt as to which we are." And this the very man who so respectfully had been holding their chairs for them only a few minutes before! As if people did things like that for children. "You're not old enough I say," said Mr. Twist again, bringing his hand down with a slap on the rock to emphasize his words. "Nobody would take you. Why, you've got perambulator faces, the pair of you--" "Perambulator--?" "And what school is going to want two teachers both teaching the same thing, anyway?" And he then quickly got out his plan, and the conversation became so heated that for a time it was molten. The Twinklers were shocked by his plan. More; they were outraged. Go to school? To a place they had never been to even in their suitable years? They, two independent grown-ups with £200 in the bank and nobody with any right to stop their doing anything they wanted to? Go to school now, like a couple of little suck-a-thumbs? It was Anna-Rose, very flushed and bright of eye, who flung this expression at Mr. Twist from her rock. He might think they had perambulator faces if he liked--they didn't care, but they did desire him to bear in mind that if it hadn't been for the war they would be now taking their proper place in society, that they had already done a course of nursing in a hospital, an activity not open to any but adults, and that Uncle Arthur had certainly not given them all that money to fritter away on paying for belated schooling. "We would be anachronisms," said Anna-Felicitas, winding up the discussion with a firmness so unusual in her that it showed how completely she had been stirred. "Are you aware that we are marriageable?" inquired Anna-Rose icily. "And don't you think it's bad enough for us to be aliens and undesirables," asked Anna-Felicitas, "without getting chronologically confused as well?" Mr. Twist was quiet for a bit. He couldn't compete with the Twinklers when it came to sheer language. He sat hunched on his rock, his face supported by his two fists, staring out to sea while the twins watched him indignantly. School indeed! Then presently he pushed his hat back and began slowly to rub his ear. "Well, I'm blest if I know what to do with you, then," he said, continuing to rub his ear and stare out to sea. The twins opened their mouths simultaneously at this to protest against any necessity for such knowledge on his part, but he interrupted them. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to resume this discussion when you're both a little more composed." "We're perfectly composed," said Anna-Felicitas. "Less ruffled, then." "We're quite unruffled," said Anna-Rose. "Well, you don't look it, and you don't sound like it. But as this is important I'd be glad to resume the discussion, say, to-morrow. I suggest we spend to-day exploring the neighbourhood and steadying our minds--" "Our minds are perfectly steady, thank you." "--and to-morrow we'll have another go at this question. I haven't told you all my plan yet"--Mr. Twist hadn't had time to inform them of his wish to become their guardian, owing to the swiftness with which he had been engulfed in their indignation,--"but whether you approve of it or not, what is quite certain is that we can't stay on at the hotel much longer." "Because it's so dear?" "Oh, it isn't so much _that_,--the proprietor is a friend of mine, or anyhow he very well might be--" "It looks very dear," said Anna-Rose, visions of their splendid bedroom and bathroom rising before her. They too had slept in silken beds, and the taps in their bathroom they had judged to be pure gold. "And it's because we can't afford to be in a dear place spending money," said Anna-Felicitas, "that it's so important we should find a salaried position in a school without loss of time." "And it's because we can't afford reckless squandering that we ought to start looking for such a situation at once" said Anna-Rose. "Not to-day," said Mr. Twist firmly, for he wouldn't give up the hope of getting them, once they were used to it, to come round to his plan. "To-day, this one day, we'll give ourselves up to enjoyment. It'll do us all good. Besides, we don't often get to a place like this, do we. And it has taken some getting to, hasn't it." He rose from his rock and offered his hand to help them off theirs. "To-day enjoyment," he said, "to-morrow business. I'm crazy," he added artfully, "to see what the country is like away up in those hills." And so it was that about five o'clock that afternoon, having spent the whole day exploring the charming environs of Acapulco,--having been seen at different periods going over the Old Mission in tow of a monk who wouldn't look at them but kept his eyes carefully fixed on the ground, sitting on high stools eating strange and enchanting ices at the shop in the town that has the best ices, bathing deliciously in the warm sea at the foot of a cliff along the top of which a great hedge of rose-coloured geraniums flared against the sky, lunching under a grove of ilexes on the contents of a basket produced by Mr. Twist from somewhere in the car he had hired, wandering afterwards up through eucalyptus woods across the fields towards the foot of the mountains,--they came about five o'clock, thirsty and thinking of tea, to a delightful group of flowery cottages clustering round a restaurant and forming collectively, as Mr. Twist explained, one of the many American forms of hotel. "To which," he said, "people not living in the cottages can come and have meals at the restaurant, so we'll go right in and have tea." And it was just because they couldn't get tea--any other meal, the proprietress said, but no teas were served, owing to the Domestic Help Eight Hours Bill which obliged her to do without domestics during the afternoon hours--that Anna-Felicitas came by her great idea. CHAPTER XXI But she didn't come by it at once. They got into the car first, which was waiting for them in the scented road at the bottom of the field they had walked across, and they got into it in silence and were driven back to their hotel for tea, and her brain was still unvisited by inspiration. They were all tired and thirsty, and were disappointed at being thwarted in their desire to sit at a little green table under whispering trees and rest, and drink tea, and had no sort of wish to have it at the Cosmopolitan. But both Mr. Twist, who had been corrupted by Europe, and the twins, who had the habits of their mother, couldn't imagine doing without it in the afternoon, and they would have it in the hotel sooner than not have it at all. It was brought to them after a long time of waiting. Nobody else was having any at that hour, and the waiter, when at last one was found, had difficulty apparently in believing that they were serious. When at last he did bring it, it was toast and marmalade and table-napkins, for all the world as though it had been breakfast. Then it was that, contemplating this with discomfort and distaste, as well as the place they were sitting in and its rocking-chairs and marble and rugs, Anna-Felicitas was suddenly smitten by her idea. It fell upon her like a blow. It struck her fairly, as it were, between the eyes. She wasn't used to ideas, and she stopped dead in the middle of a piece of toast and looked at the others. They stopped too in their eating and looked at her. "What's the matter?" asked Anna-Rose. "Has another button come off?" At this Mr. Twist considered it wisest to turn his head away, for experience had taught him that Anna-Felicitas easily came undone. "I've thought of something," said Anna-Felicitas. Mr. Twist turned his head back again. "You don't say," he said, mildly sarcastic. "_Ich gratuliere_," said Anna-Rose, also mildly sarcastic. "I've got an idea," said Anna-Felicitas. "But it's so luminous," she said, looking from one to the other in a kind of surprise. "Of course. That's what we'll do. Ridiculous to waste time bothering about schools." There was a new expression on her face that silenced the comments rising to Anna-Rose's and Mr. Twist's tongues, both of whom had tired feet and were therefore disposed to sarcasm. Anna-Felicitas looked at them, and they looked at her, and her face continued to become visibly more and more illuminated, just as if a curtain were being pulled up. Animation and interest shone in her usually dreamy eyes. Her drooping body sat up quite straight. She reminded Anna-Rose, who had a biblically well-furnished mind, of Moses when he came down from receiving the Law on the mountain. "Well, tell us," said Anna-Rose. "But not," she added, thinking of Moses, "if it's only more commandments." Anna-Felicitas dropped the piece of toast she was still holding in her fingers, and pushed back her cup. "Come out on to the rocks," she said getting up--"where we sat this morning." And she marched out, followed by the other two with the odd submissiveness people show towards any one who is thoroughly determined. It was dark and dinner-time before they got back to the hotel. Throughout the sunset Anna-Felicitas sat on her rock, the same rock she had sat on so unsatisfactorily eight hours earlier, and expounded her idea. She couldn't talk fast enough. She, so slow and listless, for once was shaken into burning activity. She threw off her hat directly she got on to the sands, climbed up the rock as if it were a pulpit, and with her hands clasped round her knees poured out her plan, the long shafts of the setting sun bathing her in bright flames and making her more like Moses than ever,--if, that is, one could imagine Moses as beautiful as Anna-F., thought Anna-Rose, and as felicitously without his nose and beard. It was wonderful how complete Anna-Felicitas's inspiration was. It reminded Mr. Twist of his own about the teapot. It was, of course, a far more complicated matter than that little device of his, and would have to be thought out very carefully and approached very judiciously, but the wealth of detail she was already ready with immensely impressed him. She even had a name for the thing; and it was when he heard this name, when it flashed into her talk with the unpremeditatedness of an inspiration, that Mr. Twist became definitely enthusiastic. He had an American eye for advertisement. Respect for it was in his blood. He instantly saw the possibilities contained in the name. He saw what could be done with it, properly worked. He saw it on hoarding-on signposts, in a thousand contrivances for catching the public attention and sticking there. The idea, of course, was fantastic, unconventional, definitely outside what his mother and that man Uncle Arthur would consider proper, but it was outside the standards of such people that life and fruitfulness and interest and joy began. He had escaped from the death-like grip of his mother, and Uncle Arthur had himself forcibly expulsed the Annas from his, and now that they were all so far away, instead of still timorously trying to go on living up to those distant sterile ideas why shouldn't they boldly go out into the light and colour that was waiting everywhere for the free of spirit? Mr. Twist had often observed how perplexingly much there is to be said for the opposite sides of a question. He was now, but with no perplexity, for Anna-Felicitas had roused his enthusiasm, himself taking the very opposite view as to the proper thing for the twins to do from the one he had taken in the night and on the rocks that morning. School? Nonsense. Absurd to bury these bright shoots of everlastingness--this is what they looked like to him, afire with enthusiasm and the setting sun--in such a place of ink. If the plan, owing to the extreme youth of the Annas, were unconventional, conventionality could be secured by giving a big enough salary to a middle-aged lady to come and preside. He himself would hover beneficently in the background over the undertaking. Anna-Felicitas's idea was to use Uncle Arthur's £200 in renting one of the little wooden cottages that seemed to be plentiful, preferably one about five miles out in the country, make it look inside like an English cottage, all pewter and chintz and valances, make it look outside like the more innocent type of German wayside inn, with green tables and spreading trees, get a cook who would concentrate on cakes, real lovely ones, various, poetic, wonderful cakes, and start an inn for tea alone that should become the fashion. It ought to be so arranged that it became the fashion. She and Anna-Rose would do the waiting. The prices would be very high, indeed exorbitant--this Mr. Twist regarded as another inspiration,--so that it should be a distinction, give people a _cachet_, to have had tea at their cottage; and in a prominent position in the road in front of it, where every motor-car would be bound to see it, there would be a real wayside inn signboard, such as inns in England always have, with its name on it. "If people here were really neutral you might have the Imperial arms of Germany and England emblazoned on it," interrupted Mr. Twist, "just to show your own extreme and peculiar neutrality." "We might call it The Christopher and Columbus," interrupted Anna-Rose, who had been sitting open-mouthed hanging on Anna-Felicitas's words. "Or you might call it The Cup and Saucer," said Mr. Twist, "and have a big cup brimming with tea and cream painted on it--" "No," said Anna-Felicitas. "It is The Open Arms. That is its name." And Mr. Twist, inclined to smile and criticise up to this, bowed his head in instantaneous recognition and acceptance. He became definitely enthusiastic. Of course he would see to it that not a shadow of ambiguousness was allowed to rest on such a name. The whole thing as he saw it, his mind working rapidly while Anna-Felicitas still talked, would be a happy joke, a joyous, gay little assault on the purses of millionaires, in whom the district abounded judging from the beautiful houses and gardens he had passed that day,--but a joke and a gay assault that would at the same time employ and support the Annas; solve them, in fact, saw Mr. Twist, who all day long had been regarding them much as one does a difficult mathematical problem. It was Mr. Twist who added the final inspiration to Anna-Felicitas's many, when at last she paused for want of breath. The inn, he said, should be run as a war philanthropy. All that was over after the expenses were paid and a proper percentage reserved by the Annas as interest on their invested capital--they listened with eager respect to these business-like expressions--would be handed over to the American Red Cross. "That," explained Mr. Twist, "would seal the inn as both respectable and fashionable, which is exactly what we would want to make it." And he then announced, and they accepted without argument or questioning in the general excitement, that he would have himself appointed their legal guardian. They didn't go back to the Cosmopolitan till dinnertime, there was so much to say, and after dinner, a meal at which Mr. Twist had to suppress them a good deal because The Open Arms kept on bursting through into their talk and, as at breakfast, the people at the tables round them were obviously trying to hear, they went out once again on to the sea-front and walked up and down till late continuing the discussion, mostly simultaneously as regards the twins, while Mr. Twist chimed in with practical suggestions whenever they stopped to take breath. He had to drive them indoors to bed at last, for the lights were going out one by one in the Cosmopolitan bedroom windows, where the virtuous rich, exhausted by their day of virtue, were subsiding, prostrate with boredom and respectability, into their various legitimate lairs, and he stayed alone out by the sea rapidly sketching out his activities for the next day. There was the guardianship to be arranged, the cottage to be found, and the middle-aged lady to be advertised for. She, indeed, must be secured at once; got to come at once to the Cosmopolitan and preside over the twins until they all proceeded in due season to The Open Arms. She must be a motherly middle-aged lady, decided Mr. Twist, affectionate, skilled in managing a cook, business-like, intellectual, and obedient. Her feminine tact would enable her to appear to preside while she was in reality obeying. She must understand that she was there for the Annas, and that the Annas were not there for her. She must approach the situation in the spirit of the enlightened king of a democratic country, who receives its honours, accepts its respect, but does not lose sight of the fact that he is merely the Chief Servant of the people. Mr. Twist didn't want a female Uncle Arthur let loose upon those blessed little girls; besides, they would have the dangerous weapon in their hands of being able to give her notice, and it would considerably dim the reputation of The Open Arms if there were a too frequent departure from it of middle-aged ladies. Mr. Twist felt himself very responsible and full of anxieties as he paced up and down alone, but he was really enjoying himself. That youthful side of him, so usual in the artistic temperament, which leaped about at the least pleasant provocation like a happy lamb when the sunshine tickles it, was feeling that this was great fun; and the business side of him was feeling that it was not only great fun but probably an extraordinarily productive piece of money-making. The ignorant Annas--bless their little hearts, he thought, he who only the night before on that very spot had been calling them accursed--believed that their £200 was easily going to do everything. This was lucky, for otherwise there would have been some thorny paths of argument and convincing to be got through before they would have allowed him to help finance the undertaking; probably they never would have, in their scrupulous independence. Mr. Twist reflected with satisfaction on the usefulness of his teapot. At last he was going to be able to do something, thanks to it, that gave him real gladness. His ambulance to France--that was duty. His lavishness to his mother--that again was duty. But here was delight, here at last was what his lonely heart had always longed for,--a chance to help and make happy, and be with and watch being made happy, dear women-things, dear soft sweet kind women-things, dear sister-things, dear children-things.... It has been said somewhere before that Mr. Twist was meant by Nature to be a mother; but Nature, when she was half-way through him, forgot and turned him into a man. CHAPTER XXII The very next morning they set out house-hunting, and two days later they had found what they wanted. Not exactly what they wanted of course, for the reason, as Anna-Felicitas explained that nothing ever is _exactly_, but full of possibilities to the eye of imagination, and there were six of this sort of eye gazing at the little house. It stood at right angles to a road much used by motorists because of its beauty, and hidden from it by trees on the top of a slope of green fields scattered over with live oaks that gently descended down towards the sea. Its back windows, and those parts of it that a house is ashamed of, were close up to a thick grove of eucalyptus which continued to the foot of the mountains. It had an overrun little garden in front, separated from the fields by a riotous hedge of sweetbriar. It had a few orange, and lemon, and peach trees on its west side, the survivors of what had once been intended for an orchard, and a line of pepper trees on the other, between it and the road. Neglected roses and a huge wistaria clambered over its dilapidated face. Somebody had once planted syringas, and snowballs, and lilacs along the inside of the line of pepper trees, and they had grown extravagantly and were an impenetrable screen, even without the sweeping pepper trees from the road. It hadn't been lived in for years, and it was well on in decay, being made of wood, but the situation was perfect for The Open Arms. Every motorist coming up that road would see the signboard outside the pepper trees, and would certainly want to stop at the neat little gate, and pass through the flowery tunnel that would be cut through the syringas, and see what was inside. Other houses were offered of a far higher class, for this one had never been lived in by gentry, said the house-agent endeavouring to put them off a thing so broken down. A farmer had had it years back, he told them, and instead of confining himself to drinking the milk from his own cows, which was the only appropriate drink for a farmer the agent maintained--he was the president of the local Anti-Vice-In-All-Its-Forms League--he put his money as he earned it into gin, and the gin into himself, and so after a bit was done for. The other houses the agent pressed on them were superior in every way except situation; but situation being the first consideration, Mr. Twist agreed with the twins, who had fallen in love with the neglected little house whose shabbiness was being so industriously hidden by roses, that this was the place, and a week later it and its garden had been bought--Mr. Twist didn't tell the twins he had bought it, in order to avoid argument, but it was manifestly the simple thing to do--and over and round and through it swarmed workmen all day long, like so many diligent and determined ants. Also, before the week was out, the middle-aged lady had been found and engaged, and a cook of gifts in the matter of cakes. This is the way you do things in America. You decide what it is that you really want, and you start right away and get it. "And everything so cheap too!" exclaimed the twins gleefully, whose £200 was behaving, it appeared, very like the widow's cruse. This belief, however, received a blow when they went without Mr. Twist, who was too busy now for any extra expeditions, to choose and buy chintzes, and it was finally shattered when the various middle-aged ladies who responded to Mr. Twist's cry for help in the advertising columns of the Acapulco and Los Angeles press one and all demanded as salary more than the whole Twinkler capital. The twins had a bad moment of chill fear and misgiving, and then once more were saved by an inspiration,--this time Anna-Rose's. "I know," she exclaimed, her face clearing. "We'll make it Co-operative." Mr. Twist, whose brow too had been puckered in the effort to think out a way of persuading the twins to let him help them openly with his money, for in spite of his going to be their guardian they remained difficult on this point, jumped at the idea. He couldn't, of course, tell what in Anna-Rose's mind the word co-operative stood for, but felt confident that whatever it stood for he could manipulate it into covering his difficulties. "What is co-operative?" asked Anna-Felicitas, with a new respect for a sister who could suddenly produce a business word like that and seem to know all about it. She had heard the word herself, but it sat very loosely in her head, at no point touching anything else. "Haven't you heard of Co-operative Stores?" inquired Anna-Rose. "Yes but--" "Well, then." "Yes, but what would a co-operative inn be?" persisted Anna-Felicitas. "One run on co-operative lines, of course," said Anna-Rose grandly. "Everybody pays for everything, so that nobody particular pays for anything." "Oh," said Anna-Felicitas. "I mean," said Anna-Rose, who felt herself that this might be clearer, "it's when you pay the servants and the rent and the cakes and things out of what you get." "Oh," said Anna-Felicitas. "And will they wait quite quietly till we've got it?" "Of course, if we're all co-operative." "I see," said Anna-Felicitas, who saw as little as before, but knew of old that Anna-Rose grew irascible when pressed. "See here now," said Mr. Twist weightily, "if that isn't an idea. Only you've got hold of the wrong word. The word you want is profit-sharing. And as this undertaking is going to be a big success there will be big profits, and any amount of cakes and salaries will be paid for as glibly and easily as you can say your ABC." And he explained that till they were fairly started he was going to stay in California, and that he intended during this time to be book-keeper, secretary, and treasurer to The Open Arms, besides Advertiser-in-Chief, which was, he said, the most important post of all; and if they would be so good as to leave this side of it unquestioningly to him, who had had a business training, he would undertake that the Red Cross, American or British, whichever they decided to support, should profit handsomely. Thus did Mr. Twist artfully obtain a free hand as financial backer of The Open Arms. The profit-sharing system seemed to the twins admirable. It cleared away every scruple and every difficulty, they now bought chintzes and pewter pots in the faith of it without a qualm, and even ceased to blench at the salary of the lady engaged to be their background,--indeed her very expensiveness pleased them, for it gave them confidence that she must at such a price be the right one, because nobody, they agreed, who knew herself not to be the right one would have the face to demand so much. This lady, the widow of Bruce D. Bilton of Chicago of whom of course, she said, the Miss Twinklers had heard--the Miss Twinklers blushed and felt ashamed of themselves because they hadn't, and indistinctly murmured something about having heard of Cornelius K. Vanderbilt, though, and wouldn't he do--had a great deal of very beautiful snow-white hair, while at the same time she was only middle-aged. She firmly announced, when she perceived Mr. Twist's spectacles dwelling on her hair, that she wasn't yet forty, and her one fear was that she mightn't be middle-aged enough. The advertisement had particularly mentioned middle-aged; and though she was aware that her brains and fingers and feet couldn't possibly be described as coming under that heading, she said her hair, on the other hand, might well be regarded as having overshot the mark. But its turning white had nothing to do with age. It had done that when Mr. Bilton passed over. No hair could have stood such grief as hers when Mr. Bilton took that final step. She had been considering the question of age, she informed Mr. Twist, from every aspect before coming to the interview, for she didn't want to make a mistake herself nor allow the Miss Twinklers to make a mistake; and she had arrived at the conclusion that what with her hair being too old and the rest of her being too young, taken altogether she struck an absolute average and perfectly fulfilled the condition required; and as she wished to live in the country, town life disturbing her psychically too much, she was willing to give up her home and her circle--it was a real sacrifice--and accept the position offered by the Miss Twinklers. She was, she said, very quiet, and yet at the same time she was very active. She liked to fly round among duties, and she liked to retire into her own mentality and think. She was all for equilibrium, for the right balancing of body and mind in a proper alternation of suitable action. Thus she attained poise,--she was one of the most poised women her friends knew, they told her. Also she had a warm heart, and liked both philanthropy and orphans. Especially if they were war ones. Mrs. Bilton talked so quickly and so profusely that it took quite a long time to engage her. There never seemed to be a pause in which one could do it. It was in Los Angeles, in an hotel to which Mr. Twist had motored the twins, starting at daybreak that morning in order to see this lady, that the personal interview took place, and by lunch-time they had been personally interviewing her for three hours without stopping. It seemed years. The twins longed to engage her, if only to keep her quiet; but Mrs. Bilton's spirited description of life as she saw it and of the way it affected something she called her psyche, was without punctuation and without even the tiny gap of a comma in it through which one might have dexterously slipped a definite offer. She had to be interrupted at last, in spite of the discomfort this gave to the Twinkler and Twist politeness, because a cook was coming to be interviewed directly after lunch, and they were dying for some food. The moment Mr. Twist saw Mrs. Bilton's beautiful white hair he knew she was the one. That hair was what The Open Arms wanted and must have; that hair, with a well-made black dress to go with it, would be a shield through which no breath of misunderstanding as to the singleness of purpose with which the inn was run would ever penetrate. He would have settled it with her in five minutes if she could have been got to listen, but Mrs. Bilton couldn't be got to listen; and when it became clear that no amount of patient waiting would bring him any nearer the end of what she had to say Mr. Twist was forced to take off his coat, as it were, and plunge abruptly into the very middle of her flow of words and convey to her as quickly as possible, as one swimming for his life against the stream, that she was engaged. "Engaged, Mrs. Bilton,"--he called out, raising his voice above the sound of Mrs. Bilton's rushing words, "engaged." She would be expected at the Cosmopolitan, swiftly continued Mr. Twist, who was as particularly anxious to have her at the Cosmopolitan as the twins were particularly anxious not to,--for for the life of them they couldn't see why Mrs. Bilton should be stirred up before they started inhabiting the cottage,--within three days-- "Mr. Twist, it can't be done," broke in Mrs. Bilton a fresh and mountainous wave of speech gathering above Mr. Twist's head. "It absolutely--" "Within a week, then," he called out quickly, holding up the breaking of the wave for an instant while he hastened to and opened the door. "And goodmorning Mrs. Bilton--my apologies, my sincere apologies, but we have to hurry away--" The cook was engaged that afternoon. Mr. Twist appeared to have mixed up the answers to his advertisement, for when, after paying the luncheon-bill, he went to join the twins in the sitting-room, he found them waiting for him in the passage outside the door looking excited. "The cook's come," whispered Anna-Rose, jerking her head towards the shut door. "She's a man." "She's a Chinaman," whispered Anna-Felicitas. Mr. Twist was surprised. He thought he had an appointment with a woman,--a coloured lady from South Carolina who was a specialist in pastries and had immaculate references, but the Chinaman assured him that he hadn't, and that his appointment was with him alone, with him, Li Koo. In proof of it, he said, spreading out his hands, here he was. "We make cakies--li'l cakies--many, lovely li'l cakies," said Li Koo, observing doubt on the gentleman's face; and from somewhere on his person he whipped out a paper bag of them as a conjurer whips a rabbit out of a hat, and offered them to the twins. They ate. He was engaged. It took five minutes. After he had gone, and punctually to the minute of her appointment, an over-flowing Negress appeared and announced that she was the coloured lady from South Carolina to whom the gentleman had written. Mr. Twist uncomfortably felt that Li Koo had somehow been clever. Impossible, however, to go back on him, having eaten his cakes. Besides, they were perfect cakes, blown together apparently out of flowers and honey and cream,--cakes which, combined with Mrs. Bilton's hair, would make the fortune of The Open Arms. The coloured lady, therefore, was sent away, disappointed in spite of the _douceur_ and fair words Mr. Twist gave her; and she was so much disappointed that they could hear her being it out loud all the way along the passage and down the stairs, and the nature of her expression of her disappointment was such that Mr. Twist, as he tried by animated conversation to prevent it reaching the twins' ears, could only be thankful after all that Li Koo had been so clever. It did, however, reach the twins' ears, but they didn't turn a hair because of Uncle Arthur. They merely expressed surprise at its redness, seeing that it came out of somebody so black. Directly after this trip to Los Angeles advertisements began to creep over the countryside. They crept along the roads where motorists were frequent and peeped at passing cars round corners and over hedges. They were taciturn advertisements, and just said three words in big, straight, plain white letters on a sea-blue ground: THE OPEN ARMS People passing in their cars saw them, and vaguely thought it must be the name of a book. They had better get it. Other people would have got it. It couldn't be a medicine nor anything to eat, and was probably a religious novel. Novels about feet or arms were usually religious. A few considered it sounded a little improper, and as though the book, far from being religious, would not be altogether nice; but only very proper people who distrusted everything, even arms took this view. After a week the same advertisements appeared with three lines added: THE OPEN ARMS YES BUT WHY? WHERE? WHAT? and then ten days after that came fresh ones: THE OPEN ARMS WILL OPEN WIDE On November 20th at Four P.M. N.B. WATCH THE SIGNPOSTS. And while the countryside--an idle countryside, engaged almost wholly in holiday-making and glad of any new distraction--began to be interested and asked questions, Mr. Twist was working day and night at getting the thing ready. All day long he was in Acapulco or out at the cottage, urging, hurrying, criticizing, encouraging, praising and admonishing. His heart and soul and brain was in this, his business instincts and his soft domestic side. His brain, after working at top speed during the day with the architect, the painter and decorator, the furnisher, the garden expert, the plumbing expert, the electric-light expert, the lawyer, the estate agent, and numberless other persons, during the night meditated and evolved advertisements. There was to be a continual stream week by week after the inn was opened of ingenious advertisements. Altogether Mr. Twist had his hands full. The inn was to look artless and simple and small, while actually being the last word in roomy and sophisticated comfort. It was to be as like an old English inn to look at as it could possibly be got to be going on his own and the twins' recollections and the sensationally coloured Elizabethan pictures in the architect's portfolio. It didn't disturb Mr. Twist's unprejudiced American mind that an English inn embowered in heliotrope and arum lilies and eucalyptus trees would be odd and unnatural, and it wouldn't disturb anybody else there either. Were not Swiss mountain chalets to be found in the fertile plains along the Pacific, complete with fir trees specially imported and uprooted in their maturity and brought down with tons of their own earth attached to their roots and replanted among carefully disposed, apparently Swiss rocks, so that what one day had been a place smiling with orange-groves was the next a bit of frowning northern landscape? And were there not Italian villas dotted about also? But these looked happier and more at home than the chalets. And there were buildings too, like small Gothic cathedrals, looking as uncomfortable and depressed as a woman who has come to a party in the wrong clothes. But no matter. Nobody minded. So that an English inn added to this company, with a little German beer-garden--only there wasn't to be any beer--wouldn't cause the least surprise or discomfort to anybody. In the end, the sole resemblance the cottage had to an English inn was the signboard out in the road. With the best will in the world, and the liveliest financial encouragement from Mr. Twist, the architect couldn't in three weeks turn a wooden Californian cottage into an ancient red-brick Elizabethan pothouse. He got a thatched roof on to it by a miracle of hustle, but the wooden walls remained; he also found a real antique heavy oak front door studded with big rusty nailheads in a San Francisco curiosity shop, that would serve, he said, as a basis for any wished-for hark-back later on when there was more time to the old girl's epoch--thus did he refer to Great Eliza and her spacious days--and meanwhile it gave the building, he alleged, a considerable air; but as this door in that fine climate was hooked open all day long it didn't disturb the gay, the almost jocose appearance of the place when everything was finished. Houses have their expressions, their distinctive faces, very much as people have, meditated Mr. Twist the morning of the opening, as he sat astride a green chair at the bottom of the little garden, where a hedge of sweetbriar beautifully separated the Twinkler domain from the rolling fields that lay between it and the Pacific, and stared at his handiwork; and the conclusion was forced upon him--reluctantly, for it was the last thing he had wanted The Open Arms to do--that the thing looked as if it were winking at him. Positively, thought Mr. Twist, his hat on the back of his head, staring, that was what it seemed to be doing. How was that? He studied it profoundly, his head on one side. Was it that it was so very gay? He hadn't meant it to be gay like that. He had intended a restrained and disciplined simplicity, a Puritan unpretentiousness, with those sweet maidens, the Twinkler twins, flitting like modest doves in and out among its tea-tables; but one small thing had been added to another small thing at their suggestion, each small thing taken separately apparently not mattering at all and here it was almost--he hoped it was only his imagination--winking at him. It looked a familiar little house; jocular; very open indeed about the arms. CHAPTER XXIII Various things had happened, however, before this morning of the great day was reached, and Mr. Twist had had some harassing experiences. One of the first things he had done after the visit to Los Angeles was to take steps in the matter of the guardianship. He had written to Mrs. Bilton that he was the Miss Twinklers' guardian, though it was not at that moment true. It was clear, he thought, that it should be made true as quickly as possible, and he therefore sought out a lawyer in Acapulco the morning after the interview. This was not the same lawyer who did his estate business for him; Mr. Twist thought it best to have a separate one for more personal affairs. On hearing Mr. Twist's name announced, the lawyer greeted him as an old friend. He knew, of course, all about the teapot, for the Non-Trickler was as frequent in American families as the Bible and much more regularly used; but he also knew about the cottage at the foot of the hills, what it had cost--which was little--and what it would cost--which was enormous--before it was fit to live in. The only thing he didn't know was that it was to be used for anything except an ordinary _pied-à-terre_. He had heard, too, of the presence at the Cosmopolitan of the twins, and on this point, like the rest of Acapulco, was a little curious. The social column of the Acapulco daily paper hadn't been able to give any accurate description of the relationship of the Twinklers to Mr. Twist. Its paragraph announcing his arrival had been obliged merely to say, while awaiting more detailed information, that Mr. Edward A. Twist, the well-known Breakfast Table Benefactor and gifted inventor of the famous Non-Trickler Teapot, had arrived from New York and was staying at the Cosmopolitan Hotel with _entourage_; and the day after this the lawyer, who got about a bit, as everybody else did in that encouraging climate, happening to look in at the Cosmopolitan to have a talk with a friend, had seen the _entourage_. It was in the act of passing through the hall on its way upstairs, followed by a boy carrying a canary in a cage. Even without the boy and the canary it was a conspicuous object. The lawyer asked his friend who the cute little girls were, and was interested to hear he was beholding Mr. Edward A. Twist's _entourage_. His friend told him that opinion in the hotel was divided about the precise nature of this _entourage_ and its relationship to Mr. Twist, but it finally came to be generally supposed that the Miss Twinklers had been placed in his charge by parents living far away in order that he might safely see them put to one of the young ladies' finishing schools in that agreeable district. The house Mr. Twist was taking was not connected in the Cosmopolitan mind with the Twinklers. Houses were always being taken in that paradise by wealthy persons from unkinder climates. He would live in it three months in the year, thought the Cosmopolitan, bring his mother, and keep in this way an occasional eye on his charges. The hotel guests regarded the Twinklers at this stage with nothing but benevolence and goodwill, for they had up to then only been seen and not heard; and as one of their leading characteristics was a desire to explain, especially if anybody looked a little surprised, which everybody usually did quite early in conversation with them, this was at that moment, the delicate moment before Mrs. Bilton's arrival, fortunate. The lawyer, then, who appreciated the young and pretty as much as other honest men, began the interview with Mr. Twist by warmly congratulating him, when he heard what he had come for, on his taste in wards. Mr. Twist received this a little coldly, and said it was not a matter of taste but of necessity. The Miss Twinklers were orphans, and he had been asked--he cleared his throat--asked by their relatives, by, in fact, their uncle in England, to take over their guardianship and see that they came to no harm. The lawyer nodded intelligently, and said that if a man had wards at all they might as well be cute wards. Mr. Twist didn't like this either, and said briefly that he had had no choice. The lawyer said, "Quite so. Quite so," and continued to look at him intelligently. Mr. Twist then explained that he had come to him rather than, as might have been more natural, to the solicitor who had arranged the purchase of the cottage because this was a private and personal matter-- "Quite so. Quite so," interrupted the lawyer, with really almost too much intelligence. Mr. Twist felt the excess of it, and tried to look dignified, but the lawyer was bent on being friendly and frank. Friendliness was natural to him when visited for the first time by a new client, and that there should be frankness between lawyers and clients he considered essential. If, he held, the client wouldn't be frank, then the lawyer must be; and he must go on being so till the client came out of his reserve. Mr. Twist, however, was so obstinate in his reserve that the lawyer cheerfully and unhesitatingly jumped to the conclusion that the _entourage_ must have some very weak spots about it somewhere. "There's another way out of it of course, Mr. Twist," he said, when he had done rapidly describing the different steps to be taken. There were not many steps. The process of turning oneself into a guardian was surprisingly simple and swift. "Out of it?" said Mr. Twist, his spectacles looking very big and astonished. "Out of what?" "Out of your little difficulty. I wonder it hasn't occurred to you. Upon my word now, I do wonder." "But I'm not in any little diff--" began Mr. Twist. "The elder of these two girls, now--" "There isn't an elder," said Mr. Twist. "Come, come," said the lawyer patiently, waiting for him to be sensible. "There isn't an elder," repeated Mr. Twist, "They're twins." "Twins, are they? Well I must say we manage to match up our twins better than that over here. But come now--hasn't it occurred to you you might marry one of them, and so become quite naturally related to them both?" Mr. Twist's spectacles seemed to grow gigantic. "Marry one of them?" he repeated, his mouth helplessly opening. "Yep," said the lawyer, giving him a lead in free-and-easiness. "Look here," said Mr. Twist suddenly gathering his mouth together, "cut that line of joke out. I'm here on serious business. I haven't come to be facetious. Least of all about those children--" "Quite so, quite so," interrupted the lawyer pleasantly. "Children, you call them. How old are they? Seventeen? My wife was sixteen when we married. Oh quite so, quite so. Certainly. By all means. Well then, they're to be your wards. And you don't want it known how recently they've become your wards--" "I didn't say that," said Mr. Twist. "Quite so, quite so. But it's your wish, isn't it. The relationship is to look as grass-grown as possible. Well, I shall be dumb of course, but most things get into the press here. Let me see--" He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and took up his fountain pen. "Just oblige me with particulars. Date of birth. Place of birth. Parentage--" He looked up ready to write, waiting for the answers. None came. "I can't tell you off hand," said Mr. Twist presently, his forehead puckered. "Ah," said the lawyer, laying down his pen. "Quite so. Not known your young friends long enough yet." "I've known them quite long enough," said Mr. Twist stiffly, "but we happen to have found more alive topics of conversation than dates and parents." "Ah. Parents not alive." "Unfortunately they are not. If they were, these poor children wouldn't be knocking about in a strange country." "Where would they be?" asked the lawyer, balancing his pen across his forefinger. Mr. Twist looked at him very straight. Vividly he remembered his mother's peculiar horror when he told her the girls he was throwing away his home life for and breaking her heart over were Germans. It had acted upon her like the last straw. And since then he had felt everywhere, with every one he talked to, in every newspaper he read, the same strong hostility to Germans, so much stronger than when he left America the year before. Mr. Twist began to perceive that he had been impetuous in this matter of the guardianship. He hadn't considered it enough. He suddenly saw innumerable difficulties for the twins and for The Open Arms if it was known it was run by Germans. Better abandon the guardianship idea than that such difficulties should arise. He hadn't thought; he hadn't had time properly to think; he had been so hustled and busy the last few days.... "They come from England," he said, looking at the lawyer very straight. "Ah," said the lawyer. Mr. Twist wasn't going to lie about the twins, but merely, by evading, he hoped to put off the day when their nationality would be known. Perhaps it never would be known; or if known, known later on when everybody, as everybody must who knew them, loved them for themselves and accordingly wouldn't care. "Quite so," said the lawyer again, nodding. "I asked because I overheard them talking the other day as they passed through the hall of your hotel. They were talking about a canary. The r in the word seemed a little rough. Not quite English, Mr. Twist? Not quite American?" "Not quite," agreed Mr. Twist. "They've been a good deal abroad." "Quite so. At school, no doubt." He was silent a moment, intelligently balancing his pen on his forefinger. "Then these particulars," he went on, looking up at Mr. Twist,--"could you let me have them soon? I tell you what. You're in a hurry to fix this. I'll call round to-night at the hotel, and get them direct from your young friends. Save time. And make me acquainted with a pair of charming girls." "No," said Mr. Twist. He got on to his feet and held out his hand. "Not to-night. We're engaged to-night. To-morrow will be soon enough. I'll send round. I'll let you know. I believe I'm going to think it over a bit. There isn't any such terrible hurry, anyhow." "There isn't? I understood--" "I mean, a day or two more or less don't figure out at much in the long run." "Quite so, quite so," said the lawyer, getting up too. "Well, I'm always at your service, at any time." And he shook hands heartily with Mr. Twist and politely opened the door for him. Then he went back to his writing-table more convinced than ever that there was something very weak somewhere about the _entourage_. As for Mr. Twist, he perceived he had been a fool. Why had he gone to the lawyer at all? Why not simply have announced to the world that he was the Twinkler guardian? The twins themselves would have believed it if he had come in one day and said it was settled, and nobody outside would ever have dreamed of questioning it. After all, you couldn't see if a man was a guardian or not just by looking at him. Well, he would do no more about it, it was much too difficult. Bother it. Let Mrs. Bilton go on supposing he was the legal guardian of her charges. Anyway he had all the intentions of a guardian. What a fool he had been to go to the lawyer. Curse that lawyer. Now he knew, however distinctly and frequently he, Mr. Twist, might say he was the Twinkler guardian, that he wasn't. It harassed Mr. Twist to perceive, as he did perceive with clearness, that he had been a fool; but the twins, when he told them that evening that owing to technical difficulties, with the details of which he wouldn't trouble them, the guardianship was off, were pleased. "We want to be bound to you," said Anna-Felicitas her eyes very soft and her voice very gentle, "only by ties of affection and gratitude." And Anna-Rose, turning red, opened her mouth as though she were going to say something handsome like that too, but seemed unable after all to get it out, and only said, rather inaudibly, "Yes." CHAPTER XXIV Yet another harassing experience awaited Mr. Twist before the end of that week. It had been from the first his anxious concern that nothing should occur at the Cosmopolitan to get his party under a cloud; yet it did get under a cloud, and on the very last afternoon, too, before Mrs. Bilton's arrival. Only twenty-four hours more and her snowy-haired respectability would have spread over the twins like a white whig. They would have been safe. His party would have been unassailable. But no; those Twinklers, in spite of his exhortation whenever he had a minute left to exhort in, couldn't, it seemed, refrain from twinkling,--the word in Mr. Twist's mind covered the whole of their easy friendliness, their flow of language, their affable desire to explain. He had kept them with him as much as he could, and luckily the excited interest they took in the progress of the inn made them happy to hang about it most of the time of the delicate and dangerous week before Mrs. Bilton came; but they too had things to do,--shopping in Acapulco choosing the sea-blue linen frocks and muslin caps and aprons in which they were to wait at tea, and buying the cushions and flower-pots and canary that came under the general heading, in Anna-Rose's speech, of feminine touches. So they sometimes left him; and he never saw them go without a qualm. "Mind and not say anything to anybody about this, won't you," he would say hastily, making a comprehensive gesture towards the cottage as they went. "Of course we won't." "I meant, nobody is to know what it's really going to be. They're to think it's just a _pied-à-terre._ It would most ruin my advertisement scheme if they--" "But of _course_ we won't. Have we ever?" the twins would answer, looking very smug and sure of themselves. "No. Not yet. But--" And the hustled man would plunge again into technicalities with whichever expert was at that moment with him, leaving the twins, as he needs must, to God and their own discretion. Discretion, he already amply knew, was not a Twinkler characteristic. But the week passed, Mrs. Bilton's arrival grew near, and nothing had happened. It was plain to the watchful Mr. Twist, from the pleasant looks of the other guests when the twins went in and out of the restaurant to meals, that nothing had happened. His heart grew lighter. On the last afternoon, when Mrs. Bilton was actually due next day, his heart was quite light, and he saw them leave him to go back and rest at the hotel, because they were tired by the accumulated standing about of the week, altogether unconcernedly. The attitude of the Cosmopolitan guests towards the twins was, indeed, one of complete benevolence. They didn't even mind the canary. Who would not be indulgent towards two such sweet little girls and their pet bird, even if it did sing all day and most of the night without stopping? The Twinkler girls were like two little bits of snapped-off sunlight, or bits of white blossom blowing in and out of the hotel in their shining youth and it was impossible not to regard them indulgently. But if the guests were indulgent, they were also inquisitive. Everybody knew who Mr. Twist was; who, however, were the Twinklers? Were they relations of his? _Protégées_? Charges? The social column of the Acapulco daily paper, from which information as to new arrivals was usually got, had, as we know, in its embarrassment at being ignorant to take refuge in French, because French may so easily be supposed to mean something. The paper had little knowledge of, but much confidence in, French. _Entourage_ had seemed to it as good a word as any other, as indeed did _clientèle_. It had hesitated between the two, but finally chose _entourage_ because there happened to be no accent in its stock of type. The Cosmopolitan guests were amused at the word, and though inquisitive were altogether amiable; and, until the last afternoon, only the manager didn't like the Twinklers. He didn't like them because of the canary. His sympathies had been alienated from the Miss Twinklers the moment he heard through the chambermaid that they had tied the heavy canary cage on to the hanging electric light in their bedroom. He said nothing, of course. One doesn't say anything if one is an hotel manager, until the unique and final moment when one says everything. On the last afternoon before Mrs. Bilton's advent the twins, tired of standing about for days at the cottage and in shops, appeared in the hall of the hotel and sat down to rest. They didn't go to their room to rest because they didn't feel inclined for the canary, and they sat down very happily in the comfortable rocking-chairs with which the big hall abounded, and, propping their dusty feet on the lower bar of a small table, with friendly and interested eyes they observed the other guests. The other guests also observed them. It was the first time the _entourage_ had appeared without its companion, and the other guests were dying to know details about it. It hadn't been sitting in the hall five minutes before a genial old gentleman caught Anna-Felicitas's friendly eye and instantly drew up his chair. "Uncle gone off by himself to-day?" he asked; for he was of the party in the hotel which inclined, in spite of the marked difference in profiles, to the relationship theory, and he made a shot at the relationship being that of uncle. "We haven't got an uncle nearer than England," said Anna-Felicitas affably. "And we only got him by accident," said Anna-Rose, equally affably. "It was an unfortunate accident," said Anna-Felicitas, considering her memories. "Indeed," said the old gentleman. "Indeed. How was that?" "By the usual method, if an uncle isn't a blood uncle," said Anna-Rose. "We happened to have a marriageable aunt, and he married her. So we have to have him." "It was sheer bad luck," said Anna-Felicitas, again brooding on that distant image. "Yes," said Anna-Rose. "Just bad luck. He might so easily have married some one else's aunt. But no. His roving glance must needs go and fall on ours." "Indeed," said the old gentleman. "Indeed." And he ruminated on this, with an affectionate eye--he was affectionate--resting in turn on each Anna. "Then Mr. Twist," he went on presently--"we all know him of course--a public benefactor--" "Yes, _isn't_ he," said Anna-Rose radiantly. "A boon to the breakfast-table--" "Yes, _isn't_ he," said Anna-Rose again, all asparkle. "He _is_ so pleasant at breakfast." "Then he--Mr. Twist--Teapot Twist we call him where I live--" "Teapot Twist?" said Anna-Rose. "I think that's irreverent." "Not at all. It's a pet name. A sign of our affection and gratitude. Then he isn't your uncle?" "We haven't got a real uncle nearer than heaven," said Anna-Felicitas, her cheek on her hand, dreamily reconstructing the image of Onkel Col. "Indeed," said the old gentleman. "Indeed." And he ruminated, on this too, his thirsty heart--he had a thirsty heart, and found difficulty in slaking it because of his wife--very indulgent toward the twins. Then he said: "That's a long way off." "What is?" asked Anna-Rose. "The place your uncle's in." "Not too far really," said Anna-Felicitas softly. "He's safe there. He was very old, and was difficult to look after. Why, he got there at last through his own carelessness." "Indeed," said the old gentleman. "Sheer carelessness," said Anna-Rose. "Indeed," said the old gentleman. "How was that?" "Well, you see where we lived they didn't have electric light," began Anna-Rose, "and one night--the the night he went to heaven--he put the petroleum lamp--" And she was about to relate that dreadful story of Onkle Col's end which has already been described in these pages as unfit for anywhere but an appendix for time had blunted her feelings, when Anna-Felicitas put out a beseeching hand and stopped her. Even after all these years Anna-Felicitas couldn't bear to remember Onkle Col's end. It had haunted her childhood. It had licked about her dreams in leaping tongues of flame. And it wasn't only tongues of flame. There were circumstances connected with it.... Only quite recently, since the war had damped down lesser horrors, had she got rid of it. She could at least now talk of him calmly, and also speculate with pleasure on the probable aspect of Onkle Col in glory, but she still couldn't bear to hear the details of his end. At this point an elderly lady of the spare and active type, very upright and much wrinkled, that America seems so freely to produce, came down the stairs; and seeing the twins talking to the old gentleman, crossed straight over and sat down briskly next to them smiling benevolently. "Well, if Mr. Ridding can talk to you I guess so can I," she said, pulling her knitting out of a brocaded bag and nodding and smiling at the group. She was knitting socks for the Allied armies in France the next winter, but it being warm just then in California they were cotton socks because wool made her hands too hot. The twins were all polite, reciprocal smiles. "I'm just crazy to hear about you," said the brisk lady, knitting with incredible energy, while her smiles flicked over everybody. "You're fresh from Europe, aren't you? What say? Quite fresh? My, aren't you cute little things. Thinking of making a long stay in the States? What say? For the rest of your lives? Why now, I call that just splendid. Parents coming out West soon too? What say? Prevented? Well, I guess they won't let themselves be prevented long. Mr. Twist looking after you meanwhile? What say? There isn't any meanwhile? Well, I don't quite--Mr. Twist your uncle, or cousin? What say? No relation at all? H'm, h'm. No relation at all, is he. Well, I guess he's an old friend of your parents, then. What say? They didn't know him? H'm, h'm. They didn't know him, didn't they. Well, I don't quite--What say? But you know him? Yes, yes, so I see. H'm, h'm. I don't quite--" Her needles flew in and out, and her ball of cotton rolled on to the floor in her surprise. Anna-Rose got up and fetched it for her before the old gentleman, who was gazing with thirsty appreciation at Anna-Felicitas, could struggle out of his chair. "You see," explained Anna-Felicitas, taking advantage of the silence that had fallen on the lady, "Mr. Twist, regarded as a man, is old, but regarded as a friend he is new." "Brand new," said Anna-Rose. "H'm, h'm," said the lady, knitting faster than ever, and looking first at one twin and then at the other. "H'm, h'm, h'm. Brand new, is he. Well, I don't quite--" Her smiles had now to struggle with the uncertainty and doubt, and were weakening visibly. "Say now, where did you meet Teapot Twist?" asked the old gentleman, who was surprised too, but remained quite benevolent owing to his affectionate heart and his not being a lady. "We met Mr. Twist," said Anna-Rose, who objected to this way of alluding to him, "on the steamer." "Not before? You didn't meet Mr. Twist before the steamer?" exclaimed the lady, the last of her smiles flickering out. "Not before the steamer, didn't you. Just a steamship acquaintance. Parents never seen him. H'm, h'm, h'm." "We would have met him before if we could," said Anna-Felicitas earnestly. "I should think so," said Anna-Rose. "It has been the great retrospective loss of our lives meeting him so late in them." "Why now," said the old gentleman smiling, "I shouldn't call it so particularly late in them." But the knitting lady didn't smile at all, and sat up very straight and said "H'm, h'm, h'm" to her flashing needles as they flew in and out; for not only was she in doubt now about the cute little things, but she also regretted, on behalf of the old gentleman's wife who was a friend of hers, the alert interest of his manner. He sat there so very much awake. With his wife he never seemed awake at all. Up to now she had not seen him except with his wife. "You mustn't run away with the idea that we're younger than we really are," Anna-Rose said to the old gentleman. "Why no, I won't," he answered with a liveliness that deepened the knitting lady's regret on behalf of his wife. "When I run away you bet it won't be with an idea." And he chuckled. He was quite rosy in the face, and chuckled; he whom she knew only as a quiet man with no chuckle in him. And wasn't what he had just said very like what the French call a _double entendre?_ She hadn't a husband herself, but if she had she would wish him to be at least as quiet when away from her as when with her, and at least as free from _double entendres_. At least. Really more. "H'm, h'm, h'm," she said, clicking her needles and looking first at the twins and then at the old gentleman. "Do you mean to say you crossed the Atlantic quite alone, you two?" she asked, in order to prevent his continuing on these remarkable and unusual lines of _badinage_. "Quite," said Anna-Felicitas. "That is to say, we had Mr. Twist of course," said Anna-Rose. "Once we had got him," amended Anna-Felicitas. "Yes, yes," said the knitting lady, "so you say. H'm, h'm, h'm. Once you had got him. I don't quite--" "Well, I call you a pair of fine high-spirited girls," said the old gentleman heartily, interrupting in his turn, "and all I can say is I wish I had been on that boat." "Here's Mrs. Ridding," said the knitting lady quickly, relief in her voice; whereupon he suddenly grew quiet. "My, Mrs. Ridding," she added when the lady drew within speaking distance, "you do look as though you needed a rest." Mrs. Ridding, the wife of the old gentleman, Mr. Ridding, had been approaching slowly for some time from behind. She had been out on the verandah since lunch, trying to recover from it. That was the one drawback to meals, she considered, that they required so much recovering from; and the nicer they were the longer it took. The meals at the Cosmopolitan were particularly nice, and really all one's time was taken up getting over them. She was a lady whose figure seemed to be all meals. The old gentleman had married her in her youth, when she hadn't had time to have had so many. He and she were then the same age, and unfortunately hadn't gone on being the same age since. It had wrecked his life this inability of his wife to stay as young and new as himself. He wanted a young wife, and the older he got in years--his heart very awkwardly retained its early freshness--the younger he wanted her; and, instead, the older he got the older his wife got too. Also the less new. The old gentleman felt the whole thing was a dreadful mistake. Why should he have to be married to this old lady? Never in his life had he wanted to marry old ladies; and he thought it very hard that at an age when he most appreciated bright youth he should be forced to spend his precious years, his crowning years when his mind had attained wisdom while his heart retained freshness, stranded with an old lady of costly habits and inordinate bulk just because years ago he had fallen in love with a chance pretty girl. He struggled politely out of his chair on seeing her. The twins, impressed by such venerable abundance, got up too. "Albert, if you try to move too quick you'll crick your back again," said Mrs. Ridding in a monotonous voice, letting herself down carefully and a little breathlessly on to the edge of a chair that didn't rock, and fanning herself with a small fan she carried on the end of a massive gold chain. Her fatigued eyes explored the twins while she spoke. "I can't get Mr. Ridding to remember that we're neither of us as young as we were," she went on, addressing the knitting lady but with her eyes continuing to explore the twins. They naturally thought she was speaking to them, and Anna-Felicitas said politely, "Really?" and Anna-Rose, feeling she too ought to make some comment, said, "Isn't that very unusual?" Aunt Alice always said, "Isn't that very unusual?" when she didn't know what else to say, and it worked beautifully, because then the other person launched into affirmations or denials with the reasons for them, and was quite happy. But Mrs. Ridding only stared at the twins heavily and in silence. "Because," explained Anna-Rose, who thought the old lady didn't quite follow, "nobody ever is. So that it must be difficult not to remember it." Mr. Ridding too was silent, but that was because of his wife. It was quite untrue to say that he forgot, seeing that she was constantly reminding him. "Old stranger," he thought resentfully, as he carefully arranged a cushion behind her back. He didn't like her back. Why should he have to pay bills for putting expensive clothes on it? He didn't want to. It was all a dreadful mistake. "You're the Twinkler girls," said the old lady abruptly. They made polite gestures of agreement. The knitting lady knitted vigorously, sitting up very straight and saying nothing, with a look on her face of disclaiming every responsibility. "Where does your family come from?" was the next question. This was unexpected. The twins had no desire to talk of Pomerania. They hadn't wanted to talk about Pomerania once since the war began; and they felt very distinctly in their bones that America, though she was a neutral, didn't like Germany any more than the belligerents did. It had been their intention to arrange together the line they would take if asked questions of this sort, but life had been so full and so exciting since their arrival that they had forgotten to. Anna-Rose found herself unable to say anything at all. Anna-Felicitas, therefore, observing that Christopher was unnerved, plunged in. "Our family," she said gently, "can hardly be said to come so much as to have been." The old lady thought this over, her lustreless eyes on Anna-Felicitas's face. The knitting lady clicked away very fast, content to leave the management of the Twinklers in more competent hands. "How's that?" asked the old lady, finally deciding that she hadn't understood. "It's extinct," said Anna-Felicitas. "Except us. That is, in the direct line." The old lady was a little impressed by this, direct lines not being so numerous or so clear in America as in some other countries. "You mean you two are the only Twinklers left?" she asked. "The only ones left that matter," said Anna-Felicitas. "There are branches of Twinklers still existing, I believe, but they're so unimportant that we don't know them." "Mere twigs," said Anna-Rose, recovering her nerves on seeing Anna-Felicitas handle the situation so skilfully; and her nose unconsciously gave a slight Junker lift. "Haven't you got any parents?" asked the old lady. "We used to have," said Anna-Felicitas flushing, afraid that her darling mother was going to be asked about. The old gentleman gave a sudden chuckle. "Why yes," he said, forgetting his wife's presence for an instant, "I guess you had them once, or I don't see how--" "Albert," said his wife. "We are the sole surviving examples of the direct line of Twinklers," said Anna-Rose, now quite herself and ready to give Columbus a hand. "There's just us. And we--" she paused a moment, and then plunged--"we come from England." "Do you?" said the old lady. "Now I shouldn't have said that. I can't say just why, but I shouldn't. Should you, Miss Heap?" "I shouldn't say a good many things, Mrs. Ridding," said Miss Heap enigmatically, her needles flying. "It's because we've been abroad a great deal with our parents, I expect," said Anna-Rose rather quickly. "I daresay it has left its mark on us." "Everything leaves its mark on one," observed Anna-Felicitas pleasantly. "Ah," said the old lady. "I know what it is now. It's the foreign r. You've picked it up. Haven't they, Miss Heap." "I shouldn't like to say what they haven't picked up, Mrs. Ridding," said Miss Heap, again enigmatically. "I'm afraid we have," said Anna-Rose, turning red. "We've been told that before. It seems to stick, once one has picked it up." And the old gentleman muttered that everything stuck once one had picked it up, and looked resentfully at his wife. She moved her slow eyes round, and let them rest on him a moment. "Albert, if you talk so much you won't be able to sleep to-night," she said. "I can't get Mr. Ridding to remember we've got to be careful at our age," she added to the knitting lady. "You seem to be bothered by your memory," said Anna-Rose politely, addressing the old gentleman "Have you ever tried making notes on little bits of paper of the things you have to remember? I think you would probably be all right then. Uncle Arthur used to do that. Or rather he made Aunt Alice do it for him, and put them where he would see them." "Uncle Arthur," explained Anna-Felicitas to the old lady, "is an uncle of ours. The one," she said turning to the old gentleman, "we were just telling you about, who so unfortunately insisted on marrying our aunt. Uncle, that is, by courtesy," she added, turning to the old lady, "not by blood." The old lady's eyes moved from one twin to the other as each one spoke, but she said nothing. "But Aunt Alice," said Anna-Rose, "is our genuine aunt. Well, I was going to tell you," she continued briskly, addressing the old gentleman. "There used to be things Uncle Arthur had to do every day and every week, but still he had to be reminded of them each time, and Aunt Alice had a whole set of the regular ones written out on bits of cardboard, and brought them out in turn. The Monday morning one was: Wind the Clock, and the Sunday morning one was: Take your Hot Bath, and the Saturday evening one was: Remember your Pill. And there was one brought in regularly every morning with his shaving water and stuck in his looking-glass: Put on your Abdominable Belt." The knitting needles paused an instant. "Yes," Anna-Felicitas joined in, interested by these recollections, her long limbs sunk in her chair in a position of great ease and comfort, "and it seemed to us so funny for him to have to be reminded to put on what was really a part of his clothes every day, that once we wrote a slip of our own for him and left it on his dressing-table: Don't forget your Trousers." The knitting needles paused again. "But the results of that were dreadful," added Anna-Felicitas, her face sobering at the thought of them. "Yes," said Anna-Rose. "You see, he supposed Aunt Alice had done it, in a fit of high spirits, though she never had high spirits--" "And wouldn't have been allowed to if she had," explained Anna-Felicitas. "And he thought she was laughing at him," said Anna-Rose, "though we have never seen her laugh--" "And I don't believe he has either," said Anna-Felicitas. "So there was trouble, because he couldn't bear the idea of her laughing at him, and we had to confess." "But that didn't make it any better for Aunt Alice." "No, because then he said it was her fault anyhow for not keeping us stricter." "So," said Anna-Felicitas, "after the house had been steeped in a sulphurous gloom for over a week, and we all felt as though we were being slowly and steadily gassed, we tried to make it up by writing a final one--a nice one--and leaving it on his plate at breakfast: Kiss your Wife. But instead of kissing her he--" She broke off, and then finished a little vaguely: "Oh well, he didn't." "Still," remarked Anna-Rose, "it must be pleasant not to be kissed by a husband. Aunt Alice always wanted him to, strange to say, which is why we reminded him of it. He used to forget that more regularly than almost anything. And the people who lived in the house nearest us were just the opposite--the husband was for ever trying to kiss the person who was his wife, and she was for ever dodging him." "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "Like the people on Keats's Grecian Urn." "Yes," said Anna-Rose. "And that sort of husband, must be even worse. "Oh, much worse," agreed Anna-Felicitas. She looked round amiably at the three quiet figures in the chairs. "I shall refrain altogether from husbands," she said placidly. "I shall take something that doesn't kiss." And she fell into an abstraction, wondering, with her cheek resting on her hand, what he, or it, would look like. There was a pause. Anna-Rose was wondering too what sort of a creature Columbus had in her mind, and how many, if any, legs it would have; and the other three were, as before, silent. Then the old lady said, "Albert," and put out her hand to be helped on to her feet. The old gentleman struggled out of his chair, and helped her up. His face had a congested look, as if he were with difficulty keeping back things he wanted to say. Miss Heap got up too, stuffing her knitting as she did so into her brocaded bag. "Go on ahead and ring the elevator bell, Albert," said the old lady. "It's time we went and had our nap." "I ain't going to," said the old gentleman suddenly. "What say? What ain't you going to, Albert?" said the old lady, turning her slow eyes round to him. "Nap," said the old gentleman, his face very red. It was intolerable to have to go and nap. He wished to stay where he was and talk to the twins. Why should he have to nap because somebody else wanted to? Why should he have to nap with an old lady, anyway? Never in his life had he wanted to nap with old ladies. It was all a dreadful mistake. "Albert," said his wife looking at him. He went on ahead and rang the lift-bell. "You're quite right to see that he rests, Mrs. Ridding," said Miss Heap, walking away with her and slowing her steps to suit hers. "I should say it was essential that he should be kept quiet in the afternoons. You should see that Mr. Ridding rests more than he does. _Much_ more," she added significantly. "I can't get Mr. Ridding to remember that we're neither of us--" This was the last the twins heard. They too had politely got out of their chairs when the old lady began to heave into activity, and they stood watching the three departing figures. They were a little surprised. Surely they had all been in the middle of an interesting conversation? "Perhaps it's American to go away in the middle," remarked Anna-Rose, following the group with her eyes as it moved toward the lift. "Perhaps it is," said Anna-Felicitas, also gazing after it. The old gentleman, in the brief moment during which the two ladies had their backs to him while preceding him into the lift, turned quickly round on his heels and waved his hand before he himself went in. The twins laughed, and waved back; and they waved with such goodwill that the old gentleman couldn't resist giving one more wave. He was seen doing it by the two ladies as they faced round, and his wife, as she let herself down on to the edge of the seat, remarked that he mustn't exert himself like that or he would have to begin taking his drops again. That was all she said in the lift; but in their room, when she had got her breath again, she said, "Albert, there's just one thing in the world I hate worse than a fool, and that's an old fool." CHAPTER XXV That evening, while the twins were undressing, a message came up from the office that the manager would be obliged if the Miss Twinklers' canary wouldn't sing. "But it can't help it," said Anna-Felicitas through the crack of door she held open; she was already in her nightgown. "You wouldn't either if you were a canary," she added, reasoning with the messenger. "It's just got to help it," said he. "But why shouldn't it sing?" "Complaints." "But it always has sung." "That is so. And it has sung once too often. It's unpopular in this hotel, that canary of yours. It's just got to rest a while. Take it easy. Sit quiet on its perch and think." "But it won't sit quiet and think." "Well, I've told you," he said, going away. This was the bird that had been seen arriving at the Cosmopolitan about a week before by the lawyer, and it had piercingly sung ever since. It sang, that is, as long as there was any light, real or artificial, to sing by. The boy who carried it from the shop for the twins said its cage was to be hung in a window in the sun, or it couldn't do itself justice. But electric light also enabled it to do itself justice, the twins discovered, and if they sat up late the canary sat up late too, singing as loudly and as mechanically as if it hadn't been a real canary at all, but something clever and American with a machine inside it. Secretly the twins didn't like it. Shocked at its loud behaviour, they had very soon agreed that it was no lady, but Anna-Rose was determined to have it at The Open Arms because of her conviction that no house showing the trail of a woman's hand was without a canary. That, and a workbag. She bought them both the same day. The workbag didn't matter, because it kept quiet; but the canary was a very big, very yellow bird, much bigger and yellower than the frailer canaries of a more exhausted civilization, and quite incapable, unless it was pitch dark, of keeping quiet for a minute. Evidently, as Anna-Felicitas said, it had a great many lungs. Her idea of lungs, in spite of her time among them and similar objects at a hospital, was what it had always been: that they were things like pink macaroni strung across a frame of bones on the principle of a lyre or harp, and producing noises. She thought the canary had unusual numbers of these pink strings, and all of them of the biggest and dearest kind of macaroni. The other guests at the Cosmopolitan had been rather restive from the first on account of this bird, but felt so indulgent toward its owners, those cute little relations or charges or whatever they were of Teapot Twist's, that they bore its singing without complaint. But on the evening of the day the Annas had the interesting conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Ridding and Miss Heap, two definite complaints were lodged in the office, and one was from Mrs. Ridding and the other was from Miss Heap. The manager, as has been said, was already sensitive about the canary. Its cage was straining his electric light cord, and its food, assiduously administered in quantities exceeding its capacity, littered the expensive pink pile carpet. He therefore lent a ready ear and sent up a peremptory message; and while the message was going up, Miss Heap, who had come herself with her complaint, stayed on discussing the Twist and Twinkler party. She said nothing really; she merely asked questions; and not one of the questions, now they were put to him, did the manager find he could answer. No doubt everything was all right. Everybody knew about Mr. Twist, and it wasn't likely he would choose an hotel of so high a class to stay in if his relations to the Miss Twinklers were anything but regular. And a lady companion, he understood, was joining the party shortly; and besides, there was the house being got ready, a permanent place of residence he gathered, in which the party would settle down, and experience had taught him that genuine illicitness was never permanent. Still, the manager himself hadn't really cared about the Twinklers since the canary came. He could fill the hotel very easily, and there was no need to accommodate people who spoilt carpets. Also, the moment the least doubt or question arose among his guests, all of whom he knew and most of whom came back regularly every year, as to the social or moral status of any new arrivals, then those arrivals must go. Miss Heap evidently had doubts. Her standard, it is true, was the almost impossibly high one of the unmarried lady of riper years, but Mrs. Ridding, he understood, had doubts too; and once doubts started in an hotel he knew from experience that they ran through it like measles. The time had come for him to act. Next morning, therefore, he briskly appeared in Mr. Twist's room as he was pulling on his boots, and cheerfully hoped he was bearing in mind what he had been told the day he took the rooms, that they were engaged for the date of the month now arrived at. Mr. Twist paused with a boot half on. "I'm not bearing it in mind," he said, "because you didn't tell me." "Oh yes I did, Mr. Twist," said the manager briskly. "It isn't likely I'd make a mistake about that. The rooms are taken every year for this date by the same people. Mrs. Hart of Boston has this one, and Mr. and Mrs.--" Mr. Twist heard no more. He finished lacing his boots in silence. What he had been so much afraid of had happened: he and the twins had got under a cloud. The twins had been saying things. Last night they told him they had made some friends. He had been uneasy at that, and questioned them. But it appeared they had talked chiefly of their Uncle Arthur. Well, damnable as Uncle Arthur was as a man he was safe enough as a topic of conversation. He was English. He was known to people in America like the Delloggs and the Sacks. But it was now clear they must have said things besides that. Probably they had expatiated on Uncle Arthur from some point of view undesirable to American ears. The American ear was very susceptible. He hadn't been born in New England without becoming aware of that. Mr. Twist tied his bootlaces with such annoyance that he got them into knots. He ought never to have come with the Annas to a big hotel. Yet lodgings would have been worse. Why hadn't that white-haired gasbag, Mrs. Bilton--Mr. Twist's thoughts were sometimes unjust--joined them sooner? Why had that shirker Dellogg died? He got his bootlaces hopelessly into knots. "I'd like to start right in getting the rooms fixed up, Mr. Twist," said the manager pleasantly. "Mrs. Hart of Boston is very--" "See here," said Mr. Twist, straightening himself and turning the full light of his big spectacles on to him, "I don't care a curse for Mrs. Hart of Boston." The manager expressed regret that Mr. Twist should connect a curse with a lady. It wasn't American to do that. Mrs. Hart-- "Damn Mrs. Hart," said Mr. Twist, who had become full-bodied of speech while in France, and when he was goaded let it all out. The manager went away. And so, two hours later, did Mr. Twist and the twins. "I don't know what you've been saying," he said in an extremely exasperated voice, as he sat opposite them in the taxi with their grips, considerably added to and crowned by the canary who was singing, piled up round him. "Saying?" echoed the twins, their eyes very round. "But whatever it was you'd have done better to say something else. Confound that bird. Doesn't it ever stop screeching?" It was the twins, however, who were confounded. So much confounded by what they considered his unjust severity that they didn't attempt to defend themselves, but sat looking at him with proud hurt eyes. By this time they both had become very fond of Mr. Twist, and accordingly he was able to hurt them. Anna-Rose, indeed, was so fond of him that she actually thought him handsome. She had boldly said so to the astonished Anna-Felicitas about a week before; and when Anna-Felicitas was silent, being unable to agree, Anna-Rose had heatedly explained that there was handsomeness, and there was the higher handsomeness, and that that was the one Mr. Twist had. It was infinitely better than mere handsomeness, said Anna-Rose--curly hair and a straight nose and the rest of the silly stuff--because it was real and lasting; and it was real and lasting because it lay in the play of the features and not in their exact position and shape. Anna-Felicitas couldn't see that Mr. Twist's features played. She looked at him now in the taxi while he angrily stared out of the window, and even though he was evidently greatly stirred his features weren't playing. She didn't particularly want them to play. She was fond of and trusted Mr. Twist, and would never even have thought whether he had features or not ii Anna-Rose hadn't taken lately to talking so much about them. And she couldn't help remembering how this very Christopher, so voluble now on the higher handsomeness, had said on board the _St. Luke_ when first commenting on Mr. Twist that God must have got tired of making him by the time his head was reached. Well, Christopher had always been an idealist. When she was eleven she had violently loved the coachman. Anna-Felicitas hadn't ever violently loved anybody yet, and seeing Anna-Rose like this now about Mr. Twist made her wonder when she too was going to begin. Surely it was time. She hoped her inability to begin wasn't perhaps because she had no heart. Still, she couldn't begin if she didn't see anybody to begin on. She sat silent in the taxi, with Christopher equally silent beside her, both of them observing Mr. Twist through lowered eyelashes. Anna-Rose watched him with hurt and anxious eyes like a devoted dog who has been kicked without cause. Anna-Felicitas watched him in a more detached spirit. She had a real affection for him, but it was not, she was sure and rather regretted, an affection that would ever be likely to get the better of her reason. It wasn't because he was so old, of course, she thought, for one could love the oldest people, beginning with that standard example of age, the _liebe Gott_; it was because she liked him so much. How could one get sentimental over and love somebody one so thoroughly liked? The two things on reflection didn't seem to combine well. She was sure, for instance, that Aunt Alice had loved Uncle Arthur, amazing as it seemed, but she was equally sure she hadn't liked him. And look at the _liebe Gott_. One loves the _liebe Gott_, but it would be going too far, she thought, to say that one likes him. These were the reflections of Anna-Felicitas in the taxi, as she observed through her eyelashes the object of Anna-Rose's idealization. She envied Anna-Rose; for here she had been steadily expanding every day more and more like a flower under the influence of her own power of idealization. She used to sparkle and grow rosy like that for the coachman. Perhaps after all it didn't much matter what you loved, so long as you loved immensely. It was, perhaps, thought Anna-Felicitas approaching this subject with some caution and diffidence, the quantity of one's love that mattered rather than the quality of its object. Not that Mr. Twist wasn't of the very first quality, except to look at; but what after all were faces? The coachman had been, as it were, nothing else but face, so handsome was he and so without any other recommendation. He couldn't even drive; and her father had very soon kicked him out with the vigour and absence of hesitation peculiar to Junkers when it comes to kicking and Anna-Rose had wept all over her bread and butter at tea that day, and was understood to say that she knew at last what it must be like to be a widow. Mr. Twist, for all that he was looking out of the taxi window with an angry and worried face, his attention irritably concentrated, so it seemed, on the objects passing in the road, very well knew he was being observed. He wouldn't, however, allow his eye to be caught. He wasn't going to become entangled at this juncture in argument with the Annas. He was hastily making up his mind, and there wasn't much time to do it in. He had had no explanation with the twins since the manager's visit to his room, and he didn't want to have any. He had issued brief orders to them, told them to pack, declined to answer questions, and had got them safely into the taxi with a minimum waste of time and words. They were now on their way to the station to meet Mrs. Bilton. Her train from Los Angeles was not due till that evening at six. Never mind. The station was a secure place to deposit the twins and the baggage in till she came. He wished he could deposit the twins in the parcel-room as easily as he could their grips--neatly labelled, put away safely on a shelf till called for. Rapidly, as he stared out of the window, he arrived at decisions. He would leave the twins in the waiting room at the station till Mrs. Bilton was due, and meanwhile go out and find lodgings for them and her. He himself would get a room in another and less critical hotel, and stay in it till the cottage was habitable. So would unassailable respectability once more descend like a white garment upon the party and cover it up. But he was nettled; nettled; nettled by the _contretemps_ that had occurred on the very last day, when Mrs. Bilton was so nearly there; nettled and exasperated. So immensely did he want the twins to be happy, to float serenely in the unclouded sunshine and sweetness he felt was their due, that he was furious with them for doing anything to make it difficult. And, jerkily, his angry thoughts pounced, as they so often did, on Uncle Arthur. Fancy kicking two little things like that out into the world, two little breakable things like that, made to be cherished and watched over. Mr. Twist was pure American in his instinct to regard the female as an object to be taken care of, to be placed securely in a charming setting and kept brightly free from dust. If Uncle Arthur had had a shred of humanity in him, he angrily reflected, the Annas would have stayed under his roof throughout the war, whatever the feeling was against aliens. Never would a decent man have chucked them out. He turned involuntarily from the window and looked at the twins. Their eyes were fixed, affectionate and anxious, on his face. With the quick change of mood of those whose chins are weak and whose hearts are warm, a flood of love for them gushed up within him and put out his anger. After all, if Uncle Arthur had been decent he, Edward A. Twist, never would have met these blessed children. He would now have been at Clark; leading lightless days; hopelessly involved with his mother. His loose, unsteady mouth broke into a big smile. Instantly the two faces opposite cleared into something shining. "Oh dear," said Anna-Felicitas with a sigh of relief, "it _is_ refreshing when you leave off being cross." "We're fearfully sorry if we've said anything we oughtn't to have," said Anna-Rose, "and if you tell us what it is we won't say it again." "I can't tell you, because I don't know what it was," said Mr. Twist, in his usual kind voice. "I only see the results. And the results are that the Cosmopolitan is tired of us, and we've got to find lodgings." "Lodgings?" "Till we can move into the cottage. I'm going to put you and Mrs. Bilton in an apartment in Acapulco, and go myself to some hotel." The twins stared at him a moment in silence. Then Anna-Rose said with sudden passion, "You're not." "How's that?" asked Mr. Twist; but she was prevented answering by the arrival of the taxi at the station. There followed ten minutes' tangle and confusion, at the end of which the twins found themselves free of their grips and being piloted into the waiting-room by Mr. Twist. "There," he said. "You sit here quiet and good. I'll come back about one o'clock with sandwiches and candy for your dinner, and maybe a story-book or two. You mustn't leave this, do you hear? I'm going to hunt for those lodgings." And he was in the act of taking off his hat valedictorily when Anna-Rose again said with the same passion, "You're not." "Not what?" inquired Mr. Twist, pausing with his hat in mid-air. "Going to hunt for lodgings. We won't go to them." "Of course we won't," said Anna-Felicitas, with no passion but with an infinitely rock-like determination. "And pray--" began Mr. Twist. "Go into lodgings alone with Mrs. Bilton?" interrupted Anna-Rose her face scarlet, her whole small body giving the impression of indignant feathers standing up on end. "While you're somewhere else? Away from us? We won't." "Of course we won't," said Anna-Felicitas again, an almost placid quality in her determination, it was so final and so unshakable. "Would you?" "See here--" began Mr. Twist. "We won't see anywhere," said Anna-Rose. "Would you," inquired Anna-Felicitas, again reasoning with him, "like being alone in lodgings with Mrs. Bilton?" "This is no time for conversation," said Mr. Twist, making for the door. "You've got to do what I think best on this occasion. And that's all about it." "We won't," repeated Anna-Rose, on the verge of those tears which always with her so quickly followed any sort of emotion. Mr. Twist paused on his way to the door. "Well now what the devil's the matter with lodgings?" he asked angrily. "It isn't the devil, it's Mrs. Bilton," said Anna-Felicitas. "Would you yourself like--" 'But you've got to have Mrs. Bilton with you anyhow from to-day on." "But not unadulterated Mrs. Bilton. You were to have been with us too. We can't be drowned all by ourselves in Mrs. Bilton. _You_ wouldn't like it." "Of course I wouldn't. But it's only for a few days anyhow," said Mr. Twist, who had been quite unprepared for opposition to his very sensible arrangement. "I shouldn't wonder if it's only a few days now before we can all squeeze into some part of the cottage. If you don't mind dust and noise and workmen about all day long." A light pierced the gloom that had gathered round Anna-Felicitas's soul. "We'll go into it to-day," she said firmly, "Why not? We can camp out. We can live in those little rooms at the back over the kitchen,--the ones you got ready for Li Koo. We'd be on the spot. We wouldn't mind anything. It would just be a picnic." "And we--we wouldn't be--sep--separated," said Anna-Rose, getting it out with a gasp. Mr. Twist stood looking at them. "Well, of all the--" he began, pushing his hat back. "Are you aware," he went on more calmly, "that there are only two rooms over that kitchen, and that you and Mrs. Bilton will have to be all together in one of them?" "We don't mind that as long as you're in the other one," said Anna-Rose. "Of course," suggested Anna-Felicitas, "if you were to happen to marry Mrs. Bilton it would make a fairer division." Mr. Twist's spectacles stared enormously at her. "No, no," said Anna-Rose quickly. "Marriage is a sacred thing, and you can't just marry so as to be more comfortable." "I guess if I married Mrs. Bilton I'd be more uncomfortable," remarked Mr. Twist with considerable dryness. He seemed however to be quieted by the bare suggestion, for he fixed his hat properly on his head and said, sobriety in his voice and manner, "Come along, then. We'll get a taxi and anyway go out and have a look at the rooms. But I shouldn't be surprised," he added, "if before I've done with you you'll have driven me sheer out of my wits." "Oh, _don't_ say that," said the twins together, with all and more of their usual urbanity. CHAPTER XXVI By superhuman exertions and a lavish expenditure of money, the rooms Li Koo was later on to inhabit were ready to be slept in by the time Mrs. Bilton arrived. They were in an outbuilding at the back of the house, and consisted of a living-room with a cooking-stove in it, a bedroom behind it, and up a narrow and curly staircase a larger room running the whole length and width of the shanty. This sounds spacious, but it wasn't. The amount of length and width was small, and it was only just possible to get three camp-beds into it and a washstand. The beds nearly touched each other. Anna-Felicitas thought she and Anna-Rose were going to be regrettably close to Mrs. Bilton in them, and again urged on Mr. Twist's consideration the question of removing Mrs. Bilton from the room by marriage; but Anna-Rose said it was all perfect, and that there was lots of room, and she was sure Mrs. Bilton, used to the camp life so extensively practised in America, would thoroughly enjoy herself. They worked without stopping all the rest of the day at making the little place habitable, nailing up some of the curtains intended for the other house, unpacking cushions, and fetching in great bunches of the pale pink and mauve geraniums that scrambled about everywhere in the garden and hiding the worst places in the rooms with them. Mr. Twist was in Acapulco most of the time, getting together the necessary temporary furniture and cooking utensils, but the twins didn't miss him, for they were helped with zeal by the architect, the electrical expert, the garden expert and the chief plumber. These young men--they were all young, and very go-ahead--abandoned the main building that day to the undirected labours of the workmen they were supposed to control, and turned to on the shanty as soon as they realized what it was to be used for with a joyous energy that delighted the twins. They swept and they garnished. They cleaned the dust off the windows and the rust off the stove. They fetched out the parcels with the curtains and cushions in them from the barn where all parcels and packages had been put till the house was ready, and extracted various other comforts from the piled up packing-cases,--a rug or two, an easy chair for Mrs. Bilton, a looking-glass. They screwed in hooks behind the doors for clothes to be hung on, and they tied the canary to a neighbouring eucalyptus tree where it could be seen and hardly heard. The chief plumber found buckets and filled them with water, and the electrical expert rigged up a series of lanterns inside the shanty, even illuminating its tortuous staircase. There was much _badinage_, but as it was all in American, a language of which the twins were not yet able to apprehend the full flavour, they responded only with pleasant smiles. But their smiles were so pleasant and the family dimple so engaging that the hours flew, and the young men were sorry indeed when Mr. Twist came back. He came back laden, among other things, with food for the twins, whom he had left in his hurry high and dry at the cottage with nothing at all to eat; and he found them looking particularly comfortable and well-nourished, having eaten, as they explained when they refused his sandwiches and fruit, the chief plumber's dinner. They were sitting on the stump of an oak tree when he arrived, resting from their labours, and the grass at their feet was dotted with the four experts. It was the twins now who were talking, and the experts who were smiling. Mr. Twist wondered uneasily what they were saying. It wouldn't have added to his comfort if he had heard, for they were giving the experts an account of their attempt to go and live with the Sacks, and interweaving with it some general reflections of a philosophical nature suggested by the Sack _ménage_. The experts were keenly interested, and everybody looked very happy, and Mr. Twist was annoyed; for clearly if the experts were sitting there on the grass they weren't directing the workmen placed under their orders. Mr. Twist perceived a drawback to the twins living on the spot while the place was being finished; another drawback. He had perceived several already, but not this one. Well, Mrs. Bilton would soon be there. He now counted the hours to Mrs. Bilton. He positively longed for her. When they saw him coming, the experts moved away. "Here's the boss," they said, nodding and winking at the twins as they got up quickly and departed. Winking was not within the traditions of the Twinkler family, but no doubt, they thought, it was the custom of the country to wink, and they wondered whether they ought to have winked back. The young men were certainly deserving of every friendliness in return for all they had done. They decided they would ask Mrs. Bilton, and then they could wink at them if necessary the first thing to-morrow morning. Mr. Twist took them with him when he went down to the station to meet the Los Angeles train. It was dark at six, and the workmen had gone home by then, but the experts still seemed to be busy. He had been astonished at the amount the twins had accomplished in his absence in the town till they explained to him how very active the experts had been, whereupon he said, "Now isn't that nice," and briefly informed them they would go with him to the station. "That's waste of time," said Anna-Felicitas. "We could be giving finishing touches if we stayed here." "You will come with me to the station," said Mr. Twist. Mrs. Bilton arrived in a thick cloud of conversation. She supposed she was going to the Cosmopolitan Hotel, as indeed she originally was, and all the way back in the taxi Mr. Twist was trying to tell her she wasn't; but Mrs. Bilton had so much to say about her journey, and her last days among her friends, and all the pleasant new acquaintances she had made on the train, and her speech was so very close-knit, that he felt he was like a rabbit on the wrong side of a thick-set hedge running desperately up and down searching for a gap to get through. It was nothing short of amazing how Mrs. Bilton talked; positively, there wasn't at any moment the smallest pause in the flow. "It's a disease," thought Anna-Rose, who had several things she wanted to say herself, and found herself hopelessly muzzled. "No wonder Mr. Bilton preferred heaven," thought Anna-Felicitas, also a little restless at the completeness of her muzzling. "Anyhow she'll never hear the Annas saying anything," thought Mr. Twist, consoling himself. "This hotel we're going to seems to be located at some distance from the station," said Mrs. Bilton presently, in the middle of several pages of rapid unpunctuated monologue. "Isolated, surely--" and off she went again to other matters, just as Mr. Twist had got his mouth open to explain at last. She arrived therefore at the cottage unconscious of the change in her fate. Now Mrs. Bilton was as fond of comfort as any other woman who has been deprived for some years of that substitute for comfort, a husband. She had looked forward to the enveloping joys of the Cosmopolitan, its bath, its soft bed and good food, with frank satisfaction. She thought it admirable that before embarking on active duties she should for a space rest luxuriously in an excellent hotel, with no care in regard to expense, and exchange ideas while she rested with the interesting people she would be sure to meet in it. Before the interview in Los Angeles, Mr. Twist had explained to her by letter and under the seal of confidence the philanthropic nature of the project he and the Miss Twinklers were engaged upon, and she was prepared, in return for the very considerable salary she had accepted, to do her duty loyally and unremittingly; but after the stress and hard work of her last days in Los Angeles she had certainly looked forward with a particular pleasure to two or three weeks' delicious wallowing in flesh-pots for which she had not to pay. She was also, however, a lady of grit; and she possessed, as she said her friends often told her, a redoubtable psyche, a genuine American free and fearless psyche; so that when, talking ceaselessly, her thoughts eagerly jostling each other as they streamed through her brain to get first to the exit of her tongue, she caught her foot in some builder's débris carelessly left on the path up to the cottage and received in this way positively her first intimation that this couldn't be the Cosmopolitan, she did not, as a more timid female soul well might have, become alarmed and suppose that Mr. Twist, whom after all she didn't know, had brought her to this solitary place for purposes of assassination, but stopped firmly just where she was, and turning her head in the darkness toward him said, "Now Mr. Twist, I'll stand right here till you're able to apply some sort of illumination to what's at my feet. I can't say what it is I've walked against but I'm not going any further with this promenade till I can say. And when you've thrown light on the subject perhaps you'll oblige me with information as to where that hotel is I was told I was coming to." "Information?" cried Mr. Twist. "Haven't I been trying to give it you ever since I met you? Haven't I been trying to stop your getting out of the taxi till I'd fetched a lantern? Haven't I been trying to offer you my arm along the path--" "Then why didn't you say so, Mr. Twist?" asked Mrs. Bilton. "Say so!" cried Mr. Twist. At that moment the flash of an electric torch was seen jerking up and down as the person carrying it ran toward them. It was the electrical expert who, most fortunately, happened still to be about. Mrs. Bilton welcomed him warmly, and taking his torch from him first examined what she called the location of her feet, then gave it back to him and put her hand through his arm. "Now guide me to whatever it is has been substituted without my knowledge for that hotel," she said; and while Mr. Twist went back to the taxi to deal with her grips, she walked carefully toward the shanty on the expert's arm, expressing, in an immense number of words, the astonishment she felt at Mr. Twist's not having told her of the disappearance of the Cosmopolitan from her itinerary. The electrical expert tried to speak, but was drowned without further struggle. Anna-Rose, unable to listen any longer without answering to the insistent inquiries as to why Mr. Twist had kept her in the dark, raised her voice at last and called out, "But he wanted to--he wanted to all the time--you wouldn't listen--you wouldn't stop--" Mrs. Bilton did stop however when she got inside the shanty. Her tongue and her feet stopped dead together. The electrical expert had lit all the lanterns, and coming upon it in the darkness its lighted windows gave it a cheerful, welcoming look. But inside no amount of light and bunches of pink geraniums could conceal its discomforts, its dreadful smallness; besides, pink geraniums, which the twins were accustomed to regard as precious, as things brought up lovingly in pots, were nothing but weeds to Mrs. Bilton's experienced Californian eye. She stared round her in silence. Her sudden quiet fell on the twins with a great sense of refreshment. Standing in the doorway--for Mrs. Bilton and the electrical expert between them filled up most of the kitchen--they heaved a deep sigh. "And see how beautiful the stars are," whispered Anna-Felicitas in Anna-Rose's ear; she hadn't been able to see them before somehow, Mrs. Bilton's voice had so much ruffled the night. "Do you think she talks in her sleep?" Anna-Rose anxiously whispered back. But Mr. Twist, arriving with his hands full, was staggered to find Mrs. Bilton not talking. An icy fear seized his heart. She was going to refuse to stay with them. And she would be within her rights if she did, for certainly what she called her itinerary had promised her a first-rate hotel, in which she was to continue till a finished and comfortable house was stepped into. "I wish you'd say something," he said, plumping down the bags he was carrying on the kitchen floor. The twins from the doorway looked at him and then at each other in great surprise. Fancy _asking_ Mrs. Bilton to say something. "They would come," said Mr. Twist, resentfully, jerking his head toward the Annas in the doorway. "It's worse upstairs," he went on desperately as Mrs. Bilton still was dumb. "Worse upstairs?" cried the twins, as one woman. "It's perfect upstairs," said Anna-Felicitas. "It's like camping out without _being_ out," said Anna-Rose. "The only drawback is that there are rather a lot of beds in our room," said Anna-Felicitas, "but that of course"--she turned to Mr. Twist--"might easily be arranged--" "I wish you'd _say_ something, Mrs. Bilton," he interrupted quickly and loud. Mrs. Bilton drew a deep breath and looked round her. She looked round the room, and she looked up at the ceiling, which the upright feather in her hat was tickling, and she looked at the faces of the twins, lit flickeringly by the uncertain light of the lanterns. Then, woman of grit, wife who had never failed him of Bruce D. Bilton, widow who had remained poised and indomitable on a small income in a circle of well-off friends, she spoke; and she said: "Mr. Twist, I can't say what this means, and you'll furnish me no doubt with information, but whatever it is I'm not the woman to put my hand to a plough and then turn back again. That type of behaviour may have been good enough for Pharisees and Sadducees, who if I remember rightly had to be specially warned against the practice, but it isn't good enough for me. You've conducted me to a shack instead of the hotel I was promised, and I await your explanation. Meanwhile, is there any supper?" CHAPTER XXVII It was only a fortnight after this that the inn was ready to be opened, and it was only during the first days of this fortnight that the party in the shanty had to endure any serious discomfort. The twins didn't mind the physical discomfort at all; what they minded, and began to mind almost immediately, was the spiritual discomfort of being at such close quarters with Mrs. Bilton. They hardly noticed the physical side of that close association in such a lovely climate, where the whole of out-of-doors can be used as one's living-room; and their morning dressing, a difficult business in the shanty for anybody less young and more needing to be careful, was rather like the getting up of a dog after its night's sleep--they seemed just to shake themselves, and there they were. They got up before Mrs. Bilton, who was, however, always awake and talking to them while they dressed, and they went to bed before she did, though she came up with them after the first night and read aloud to them while they undressed; so that as regarded the mysteries of Mrs. Bilton's toilette they were not, after all, much in her way. It was like caravaning or camping out: you managed your movements and moments skilfully, and if you were Mrs. Bilton you had a curtain slung across your part of the room, in case your younger charges shouldn't always be asleep when they looked as if they were. Gradually one alleviation was added to another, and Mrs. Bilton forgot the rigours of the beginning. Li Koo arrived, for instance, fetched by a telegram, and under a tent in the eucalyptus grove at the back of the house set up an old iron stove and produced, with no apparent exertion, extraordinarily interesting and amusing food. He went into Acapulco at daylight every morning and did the marketing. He began almost immediately to do everything else in the way of housekeeping. He was exquisitely clean, and saw to it that the shanty matched him in cleanliness. To the surprise and gratification of the twins, who had supposed it would be their lot to go on doing the housework of the shanty, he took it over as a matter of course, dusting, sweeping, and tidying like a practised and very excellent housemaid. The only thing he refused to do was to touch the three beds in the upper chamber. "Me no make lady-beds," he said briefly. Li Koo's salary was enormous, but Mr. Twist, with a sound instinct, cared nothing what he paid so long as he got the right man. He was, indeed, much satisfied with his two employees, and congratulated himself on his luck. It is true in regard to Mrs. Bilton his satisfaction was rather of the sorrowful sort that a fresh ache in a different part of one's body from the first ache gives: it relieved him from one by substituting another. Mrs. Bilton overwhelmed him; but so had the Annas begun to. Her overwhelming, however, was different, and freed him from that other worse one. He felt safe now about the Annas, and after all there were parts of the building in which Mrs. Bilton wasn't. There was his bedroom, for instance. Thank God for bedrooms, thought Mr. Twist. He grew to love his. What a haven that poky and silent place was; what a blessing the conventions were, and the proprieties. Supposing civilization were so far advanced that people could no longer see the harm there is in a bedroom, what would have become of him? Mr. Twist could perfectly account for Bruce D. Bilton's death. It wasn't diabetes, as Mrs. Bilton said; it was just bedroom. Still, Mrs. Bilton was an undoubted find, and did immediately in those rushed days take the Annas off his mind. He could leave them with her in the comfortable certitude that whatever else they did to Mrs. Bilton they couldn't talk to her. Never would she know the peculiar ease of the Twinkler attitude toward subjects Americans approach with care. Never would they be able to tell her things about Uncle Arthur, the kind of things that had caused the Cosmopolitan to grow so suddenly cool. There was, most happily for this particular case, no arguing with Mrs. Bilton. The twins couldn't draw her out because she was already, as it were, so completely out. This was a great thing, Mr. Twist felt, and made up for any personal suffocation he had to bear; and when on the afternoon of Mrs. Bilton's first day the twins appeared without her in the main building in search of him, having obviously given her the slip, and said they were sorry to disturb him but they wanted his advice, for though they had been trying hard all day, remembering they were ladies and practically hostesses, they hadn't yet succeeded in saying anything at all to Mrs. Bilton and doubted whether they ever would, he merely smiled happily at them and said to Anna-Rose, "See how good comes out of evil"--a remark that they didn't like when they had had time to think over it. But they went on struggling. It seemed so unnatural to be all alone all day long with someone and only listen. Mrs. Bilton never left their side, regarding it as proper and merely fulfilling her part of the bargain, in these first confused days when there was nothing for ladies to do but look on while perspiring workmen laboured at apparently producing more and more chaos, to become thoroughly acquainted with her young charges. This she did by imparting to them intimate and meticulous information about her own life, with the whole of the various uplifts, as she put it, her psyche had during its unfolding experienced. There was so much to tell about herself that she never got to inquiring about the twins. She knew they were orphans, and that this was a good work, and for the moment had no time for more. The twins were profoundly bored by her psyche, chiefly because they didn't know what part of her it was, and it was no use asking for she didn't answer; but they listened with real interest to her concrete experiences, and especially to the experiences connected with Mr. Bilton. They particularly wished to ask questions about Mr. Bilton, and find out what he had thought of things. Mrs. Bilton was lavish in her details of what she had thought herself, but Mr. Bilton's thoughts remained impenetrable. It seemed to the twins that he must have thought a lot, and have come to the conclusion that there was much to be said for death. The Biltons, it appeared, had been the opposite of the Clouston-Sacks, and had never been separated for a single day during the whole of their married life. This seemed to the twins very strange, and needing a great deal of explanation. In order to get light thrown on it the first thing they wanted to find out was how long the marriage had lasted; but Mrs. Bilton was deaf to their inquiries, and having described Mr. Bilton's last moments and obsequies--obsequies scheduled by her, she said, with so tender a regard for his memory that she insisted on a horse-drawn hearse instead of the more fashionable automobile conveyance, on the ground that a motor hearse didn't seem sorry enough even on first speed--she washed along with an easy flow to descriptions of the dreadfulness of the early days of widowhood, when one's crepe veil keeps on catching in everything--chairs, overhanging branches, and passers-by, including it appeared on one occasion a policeman. She inquired of the twins whether they had ever seen a new-made widow in a wind. Chicago, she said, was a windy place, and Mr. Bilton passed in its windiest month. Her long veil, as she proceeded down the streets on the daily constitutional she considered it her duty toward the living to take, for one owes it to one's friends to keep oneself fit and not give way, was blown hither and thither in the buffeting cross-currents of that uneasy climate, and her walk in the busier streets was a series of entanglements. Embarrassing entanglements, said Mrs. Bilton. Fortunately the persons she got caught in were delicacy and sympathy itself; often, indeed, seeming quite overcome by the peculiar poignancy of the situation, covered with confusion, profuse in apologies. Sometimes the wind would cause her veil for a few moments to rear straight up above her head in a monstrous black column of woe. Sometimes, if she stopped a moment waiting to cross the street, it would whip round the body of any one who happened to be near, like a cord. It did this once about the body of the policeman directing the traffic, by whose side she had paused, and she had to walk round him backwards before it could be unwound. The Chicago evening papers, prompt on the track of a sensation, had caused her friends much painful if only short-lived amazement by coming out with huge equivocal headlines: WELL-KNOWN SOCIETY WIDOW AND POLICEMAN CAUGHT TOGETHER and beginning their description of the occurrence by printing her name in full. So that for the first sentence or two her friends were a prey to horror and distress, which turned to indignation on discovering there was nothing in it after all. The twins, their eyes on Mrs. Bilton's face, their hands clasped round their knees, their bodies sitting on the grass at her feet, occasionally felt as they followed her narrative that they were somehow out of their depth and didn't quite understand. It was extraordinarily exasperating to them to be so completely muzzled. They were accustomed to elucidate points they didn't understand by immediate inquiry; they had a habit of asking for information, and then delivering comments on it. This condition of repression made them most uncomfortable. The ilex tree in the field below the house, to which Mrs. Bilton shepherded them each morning and afternoon for the first three days, became to them, in spite of its beauty with the view from under its dark shade across the sunny fields to the sea and the delicate distant islands, a painful spot. The beauty all round them was under these conditions exasperating. Only once did Mrs. Bilton leave them, and that was the first afternoon, when they instantly fled to seek out Mr. Twist; and she only left them then--for it wasn't just her sense of duty that was strong, but also her dislike of being alone--because something unexpectedly gave way in the upper part of her dress, she being of a tight well-held-in figure, depending much on its buttons; and she had very hastily to go in search of a needle. After that they didn't see Mr. Twist alone for several days. They hardly indeed saw him at all. The only meal he shared with them was supper, and on finding the first evening that Mrs. Bilton read aloud to people after supper, he made the excuse of accounts to go through and went into his bedroom, repeating this each night. The twins watched him go with agonized eyes. They considered themselves deserted; shamefully abandoned to a miserable fate. "And it isn't as if he didn't _like_ reading aloud," whispered Anna-Rose, bewildered and indignant as she remembered the "Ode to Dooty." "Perhaps he's one of those people who only like it if they do it themselves," Anna-Felicitas whispered back, trying to explain his base behaviour. And while they whispered, Mrs. Bilton with great enjoyment declaimed--she had had a course of elocution lessons during Mr. Bilton's life so as to be able to place the best literature advantageously before him--the diary of a young girl written in prison. The young girl had been wrongfully incarcerated, Mrs. Bilton explained, and her pure soul only found release by the demise of her body. The twins hated the young girl from the first paragraph. She wrote her diary every day till her demise stopped her. As nothing happens in prisons that hasn't happened the day before, she could only write her reflections; and the twins hated her reflections, because they were so very like what in their secret moments of slush they were apt to reflect themselves. Their mother had had a horror of slush. There had been none anywhere about her; but it is in the air in Germany, in people's blood, everywhere; and though the twins, owing to the English part of them, had a horror of it too, there it was in them, and they knew it,--genuine German slush. They felt uncomfortably sure that if they were in prison they would write a diary very much on these lines. For three evenings they had to listen to it, their eyes on Mr. Twist's door. Why didn't he come out and save them? What happy, what glorious evenings they used to have at the Cosmopolitan, spent in intelligent conversation, in a decent give and take--not this button-holing business, this being got into a corner and held down; and alas, how little they had appreciated them! They used to get sleepy and break them off and go to bed. If only he would come out now and talk to them they would sit up all night. They wriggled with impatience in their seats beneath the _épanchements_ of the young girl, the strangely and distressingly familiar _épanchements_. The diary was published in a magazine, and after the second evening, when Mrs. Bilton on laying it down announced she would go on with it while they were dressing next morning, they got up very early before Mrs. Bilton was awake and crept out and hid it. But Li Koo found it and restored it. Li Koo found everything. He found Mrs. Bilton's outdoor shoes the third morning, although the twins had hidden them most carefully. Their idea was that while she, rendered immobile, waited indoors, they would zealously look for them in all the places where they well knew that they weren't, and perhaps get some conversation with Mr. Twist. But Li Koo found everything. He found the twins themselves the fourth morning, when, unable any longer to bear Mrs. Bilton's voice, they ran into the woods instead of coming in to breakfast. He seemed to find them at once, to walk unswervingly to their remote and bramble-filled ditch. In order to save their dignity they said as they scrambled out that they were picking flowers for Mrs. Bilton's breakfast, though the ditch had nothing in it but stones and thorns. Li Koo made no comment. He never did make comments; and his silence and his ubiquitous efficiency made the twins as fidgety with him as they were with Mrs. Bilton for the opposite reason. They had an uncomfortable feeling that he was rather like the _liebe Gott_,--he saw everything, knew everything, and said nothing. In vain they tried, on that walk back as at other times, to pierce his impassivity with genialities. Li Koo--again, they silently reflected, like the _liebe Gott_--had a different sense of geniality from theirs; he couldn't apparently smile; they doubted if he even ever wanted to. Their genialities faltered and froze on their lips. Besides, they were deeply humiliated by having been found hiding, and were ashamed to find themselves trying anxiously in this manner to conciliate Li Koo. Their dignity on the walk back to the shanty seemed painfully shrunk. They ought never to have condescended to do the childish things they had been doing during the last three days. If they hadn't been found out it would, of course, have remained a private matter between them and their Maker, and then one doesn't mind so much; but they had been found out, and by Li Koo, their own servant. It was intolerable. All the blood of all the Twinklers, Junkers from time immemorial and properly sensitive to humiliation, surged within them. They hadn't felt so naughty and so young for years. They were sure Li Koo didn't believe them about the ditch. They had a dreadful sensation of being led back to Mrs. Bilton by the ear. If only they could sack Mrs. Bilton! This thought, immense and startling, came to Anna-Rose, who far more than Anna-Felicitas resented being cut off from Mr. Twist, besides being more naturally impetuous; and as they walked in silence side by side, with Li Koo a little ahead of them, she turned her head and looked at Anna-Felicitas. "Let's give her notice," she murmured, under her breath. Anna-Felicitas was so much taken aback that she stopped in her walk and stared at Anna-Rose's flushed face. She too hardly breathed it. The suggestion seemed fantastic in its monstrousness. How could they give anybody so old, so sure of herself, so determined as Mrs. Bilton, notice? "Give her notice?" she repeated. A chill ran down Anna-Felicitas's spine. Give Mrs. Bilton notice! It was a great, a breath-taking idea, magnificent in its assertion of independence, of rights; but it needed, she felt, to be approached with caution. They had never given anybody notice in their lives, and they had always thought it must be a most painful thing to do--far, far worse than tipping. Uncle Arthur usedn't to mind it a bit; did it, indeed, with gusto. But Aunt Alice hadn't liked it at all, and came out in a cold perspiration and bewailed her lot to them and wished that people would behave and not place her in such a painful position. Mrs. Bilton couldn't be said not to have behaved. Quite the contrary. She had behaved too persistently; and they had to endure it the whole twenty-four hours. For Mrs. Bilton had no turn, it appeared, in spite of what she had said at Los Angeles, for solitary contemplation, and after the confusion of the first night, when once she had had time to envisage the situation thoroughly, as she said, she had found that to sit alone downstairs in the uncertain light of the lanterns while the twins went to bed and Mr. Twist wouldn't come out of his room, was not good for her psyche; so she had followed the twins upstairs, and continued to read the young girl's diary to them during their undressing and till the noises coming from their beds convinced her that it was useless to go on any longer. And that morning, the morning they hid in the ditch, she had even done this while they were getting up. "It isn't to be borne," said Anna-Rose under her breath, one eye on Li Koo's ear which, a little in front of her, seemed slightly slanted backward and sideways in the direction of her voice. "And why should it be? We're not in her power." "No," said Anna-Felicitas, also under her breath and also watching Li Koo's ear, "but it feels extraordinarily as if we were." "Yes. And that's intolerable. And it forces us to do silly baby things, wholly unsuited either to our age or our position. Who would have thought we'd ever hide from somebody in a ditch again!" Anna-Rose's voice was almost a sob at the humiliation. "It all comes from sleeping in the same room," said Anna-Felicitas. "Nobody can stand a thing that doesn't end at night either." "Of course they can't," said Anna-Rose. "It isn't fair. If you have to have a person all day you oughtn't to have to have the same person all night. Some one else should step in and relieve you then. Just as they do in hospitals." "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "Mr. Twist ought to. He ought to remove her forcibly from our room by marriage. "No he oughtn't," said Anna-Rose hastily, "because we can remove her ourselves by the simple process of giving her notice." "I don't believe it's simple," said Anna-Felicia again feeling a chill trickling down her spine. "Of course it is. We just go to her very politely and inform her that the engagement is terminated on a basis of mutual esteem but inflexible determination." "And suppose she doesn't stop talking enough to hear?" "Then we'll hand it to her in writing." The rest of the way they walked in silence, Anna-Rose with her chin thrust out in defiance, Anna-Felicitas dragging her feet along with a certain reluctance and doubt. Mrs. Bilton had finished her breakfast when they got back, having seen no sense in letting good food get cold, and was ready to sit and chat to them while they had theirs. She was so busy telling them what she had supposed they were probably doing, that she was unable to listen to their attempted account of what they had done. Thus they were saved from telling humiliating and youthful fibs; but they were also prevented, as by a wall of rock, from getting the speech through to her ear that Anna-Rose, trembling in spite of her defiance, had ready to launch at her. It was impossible to shout at Mrs. Bilton in the way Mr. Twist, when in extremity of necessity, had done. Ladies didn't shout; especially not when they were giving other ladies notice. Anna-Rose, who was quite cold and clammy at the prospect of her speech, couldn't help feeling relieved when breakfast was over and no opportunity for it had been given. "We'll write it," she whispered to Anna-Felicitas beneath the cover of a lively account Mrs. Bilton was giving them, _à propos_ of their being late for breakfast, of the time it took her, after Mr. Bilton's passing, to get used to his unpunctuality at meals. That Mr. Bilton, who had breakfasted and dined with her steadily for years, should suddenly leave off being punctual freshly astonished her every day, she said. The clock struck, yet Mr. Bilton continued late. It was poignant, said Mrs. Bilton, this way of being reminded of her loss. Each day she would instinctively expect; each day would come the stab of recollection. The vacancy these non-appearances had made in her life was beyond any words of hers. In fact she didn't possess such words, and doubted if the completest dictionary did either. Everything went just vacant, she said. No need any more to hurry down in the morning, so as to be behind the coffee pot half a minute before the gong went and Mr. Bilton simultaneously appeared. No need any more to think of him when ordering meals. No need any more to eat the dish he had been so fond of and she had found so difficult to digest, Boston baked beans and bacon; yet she found herself ordering it continually after his departure, and choking memorially over the mouthfuls--"And people in Europe," cried Mrs Bilton, herself struck as she talked by this extreme devotion, "say that American women are incapable of passion!" "We'll write it," whispered Anna-Rose to Anna-Felicitas. "Write what?" asked Anna-Felicitas abstractedly, who as usual when Mrs. Bilton narrated her reminiscences was absorbed in listening to them and trying to get some clear image of Mr. Bilton. But she remembered the next moment, and it was like waking up to the recollection that this is the day you have to have a tooth pulled out. The idea of not having the tooth any more, of being free from it charmed and thrilled her, but how painful, how alarming was the prospect of pulling it out! There was one good thing to be said for Mrs. Bilton's talk, and that was that under its voluminous cover they could themselves whisper occasionally to each other. Anna-Rose decided that if Mrs. Bilton didn't notice that they whispered neither probably would she notice if she wrote. She therefore under Mrs. Bilton's very nose got a pencil and a piece of paper, and with many pauses and an unsteady hand wrote the following: DEAR MRS. BILTON--For some time past my sister and I have felt that we aren't suited to you, and if you don't mind would you mind regarding the engagement as terminated? We hope you won't think this abrupt, because it isn't really, for we seem to have lived ages since you came, and we've been thinking this over ripely ever since. And we hope you won't take it as anything personal either, because it isn't really. It's only that we feel we're unsuitable, and we're sure we'll go on getting more and more unsuitable. Nobody can help being unsuitable, and we're fearfully sorry. But on the other hand we're inflexible.--Yours affectionately, ANNA-ROSE and ANNA-FELICITAS TWINKLER With a beating heart she cautiously pushed the letter across the table under cover of the breakfast _débris_ to Anna-Felicitas, who read it with a beating heart and cautiously pushed it back. Anna-Felicitas felt sure Christopher was being terribly impetuous, and she felt sure she ought to stop her. But what a joy to be without Mrs. Bilton! The thought of going to bed in the placid sluggishness dear to her heart, without having to listen, to be attentive, to remember to be tidy because if she weren't there would be no room for Mrs. Bilton's things, was too much for her. Authority pursuing her into her bedroom was what she had found most difficult to bear. There must be respite. There must be intervals in every activity or endurance. Even the _liebe Gott_, otherwise so indefatigable, had felt this and arranged for the relaxation of Sundays. She pushed the letter back with a beating heart, and told herself that she couldn't and never had been able to stop Christopher when she was in this mood of her chin sticking out. What could she do in face of such a chin? And besides, Mrs. Bilton's friends must be missing her very much and ought to have her back. One should always live only with one's own sort of people. Every other way of living, Anna-Felicitas was sure even at this early stage of her existence, was bound to come to a bad end. One could be fond of almost anybody, she held, if they were somewhere else. Even of Uncle Arthur. Even he somehow seemed softened by distance. But for living-together purposes there was only one kind of people possible, and that was one's own kind. Unexpected and various were the exteriors of one's own kind and the places one found them in, but one always knew them. One felt comfortable with them at once; comfortable and placid. Whatever else Mrs. Bilton might be feeling she wasn't feeling placid. That was evident; and it was because she too wasn't with her own kind. With her eyes fixed nervously on Mrs. Bilton who was talking on happily, Anna-Felicitas reasoned with herself in the above manner as she pushed back the letter, instead of, as at the back of her mind she felt she ought to have done, tearing it up. Anna-Rose folded it and addressed it to Mrs. Bilton. Then she got up and held it out to her. Anna-Felicitas got up too, her inside feeling strangely unsteady and stirred round and round. "Would you mind reading this?" said Anna-Rose faintly to Mrs. Bilton, who took the letter mechanically and held it in her hand without apparently noticing it, so much engaged was she by what she was saying. "We're going out a moment to speak to Mr. Twist," Anna-Rose then said, making for the door and beckoning to Anna-Felicitas, who still stood hesitating. She slipped out; and Anna-Felicitas, suddenly panic-stricken lest she should be buttonholed all by herself fled after her. CHAPTER XXVIII Mr. Twist, his mind at ease, was in the charming room that was to be the tea-room. It was full of scattered fittings and the noise of hammering, but even so anybody could see what a delightful place it would presently turn into. The Open Arms was to make a specialty of wet days. Those were the days, those consecutive days of downpour that came in the winter and lasted without interruption for a fortnight at a time, when visitors in the hotels were bored beyond expression and ready to welcome anything that could distract them for an hour from the dripping of the rain on the windows. Bridge was their one solace, and they played it from after breakfast till bedtime; but on the fourth or fifth day of doing this, just the mere steady sitting became grievous to them. They ached with weariness. They wilted with boredom. All their natural kindness got damped out of them, and they were cross. Even when they won they were cross, and when they lost it was really distressing. They wouldn't, of course, have been in California at all at such a time if it were possible to know beforehand when the rains would begin, but one never did know, and often it was glorious weather right up to and beyond Christmas. And then how glorious! What a golden place of light and warmth to be in, while in the East one's friends were being battered by blizzards. Mr. Twist intended to provide a break in the day each afternoon for these victims of the rain. He would come to their rescue. He made up his mind, clear and firm on such matters, that it should become the habit of these unhappy people during the bad weather to motor out to The Open Arms for tea; and, full of forethought, he had had a covered way made, by which one could get out of a car and into the house without being touched by a drop of rain, and he had had a huge open fireplace made across the end of the tea-room, which would crackle and blaze a welcome that would cheer the most dispirited arrival. The cakes, at all times wonderful were on wet days to be more than wonderful. Li Koo had a secret receipt, given him, he said, by his mother for cakes of a quite peculiar and original charm, and these were to be reserved for the rainy season only, and be made its specialty. They were to become known and endeared to the public under the brief designation of Wet Day Cakes. Mr. Twist felt there was something thoroughly American about this name--plain and business-like, and attractively in contrast to the subtle, the almost immoral exquisiteness of the article itself. This cake had been one of those produced by Li Koo from the folds of his garments the day in Los Angeles, and Mr. Twist had happened to be the one of his party who ate it. He therefore knew what he was doing when he decided to call it and its like simply Wet Day Cakes. The twins found him experimenting with a fire in the fireplace so as to be sure it didn't smoke, and the architect and he were in their shirt sleeves, deftly manipulating wood shavings and logs. There was such a hammering being made by the workmen fixing in the latticed windows, and such a crackling being made by the logs Mr. Twist and the architect kept on throwing on the fire, that only from the sudden broad smile on the architect's face as he turned to pick up another log did Mr. Twist realize that something that hadn't to do with work was happening behind his back. He looked round and saw the Annas picking their way toward him. They seemed in a hurry. "Hello," he called out. They made no reply to this, but continued hurriedly to pick their way among the obstacles in their path. They appeared to be much perturbed. What, he wondered, had they done with Mrs. Bilton? He soon knew. "We've given Mrs. Bilton notice," panted Anna-Rose as soon as she got near enough to his ear for him to hear her in the prevailing noise. Her face, as usual when she was moved and excited, was scarlet, her eyes looking bluer and brighter than ever by contrast. "We simply can't stand it any longer," she went on as Mr. Twist only stared at her. "And you wouldn't either if you were us," she continued, the more passionately as he still didn't say anything. "Of course," said Anna-Felicitas, taking a high line, though her heart was full of doubt, "it's your fault really. We could have borne it if we hadn't had to have her at night." "Come outside," said Mr. Twist, walking toward the door that led on to the verandah. They followed him, Anna-Rose shaking with excitement, Anna-Felicitas trying to persuade herself that they had acted in the only way consistent with real wisdom. The architect stood with a log in each hand looking after them and smiling all by himself. There was something about the Twinklers that lightened his heart whenever he caught sight of them. He and his fellow experts had deplored the absence of opportunities since Mrs. Bilton came of developing the friendship begun the first day, and talked of them on their way home in the afternoons with affectionate and respectful familiarity as The Cutes. "Now," said Mr. Twist, having passed through the verandah and led the twins to the bottom of the garden where he turned and faced them, "perhaps you'll tell me exactly what you've done." "You should rather inquire what Mrs. Bilton has done," said Anna-Felicitas, pulling herself up as straight and tall as she would go. She couldn't but perceive that the excess of Christopher's emotion was putting her at a disadvantage in the matter of dignity. "I can guess pretty much what she has done," said Mr. Twist. "You can't--you can't," burst out Anna-Rose. "Nobody could--nobody ever could--who hadn't been with her day and night." "She's just been Mrs. Bilton," said Mr. Twist, lighting a cigarette to give himself an appearance of calm. "Exactly," said Anna-Felicitas. "So you won't be surprised at our having just been Twinklers." "Oh Lord," groaned Mr. Twist, in spite of his cigarette, "oh, Lord." "We've given Mrs. Bilton notice," continued Anna-Felicitas, making a gesture of great dignity with her hand, "because we find with regret that she and we are incompatible." "Was she aware that you were giving it her?" asked Mr. Twist, endeavouring to keep calm. "We wrote it." "Has she read it?" "We put it into her hand, and then came away so that she should have an opportunity of quietly considering it." "You shouldn't have left us alone with her like this," burst out Anna-Rose again, "you shouldn't really. It was cruel, it was wrong, leaving us high and dry--never seeing you--leaving us to be talked to day and night--to be read to--would _you_ like to be read to while you're undressing by somebody still in all their clothes? We've never been able to open our mouths. We've been taken into the field for our airing and brought in again as if we were newborns, or people in prams, or flocks and herds, or prisoners suspected of wanting to escape. We haven't had a minute to ourselves day or night. There hasn't been a single exchange of ideas, not a shred of recognition that we're grown up. We've been followed, watched, talked to--oh, oh, how awful it has been! Oh, oh, how awful! Forced to be dumb for days--losing our power of speech--" "Anna-Rose Twinkler," interrupted Mr. Twist sternly, "you haven't lost it. And you not only haven't, but that power of yours has increased tenfold during its days of rest." He spoke with the exasperation in his voice that they had already heard several times since they landed in America. Each time it took them aback, for Mr. Twist was firmly fixed in their minds as the kindest and gentlest of creatures, and these sudden kickings of his each time astonished them. On this occasion, however, only Anna-Rose was astonished. Anna-Felicitas all along had had an uncomfortable conviction in the depth of her heart that Mr. Twist wouldn't like what they had done. He would be upset, she felt, as her reluctant feet followed Anna-Rose in search of him. He would be, she was afraid very much upset. And so he was. He was appalled by what had happened. Lose Mrs. Bilton? Lose the very foundation of the party's respectability? And how could he find somebody else at the eleventh hour and where and how could the twins and he live, unchaperoned as they would be, till he had? What a peculiar talent these Annas had for getting themselves and him into impossible situations! Of course at their age they ought to be safe under the wing of a wise and unusually determined mother. Well, poor little wretches, they couldn't help not being under it; but that aunt of theirs ought to have stuck to them--faced up to her husband, and stuck to them. "I suppose," he said angrily, "being you and not being able to see farther than the ends of your noses, you haven't got any sort of an idea of what you've done." "We--" "She--" "And I don't suppose it's much use my trying to explain, either. Hasn't it ever occurred to you, though I'd be real grateful if you'd give me information on this point--that maybe you don't know everything?" "She--" "We--" "And that till you do know everything, which I take it won't be for some time yet, judging from the samples I've had of your perspicacity, you'd do well not to act without first asking some one's advice? Mine, for instance?" "She--" began Anna-Rose again; but her voice was trembling, for she couldn't bear Mr. Twist's anger. She was too fond of him. When he looked at her like that her own anger was blown out as if by an icy draught and she could only look back at him piteously. But Anna-Felicitas, being free from the weaknesses inherent in adoration, besides continuing to perceive how Christopher's feelings put her at a disadvantage, drew Mr. Twist's attention from her by saying with gentleness, "But why add to the general discomfort by being bitter?" "Bitter!" cried Mr. Twist, still glaring at Anna-Rose. "Do you dispute that God made us?" inquired Anna-Felicitas, placing herself as it were like a shield between Mr. Twist's wrathful concentration on Christopher and that unfortunate young person's emotion. "See here," said Mr. Twist turning on her, "I'm not going to argue with you--not about _anything_. Least of all about God." "I only wanted to point out to you," said Anna-Felicitas mildly, "that that being so, and we not able to help it, there seems little use in being bitter with us because we're not different. In regard to anything fundamental about us that you deplore I'm afraid we must refer you to Providence." "Say," said Mr. Twist, not in the least appeased by this reasoning but, as Anna-Felicitas couldn't but notice, quite the contrary, "used you to talk like this to that Uncle Arthur of yours? Because if you did, upon my word I don't wonder--" But what Mr. Twist didn't wonder was fortunately concealed from the twins by the appearance at that moment of Mrs. Bilton, who, emerging from the shades of the verandah and looking about her, caught sight of them and came rapidly down the garden. There was no escape. They watched her bearing down on them without a word. It was a most unpleasant moment. Mr. Twist re-lit his cigarette to give himself a countenance, but the thought of all that Mrs. Bilton would probably say was dreadful to him, and his hand couldn't help shaking a little. Anna-Rose showed a guilty tendency to slink behind him. Anna-Felicitas stood motionless, awaiting the deluge. All Mr. Twist's sympathies were with Mrs. Bilton, and he was ashamed that she should have been treated so. He felt that nothing she could say would be severe enough, and he was extraordinarily angry with the Annas. Yet when he saw the injured lady bearing down on them, if he only could he would have picked up an Anna under each arm, guilty as they were, and run and run; so much did he prefer them to Mrs. Bilton and so terribly did he want, at this moment, to be somewhere where that lady wasn't. There they stood then, anxiously watching the approaching figure, and the letter in Mrs. Bilton's hand bobbed up and down as she walked, white and conspicuous in the sun against her black dress. What was their amazement to see as she drew nearer that she was looking just as pleasant as ever. They stared at her with mouths falling open. Was it possible, thought the twins, that she was longing to leave but hadn't liked to say so, and the letter had come as a release? Was it possible, thought Mr. Twist with a leap of hope in his heart, that she was taking the letter from a non-serious point of view? And Mr. Twist, to his infinite relief, was right. For Mrs. Bilton, woman of grit and tenacity, was not in the habit of allowing herself to be dislodged or even discouraged. This was the opening sentence of her remarks when she had arrived, smiling, in their midst. Had she not explained the first night that she was one who, having put her hand to the plough, held on to it however lively the movements of the plough might be? She would not conceal from them, she said, that even Mr. Bilton had not, especially, at first, been entirely without such movements. He had settled down, however on finding he could trust her to know better than he did what he wanted. Don't wise wives always? she inquired. And the result had been that no man ever had a more devoted wife while he was alive, or a more devoted widow after he wasn't. She had told him one day, when he was drawing near the latter condition and she was conversing with him, as was only right, on the subject of wills, and he said that his affairs had gone wrong and as far as he could see she would be left a widow and that was about all she would be left--she had told him that if it was any comfort to him to know it, he might rely on it that he would have the most devoted widow any man had ever had, and he said--Mr. Bilton had odd fancies, especially toward the end--that a widow was the one thing a man never could have because he wasn't there by the time he had got her. Yes, Mr. Bilton had odd fancies. And if she had managed, as she did manage, to steer successfully among them, he being a man of ripe parts and character, was it likely that encountering odd fancies in two very young and unformed girls--oh, it wasn't their fault that they were unformed, it was merely because they hadn't had time enough yet--she would be unable, experienced as she was, to steer among them too? Besides, she had a heart for orphans; orphans and dumb animals always had had a special appeal for her. "No, no, Mr. Twist," Mrs. Bilton wound up, putting a hand affectionately on Anna-Rose's shoulder as a more convenient one than Anna-Felicitas's, "my young charges aren't going to be left in the lurch, you may rely on that. I don't undertake a duty without carrying it out. Why, I feel a lasting affection for them already. We've made real progress these few days in intimacy. And I just love to sit and listen to all their fresh young chatter." CHAPTER XXIX This was the last of Mr. Twist's worries before the opening day. Remorseful that he should have shirked helping the Annas to bear Mrs. Bilton, besides having had a severe fright on perceiving how near his shirking had brought the party to disaster, he now had his meals with the others and spent the evenings with them as well. He was immensely grateful to Mrs. Bilton. Her grit had saved them. He esteemed and respected her. Indeed, he shook hands with her then and there at the end of her speech, and told her he did, and the least he could do after that was to come to dinner. But this very genuine appreciation didn't prevent his finding her at close quarters what Anna-Rose, greatly chastened, now only called temperately "a little much," and the result was a really frantic hurrying on of the work. He had rather taken, those first four days of being relieved of responsibility in regard to the twins, to finnicking with details, to dwelling lovingly on them with a sense of having a margin to his time, and things accordingly had considerably slowed down; but after twenty-four hours of Mrs. Bilton they hurried up again, and after forty-eight of her the speed was headlong. At the end of forty-eight hours it seemed to Mr. Twist more urgent than anything he had ever known that he should get out of the shanty, get into somewhere with space in it, and sound-proof walls--lots of walls--and long passages between people's doors; and before the rooms in the inn were anything like finished he insisted on moving in. "You must turn to on this last lap and help fix them up," he said to the twins. "It'll be a bit uncomfortable at first, but you must just take off your coats to it and not mind." Mind? Turn to? It was what they were languishing for. It was what, in the arid hours under the ilex tree, collected so ignominiously round Mrs. Bilton's knee they had been panting for, like thirsty dogs with their tongues out. And such is the peculiar blessedness of work that instantly, the moment there was any to be done, everything that was tangled and irritating fell quite naturally into its proper place. Magically life straightened itself out smooth, and left off being difficult. _Arbeit und Liebe_, as their mother used to say, dropping into German whenever a sentence seemed to her to sound better that way--_Arbeit und Liebe_: these were the two great things of life; the two great angels, as she assured them, under whose spread-out wings lay happiness. With a hungry zeal, with the violent energy of reaction, the Annas fell upon work. They started unpacking. All the things they had bought in Acapulco, the linen, the china, the teaspoons, the feminine touches that had been piled up waiting in the barn, were pulled out and undone and carried indoors. They sorted, and they counted, and they arranged on shelves. Anna-Rose flew in and out with her arms full. Anna-Felicitas slouched zealously after her, her arms full too when she started, but not nearly so full when she got there owing to the way things had of slipping through them and dropping on to the floor. They were in a blissful, busy confusion. Their faces shone with heat and happiness. Here was liberty; here was freedom; here was true dignity--_Arbeit und Liebe_.... When Mr. Twist, as he did whenever he could, came and looked on for a moment in his shirt sleeves, with his hat on the back of his head and his big, benevolent spectacles so kind, Anna-Rose's cup seemed full. Her dimple never disappeared for a moment. It was there all day long now; and even when she was asleep it still lurked in the corner of her mouth. _Arbeit und Liebe_. Immense was the reaction of self-respect that took hold of the twins. They couldn't believe they were the people who had been so crude and ill-conditioned as to hide Mrs. Bilton's belongings, and actually finally to hide themselves. How absurd. How like children. How unpardonably undignified. Anna-Rose held forth volubly to this effect while she arranged the china, and Anna-Felicitas listened assentingly, with a kind of grave, ashamed sheepishness. The result of this reaction was that Mrs. Bilton, whose pressure on them was relieved by the necessity of her too being in several places at once, and who was displaying her customary grit, now became the definite object of their courtesy. They were the mistresses of a house, they began to realize, and as such owed her every consideration. This bland attitude was greatly helped by their not having to sleep with her any more, and they found that the mere coming fresh to her each morning made them feel polite and well-disposed. Besides, they were thoroughly and finally grown-up now, Anna-Rose declared--never, never to lapse again. They had had their lesson, she said, gone through a crisis, and done that which Aunt Alice used to say people did after severe trials, aged considerably. Anna-Felicitas wasn't quite so sure. Her own recent behaviour had shaken and shocked her too much. Who would have thought she would have gone like that? Gone all to pieces, back to sheer naughtiness, on the first provocation? It was quite easy, she reflected while she worked, and cups kept on detaching themselves mysteriously from her fingers, and tables tumbling over at her approach, to be polite and considerate to somebody you saw very little of, and even, as she found herself doing, to get fond of the person; but suppose circumstances threw one again into the person's continual society, made one again have to sleep in the same room? Anna-Felicitas doubted whether it would be possible for her to stand such a test, in spite of her earnest desire to behave; she doubted, indeed, whether anybody ever did stand that test successfully. Look at husbands. Meanwhile there seemed no likelihood of its being applied again. Each of them had now a separate bedroom, and Mrs. Bilton had, in the lavish American fashion, her own bathroom, so that even at that point there was no collision. The twins' rooms were connected by a bathroom all to themselves, with no other door into it except the doors from their bedrooms, and Mr. Twist, who dwelt discreetly at the other end of the house, also had a bathroom of his own. It seemed as natural for American architects to drop bathrooms about, thought Anna-Rose, as for the little clouds in the psalms to drop fatness. They shed them just as easily, and the results were just as refreshing. To persons hailing from Pomerania, a place arid of bathrooms, it was the last word of luxury and comfort to have one's own. Their pride in theirs amused Mr. Twist, used from childhood to these civilized arrangements; but then, as they pointed out to him, he hadn't lived in Pomerania, where nothing stood between you and being dirty except the pump. But it wasn't only the bathrooms that made the inn as planned by Mr. Twist and the architect seem to the twins the most perfect, the most wonderful magic little house in the world: the intelligent American spirit was in every corner, and it was full of clever, simple devices for saving labour--so full that it almost seemed to the Annas as if it would get up quite unaided at six every morning and do itself; and they were sure that if the smallest encouragement were given to the kitchen-stove it would cook and dish up a dinner all alone. Everything in the house was on these lines. The arrangements for serving innumerable teas with ease were admirable. They were marvels of economy and clever thinking-out. The architect was surprised at the attention and thought Mr. Twist concentrated on this particular part of the future housekeeping. "You seem sheer crazy on teas," he remarked; to which Mr. Twist merely replied that he was. The last few days before the opening were as full of present joy and promise of yet greater joys to come as the last few days of a happy betrothal. They reminded Anna-Felicitas of those days in April, those enchanting days she had always loved the best, when the bees get busy for the first time, and suddenly there are wallflowers and a flowering currant bush and the sound of the lawn being mown and the smell of cut grass. How one's heart leaps up to greet them, she thought. What a thrill of delight rushes through one's body, of new hope, of delicious expectation. Even Li Koo, the wooden-faced, the brief and rare of speech seemed to feel the prevailing satisfaction and harmony and could be heard in the evenings singing strange songs among his pots. And what he was singing, only nobody knew it, were soft Chinese hymns of praise of the two white-lily girls, whose hair was woven sunlight, and whose eyes were deep and blue even as the waters that washed about the shores of his father's dwelling-place. For Li Koo, the impassive and inarticulate, in secret seethed with passion. Which was why his cakes were so wonderful. He had to express himself somehow. But while up on their sun-lit, eucalyptus-crowned slopes Mr. Twist and his party--he always thought of them as his party--were innocently and happily busy full of hopefulness and mutual goodwill, down in the town and in the houses scattered over the lovely country round the town, people were talking. Everybody knew about the house Teapot Twist was doing up, for the daily paper had told them that Mr. Edward A. Twist had bought the long uninhabited farmhouse in Pepper Lane known as Batt's, and was converting it into a little _ventre-à-terre_ for his widowed mother--launching once more into French, as though there were something about Mr. Twist magnetic to that language. Everybody knew this, and it was perfectly natural for a well-off Easterner to have a little place out West, even if the choice of the little place was whimsical. But what about the Miss Twinklers? Who and what were they? And also, Why? There were three weeks between the departure of the Twist party from the Cosmopolitan and the opening of the inn, and in that time much had been done in the way of conjecture. The first waves of it flowed out from the Cosmopolitan, and were met almost at once by waves flowing in from the town. Good-natured curiosity gave place to excited curiosity when the rumour got about that the Cosmopolitan had been obliged to ask Mr. Twist to take his _entourage_ somewhere else. Was it possible the cute little girls, so well known by sight on Main Street going from shop to shop, were secretly scandalous? It seemed almost unbelievable, but luckily nothing was really unbelievable. The manager of the hotel, dropped in upon casually by one guest after the other, and interviewed as well by determined gentlemen from the local press, was not to be drawn. His reserve was most interesting. Miss Heap knitted and knitted and was persistently enigmatic. Her silence was most exciting. On the other hand, Mrs. Ridding's attitude was merely one of contempt, dismissing the Twinklers with a heavy gesture. Why think or trouble about a pair of chits like that? They had gone; Albert was quiet again; and wasn't that the gong for dinner? But doubts as to the private morals of the Twist _entourage_ presently were superseded by much graver and more perturbing doubts. Nobody knew when exactly this development took place. Acapulco had been enjoying the first set of doubts. There was no denying that doubts about somebody else's morals were not unpleasant. They did give one, if one examined one's sensations carefully, a distinct agreeable tickle; they did add the kick to lives which, if they had been virtuous for a very long time like the lives of the Riddings, or virgin for a very long time like the life of Miss Heap, were apt to be flat. But from the doubts that presently appeared and overshadowed the earlier ones, one got nothing but genuine discomfort and uneasiness. Nobody knew how or when they started. Quite suddenly they were there. This was in the November before America's coming into the war. The feeling in Acapulco was violently anti-German. The great majority of the inhabitants, permanent and temporary, were deeply concerned at the conduct of their country in not having, immediately after the torpedoing of the _Lusitania_, joined the Allies. They found it difficult to understand, and were puzzled and suspicious, as well as humiliated in their national pride. Germans who lived in the neighbourhood, or who came across from the East for the winter, were politely tolerated, but the attitude toward them was one of growing watchfulness and distrust; and week by week the whispered stories of spies and gun-emplacements and secret stores of arms in these people's cellars or back gardens, grew more insistent and detailed. There certainly had been at least one spy, a real authentic one, afterward shot in England, who had stayed near-by, and the nerves of the inhabitants had that jumpiness on this subject with which the inhabitants of other countries have long been familiar. All the customary inexplicable lights were seen; all the customary mysterious big motor cars rushed at forbidden and yet unhindered speeds along unusual roads at unaccountable hours; all the customary signalling out to sea was observed and passionately sworn to by otherwise calm people. It was possible, the inhabitants found, to believe with ease things about Germans--those who were having difficulty with religion wished it were equally easy to believe things about God. There was nothing Germans wouldn't think of in the way of plotting, and nothing they wouldn't, having thought of it, carry out with deadly thoroughness and patience. And into this uneasy hotbed of readiness to believe the worst, arrived the Twinkler twins, rolling their r's about. It needed but a few inquiries to discover that none of the young ladies' schools in the neighbourhood had been approached on their behalf; hardly inquiries,--mere casual talk was sufficient, ordinary chatting with the principals of these establishments when one met them at the lectures and instructive evenings the more serious members of the community organized and supported. Not many of the winter visitors went to these meetings, but Miss Heap did. Miss Heap had a restless soul. It was restless because it was worried by perpetual thirst,--she couldn't herself tell after what; it wasn't righteousness, for she knew she was still worldly, so perhaps it was culture. Anyhow she would give culture a chance, and accordingly she went to the instructive evenings. Here she met that other side of Acapulco which doesn't play bridge and is proud to know nothing of polo, which believes in education, and goes in for mind training and welfare work; which isn't, that is, well off. Nobody here had been asked to educate the Twinklers. No classes had been joined by them. Miss Heap was so enigmatic, she who was naturally of an unquiet and exercise-loving tongue, that this graver, more occupied section of the inhabitants was instantly as much pervaded by suspicions as the idlest of the visitors in the hotels and country houses. It waved aside the innocent appearance and obvious extreme youth of the suspects. Useless to look like cherubs if it were German cherubs you looked like. Useless being very nearly children if it were German children you very nearly were. Why, precisely these qualities would be selected by those terribly clever Germans for the furtherance of their nefarious schemes. It would be quite in keeping with the German national character, that character of bottomless artfulness, to pick out two such young girls with just that type of empty, baby face, and send them over to help weave the gigantic invisible web with which America was presently to be choked dead. The serious section of Acapulco, the section that thought, hit on this explanation of the Twinklers with no difficulty whatever once its suspicions were roused because it was used to being able to explain everything instantly. It was proud of its explanation, and presented it to the town with much the same air of deprecating but conscious achievement with which one presents drinking-fountains. Then there was the lawyer to whom Mr. Twist had gone about the guardianship. He said nothing, but he was clear in his mind that the girls were German and that Mr. Twist wanted to hide it. He had thought more highly of Mr. Twist's intelligence than this. Why hide it? America was a neutral country; technically she was neutral, and Germans could come and go as they pleased. Why unnecessarily set tongues wagging? He did not, being of a continuous shrewd alertness himself, a continuous wide-awakeness and minute consideration of consequences, realize, and if he had he wouldn't have believed, the affectionate simplicity and unworldliness of Mr. Twist. If it had been pointed out to him he would have dismissed it as a pose; for a man who makes money in any quantity worth handling isn't affectionately simple and unworldly--he is calculating and steely. The lawyer was puzzled. How did Mr. Twist manage to have a forehead and a fortune like that, and yet be a fool? True, he had a funny sort of face on him once you got down to the nose part and what came after,--a family sort of face, thought the lawyer; a sort of rice pudding, wet-nurse face. The lawyer listened intently to all the talk and rumours, while himself saying nothing. In spite of being a married man, his scruples about honour hadn't been blunted by the urge to personal freedom and the necessity for daily self-defence that sometimes afflicts those who have wives. He remained honourably silent, as he had said he would, but he listened; and he came to the conclusion that either there was a quite incredible amount of stupidity about the Twist party, or that there was something queer. What he didn't know, and what nobody knew, was that the house being got ready with such haste was to be an inn. He, like the rest of the world, took the newspapers _ventre-à-terre_ theory of the house for granted, and it was only the expectation of the arrival of that respectable lady, the widowed Mrs. Twist, which kept the suspicions a little damped down. They smouldered, hesitating, beneath this expectation; for Teapot Twist's family life had been voluminously described in the entire American press when first his invention caught on, and it was known to be pure. There had been snapshots of the home at Clark where he had been born, of the home at Clark (west aspect) where he would die--Mr. Twist read with mild surprise that his liveliest wish was to die in the old home--of the corner in the Clark churchyard where he would probably be entombed, with an inset showing his father's gravestone on which would clearly be read the announcement that he was the Resurrection and the Life. And there was an inset of his mother, swathed in the black symbols of ungluttable grief,--a most creditable mother. And there were accounts of the activities of another near relative, that Uncle Charles who presided over the Church of Heavenly Refreshment in New York, and a snapshot of his macerated and unrefreshed body in a cassock,--a most creditable uncle. These articles hadn't appeared so very long ago, and the impression survived and was general that Mr. Twist's antecedents were unimpeachable. If it were true that the house was for his mother and she was shortly arriving, then, although still very odd and unintelligible, it was probable that his being there now with the two Germans was after all capable of explanation. Not much of an explanation, though. Even the moderates who took this view felt this. One wasn't with Germans these days if one could help it. There was no getting away from that simple fact. The inevitable deduction was that Mr. Twist couldn't help it. Why couldn't he help it? Was he enslaved by a scandalous passion for them, a passion cold-bloodedly planned for him by the German Government, which was known to have lists of the notable citizens of the United States with photographs and details of their probable weaknesses, and was exactly informed of their movements? He had met the Twinklers, so it was reported, on a steamer coming over from England. Of course. All arranged by the German Government. That was the peculiar evil greatness of this dangerous people, announced the serious section of Acapulco, again with the drinking-fountain-presentation air, that nothing was too private or too petty to escape their attention, to be turned to their own wicked uses. They were as economical of the smallest scraps of possible usefulness as a French cook of the smallest scraps and leavings of food. Everything was turned to account. Nothing was wasted. Even the mosquitoes in Germany were not wasted. They contained juices, Germans had discovered, especially after having been in contact with human beings, and with these juices the talented but unscrupulous Germans made explosives. Could one sufficiently distrust a nation that did things like that? asked the serious section of Acapulco. CHAPTER XXX People were so much preoccupied by the Twinkler problem that they were less interested than they otherwise would have been in the sea-blue advertisements, and when the one appeared announcing that The Open Arms would open wide on the 29th of the month and exhorting the public to watch the signposts, they merely remarked that it wasn't, then, the title of a book after all. Mr. Twist would have been surprised and nettled if he had known how little curiosity his advertisements were exciting; he would have been horrified if he had known the reason. As it was, he didn't know anything. He was too busy, too deeply absorbed, to be vulnerable to rumour; he, and the twins, and Mrs. Bilton were safe from it inside their magic circle of _Arbeit und Liebe_. Sometimes he was seen in Main Street, that street in Acapulco through which everybody passes at certain hours of the morning, looking as though he had a great deal to do and very little time to do it in; and once or twice the Twinklers were seen there, also apparently very busy, but they didn't now come alone. Mrs. Bilton, the lady from Los Angeles--Acapulco knew all about her and admitted she was a lady of strictest integrity and unimpeachable character, but this only made the Twinkler problem more obscure--came too, and seemed, judging from the animation of her talk, to be on the best of terms with her charges. But once an idea has got into people's heads, remarked the lawyer, who was nudged by the friend he was walking with as the attractive trio were seen approaching,--Mrs. Bilton with her black dress and her snowy hair setting off, as they in their turn set her off, the twins in their clean white frocks and shining youth,--once an idea has got into people's heads it sticks. It is slow to get in, and impossible to get out. Yet on the face of it, was it likely that Mrs. Bilton-- "Say," interrupted his friend, "since when have you joined up with the water-blooded believe-nothing-but-good-ites?" And only his personal affection for the lawyer restrained him from using the terrible word pro-German; but it had been in his mind. The day before the opening, Miss Heap heard from an acquaintance in the East to whom she had written in her uneasiness, and who was staying with some people living in Clark. Miss Heap wrote soon after the departure--she didn't see why she shouldn't call it by its proper name and say right out expulsion--of the Twist party from the Cosmopolitan, but letters take a long time to get East and answers take the same long time to come back in, and messages are sometimes slow in being delivered if the other person doesn't realize, as one does oneself, the tremendous interests that are at stake. What could be a more tremendous interest, and one more adapted to the American genius, than safe-guarding public morals? Miss Heap wrote before the sinister rumours of German machinations had got about; she was still merely at the stage of uneasiness in regard to the morals of the Twist party; she couldn't sleep at night for thinking of them. Of course if it were true that his mother was coming out ... but was she? Miss Heap somehow felt unable to believe it. "Do tell your friends in Clark," she wrote, "how _delighted_ we all are to hear that Mrs. Twist is going to be one of us in our sunny refuge here this winter. A real warm welcome awaits her. Her son is working day and night getting the house ready for her, helped indefatigably by the two Miss Twinklers." She had to wait over a fortnight for the answer, and by the time she got it those other more terrible doubts had arisen, the doubts as to the exact position occupied by the Twinklers and Mr. Twist in the German secret plans for, first, the pervasion, and, second, the invasion of America; and on reading the opening lines of the letter Miss Heap found she had to sit down, for her legs gave way beneath her. It appeared that Mrs. Twist hadn't known where her son was till Miss Heap's letter came. He had left Clark in company of the two girls mentioned, and about whom his mother knew nothing, the very morning after his arrival home from his long absence in Europe. That was all his mother knew. She was quite broken. Coming on the top of all her other sorrow her only son's behaviour had been a fearful, perhaps a finishing blow, but she was such a good woman that she still prayed for him. Clark was horrified. His mother had decided at first she would try to shield him and say nothing, but when she found that nobody had the least idea of what he had done she felt she owed it to her friends to be open and have no secrets from them. Whatever it cost her in suffering and humiliation she would be frank. Anything was better than keeping up false appearances to friends who believed in you. She was a brave woman, a splendid woman. The girls--poor Mrs. Twist--were Germans. On reading this Miss Heap was all of a tingle. Her worst suspicions hadn't been half bad enough. Here was everything just about as black as it could be; and Mr Twist, a well-known and universally respected American citizen, had been turned, by means of those girls playing upon weaknesses she shuddered to think of but that she had reason to believe, from books she had studied and conversations she had reluctantly taken part in, were not altogether uncommon, into a cat's-paw of the German Government. What should she do? What should she say? To whom should she go? Which was the proper line of warning for her to take? It seemed to her that the presence of these people on the Pacific coast was a real menace to its safety, moral and physical; but how get rid of them? And if they were got rid of wouldn't it only be exposing some other part of America, less watchful, less perhaps able to take care of itself, to the ripening and furtherance of their schemes, whatever their schemes might be? Even at that moment Miss Heap unconsciously felt that to let the Twinklers go would be to lose thrills. And she was really thrilled. She prickled with excitement and horror. Her circulation hadn't been so good for years. She wasn't one to dissect her feelings, so she had no idea of how thoroughly she was enjoying herself. And it was while she sat alone in her bedroom, her fingers clasping and unclasping the arms of her chair, her feet nervously nibbing up and down on the thick soft carpet, hesitating as to the best course for her to take, holding her knowledge meanwhile tight, hugging it for a little altogether to herself, her very own, shared as yet by no one,--it was while she sat there, that people out of doors in Acapulco itself, along the main roads, out in the country towards Zamora on the north and San Blas on the south, became suddenly aware of new signposts. They hadn't been there the day before. They all turned towards the spot at the foot of the mountains where Pepper Lane was. They all pointed, with a long white finger, in that direction. And on them all was written in plain, sea-blue letters, beneath which the distance in miles or fractions of a mile was clearly marked, _To The Open Arms_. Curiosity was roused at last. People meeting each other in Main Street stopped to talk about these Arms wondered where and what they were, and decided to follow the signposts that afternoon in their cars and track them down. They made up parties to go and track together. It would be a relief to have something a little different to do. What on earth could The Open Arms be? Hopes were expressed that they weren't something religious. Awful to follow signposts out into the country only to find they landed you in a meeting-house. At lunch in the hotels, and everywhere where people were together, the signposts were discussed. Miss Heap heard them being discussed from her solitary table, but was so much taken up with her own exciting thoughts that she hardly noticed. After lunch, however, as she was passing out of the restaurant, still full of her unshared news and still uncertain as to whom she should tell it first, Mr. Ridding called out from his table and said he supposed she was going too. They had been a little chilly to each other since the afternoon of the conversation with the Twinklers, but he would have called out to any one at that moment. He was sitting waiting while Mrs. Ridding finished her lunch, his own lunch finished long ago, and was in the condition of muffled but extreme exasperation which the unoccupied watching of Mrs. Ridding at meals produced. Every day three times this happened, that Mr. Ridding got through his meal first by at least twenty minutes and then sat trying not to mind Mrs. Ridding. She wasn't aware of these efforts. They would greatly have shocked her; for to try not to mind one's wife surely isn't what decent, loving husbands ever have to do. "Going where?" asked Miss Heap, stopping by the table; whereupon Mr. Ridding had the slight relief of getting up. Mrs. Ridding continued to eat impassively. "Following these new signposts that are all over the place," said Mr. Ridding. "Sort of paper-chase business." "Yes. I'd like to. Were you thinking of going, Mrs. Ridding?" "After our nap," said Mrs. Ridding, steadily eating. "I'll take you. Car at four o'clock, Albert." She didn't raise her eyes from her plate, and as Miss Heap well knew that Mrs. Ridding was not open to conversation during meals and as she had nothing to say to Mr. Ridding, she expressed her thanks and pleasure, and temporarily left them. This was a day of shocks and thrills. When the big limousine--symbol of Mrs. Ridding's power, for Mr. Ridding couldn't for the life of him see why he should have to provide a strange old lady with cars, and yet did so on an increasing scale of splendour--arrived at the turn on the main road to San Blas which leads into Pepper Lane and was confronted by the final signpost pointing up it, for the first time The Open Arms and the Twist and Twinkler party entered Miss Heap's mind in company. So too did they enter Mr. Ridding's mind; and they only remained outside Mrs. Ridding's because of her profound uninterest. Her thoughts were merged in aspic. That was the worst of aspic when it was as good as it was at the Cosmopolitan; one wasn't able to leave off eating it quite in time, and then, unfortunately, had to go on thinking of it afterwards. The Twist house, remembered her companions simultaneously, was in Pepper Lane. Odd that this other thing, whatever it was, should happen to be there too. Miss Heap said nothing, but sat very straight and alert, her eyes everywhere. Mr. Ridding of course said nothing either. Not for worlds would he have mentioned the word Twist, which so instantly and inevitably suggested that other and highly controversial word Twinkler. But he too sat all eyes; for anyhow he might in passing get a glimpse of the place containing those cunning little bits of youngness, the Twinkler sisters, and even with any luck a glimpse of their very selves. Up the lane went the limousine, slowly because of the cars in front of it. It was one of a string of cars, for the day was lovely, there was no polo, and nobody happened to be giving a party. All the way out from Acapulco they had only had to follow other cars. Cars were going, and cars were coming back. The cars going were full of solemn people, pathetically anxious to be interested. The cars coming back were full of animated people who evidently had achieved interest. Miss Heap became more and more alert as they approached the bend in the lane round which the Twist house was situated. She had been there before, making a point of getting a friend to motor her past it in order to see what she could for herself, but Mr. Ridding, in spite of his desire to go and have a look too, had always, each time he tried to, found Mrs. Ridding barring the way. So that he didn't exactly know where it was; and when on turning the corner the car suddenly stopped, and putting his head out--he was sitting backwards--- he saw a great, old-fashioned signboard, such as he was accustomed to in pictures of ancient English village greens, with The Open Arms in medieval letters painted on it, all he said was, "Guess we've run it to earth." Miss Heap sat with her hands in her lap, staring. Mrs. Ridding, her mind blocked by aspic, wasn't receiving impressions. She gazed with heavy eyes straight in front of her. There she saw cars. Many cars. All stopped at this particular spot. With a dull sensation of fathomless fatigue she dimly wondered at them. "Looks as though it's a hostelry," said Mr. Ridding, who remembered his Dickens; and he blinked up, craning his head out, at the signboard, on which through a gap in the branches of the pepper trees a shaft of brilliant late afternoon sun was striking. "Don't see one, though." He jerked his thumb. "Up back of the trees there, I reckon," he said. Then he prepared to open the door and go and have a look. A hand shot out of Miss Heap's lap at him. "Don't," she said quickly. "Don't, Mr. Ridding." There was a little green gate in the thick hedge that grew behind the pepper trees, and some people he knew, who had been in the car in front, were walking up to it. Some other people he knew had already got to it, and were standing talking together with what looked like leaflets in their hands. These leaflets came out of a green wooden box fastened on to one of the gate-posts, with the words _Won't you take one_? painted on it. Mr. Ridding naturally wanted to go and take one, and here was Miss Heap laying hold of him and saying "Don't." "Don't what?" he asked looking down at her, his hand on the door. "Hello Ridding," called out one of the people he knew. "No good getting out. Show doesn't open till to-morrow at four. Can't get in to-day. Gate's bolted. Nothing doing." And then the man detached himself from the group at the gate and came over to the car with a leaflet in his hand. "Say--" he said,--"how are you to-day, Miss Heap? Mrs. Ridding, your humble servant--say, look at this. Teapot Twist wasn't born yesterday when it comes to keeping things dark. No mention of his name on this book of words, but it's the house he was doing up all right, and it is to be used as an inn. Afternoon-tea inn. Profits to go to the American Red Cross. Price per head five dollars. Bit stiff, five dollars for tea. Wonder where those Twinkler girls come in. Here--you have this, Ridding, and study it. I'll get another." And taking off his hat a second time to the ladies he went back to his friends. In great agitation Miss Heap turned to Mrs. Ridding, whose mind, galvanized by the magic words Twist and Twinkler, was slowly heaving itself free of aspic. "Perhaps we had best go back to the hotel, Mrs Ridding," said Miss Heap, her voice shaking. "There's something I wish particularly to tell you. I ought to have done so this morning, directly I knew, but I had no idea of course that this...." She waved a hand at the signboard, and collapsed into speechlessness. "Albert--hotel," directed Mrs. Ridding. And Mr. Ridding, clutching the leaflet, his face congested with suppressed emotions, obediently handed on the order through the speaking-tube to the chauffeur. CHAPTER XXXI "It's _perfect_," said the twins, looking round the tea-room. This was next day, at a quarter to four. They had been looking round saying it was perfect at intervals since the morning. Each time they finished getting another of the little tables ready, each time they brought in and set down another bowl of flowers they stood back and gazed a moment in silence, and then said with one voice, "It's _perfect_." Mr. Twist, though the house was not, as we have seen, quite as sober, quite as restrained in its effect as he had intended, was obliged to admit that it did look very pretty. And so did the Annas. Especially the Annas. They looked so pretty in the sea-blue frocks and little Dutch caps and big muslin aprons that he took off his spectacles and cleaned them carefully so as to have a thoroughly uninterrupted view; and as they stood at a quarter to four gazing round the room, he stood gazing at them, and when they said "It's _perfect_," he said, indicating them with his thumb, "Same here," and then they all laughed for they were all very happy, and Mrs. Bilton, arrayed exactly as Mr. Twist had pictured her when he engaged her in handsome black, her white hair beautifully brushed and neat, crossed over to the Annas and gave each of them a hearty kiss--for luck, she said--which Mr. Twist watched with an odd feeling of jealousy. "I'd like to do that," he thought, filled with a sudden desire to hug. Then he said it out loud. "I'd like to do that," he said boldly. And added, "As it's the opening day." "I don't think it would afford you any permanent satisfaction," said Anna-Felicitas placidly. "There's nothing really to be gained, we think, by kissing. Of course," she added politely to Mrs. Bilton, "we like it very much as an expression of esteem." "Then why not in that spirit--" began Mr. Twist. "We don't hold with kissing," said Anna-Rose quickly, turning very red. Intolerable to be kissed _en famille_. If it had to be done at all, kissing should be done quietly, she thought. But she and Anna-Felicitas didn't hold with it anyhow. Never. Never. To her amazement she found tears in her eyes. Well, of all the liquid idiots.... It must be that she was so happy. She had never been so happy. Where on earth had her handkerchief got to.... "Hello," said Mr. Twist, staring at her. Anna-Felicitas looked at her quickly. "It's merely bliss," she said, taking the corner of her beautiful new muslin apron to Christopher's eyes. "Excess of it. We are, you know," she said, smiling over her shoulder at Mr. Twist, so that the corner of her apron, being undirected, began dabbing at Christopher's perfectly tearless ears, "quite extraordinarily happy, and all through you. Nevertheless Anna-R." she continued, addressing her with firmness while she finished her eyes and began her nose, "You may like to be reminded that there's only ten minutes left now before all those cars that were here yesterday come again, and you wouldn't wish to embark on your career as a waitress hampered by an ugly face, would you?" But half an hour later no cars had come. Pepper Lane was still empty. The long shadows lay across it in a beautiful quiet, and the crickets in the grass chirruped undisturbed. Twice sounds were heard as if something was coming up it, and everybody flew to their posts--Li Koo to the boiling water, Mrs. Bilton to her raised desk at the end of the room, and the twins to the door--but the sounds passed on along the road and died away round the next corner. At half-past four the _personnel_ of The Open Arms was sitting about silently in a state of increasing uneasiness, when Mr. Ridding walked in. There had been no noise of a car to announce him; he just walked in mopping his forehead, for he had come in the jitney omnibus to the nearest point and had done the last mile on his own out-of-condition feet. Mrs. Ridding thought he was writing letters in the smoking-room. She herself was in a big chair on the verandah, and with Miss Heap and most of the other guests was discussing The Open Arms in all its probable significance. He hadn't been able to get away sooner because of the nap. He had gone through with the nap from start to finish so as not to rouse suspicion. He arrived very hot, but with a feeling of dare-devil running of risks that gave him great satisfaction. He knew that he would cool down again presently and that then the consequences of his behaviour would be unpleasant to reflect upon, but meanwhile his blood was up. He walked in feeling not a day older than thirty,--most gratifying sensation. The _personnel_, after a moment's open-mouthed surprise, rushed to greet him. Never was a man more welcome. Never had Mr. Ridding been so warmly welcomed anywhere in his life. "Now isn't this real homey," he said, beaming at Anna-Rose who took his stick. "Wish I'd known you were going to do it, for then I'd have had something to look forward to." "Will you have tea or coffee?" asked Anna-Felicitas, trying to look very solemn and like a family butler but her voice quivering with eagerness. "Or perhaps you would prefer frothed chocolate? Each of these beverages can be provided either hot or iced--" "There's ice-cream as well," said Anna-Rose, tumultuously in spite of also trying to look like a family butler. "_I'd_ have ice-cream if I were you. There's more body in it. Cold, delicious body. And you look so hot. Hot things should always as soon as possible be united to cold things, so as to restore the proper balance--" "And there's some heavenly stuff called cinnamon-toast--hot, you know, but if you have ice-cream at the same time it won't matter," said Anna-Felicitas, hanging up his hat for him. "I don't know whether you've studied the leaflets," she continued, "but in case you haven't I feel I oughtn't to conceal from you that the price is five dollars whatever you have." "So that," said Anna-Rose, "you needn't bother about trying to save, for you can't." "Then I'll have tea to start with and see how I get on," said Mr. Ridding, sitting down in the chair Anna-Felicitas held for him and beaming up at her. She flicked an imaginary grain of dust off the cloth with the corner of her apron to convey to him that she knew her business, and hurried away to give the order. Indeed, they both hurried away to give the order. "Say--" called out Mr. Ridding, for he thought one Anna would have been enough for this and he was pining to talk to them; but the twins weren't to be stopped from both giving the very first order, and they disappeared together into the pantry. Mrs. Bilton sat in the farthest corner at her desk, apparently absorbed in an enormous ledger. In this ledger she was to keep accounts and to enter the number of teas, and from this high seat she was to preside over the activities of the _personnel_. She had retired hastily to it on the unexpected entrance of Mr. Ridding, and pen in hand was endeavouring to look as if she were totting up figures. As the pages were blank this was a little difficult. And it was difficult to sit there quiet. She wanted to get down and go and chat with the guest; she felt she had quite a good deal she could say to him; she had a great itch to go and talk, but Mr. Twist had been particular that to begin with, till the room was fairly full, he and she should leave the guests entirely to the Annas. He himself was going to keep much in the background at all times, but through the half-open door of his office he could see and hear; and he couldn't help thinking, as he sat there watching and observed the effulgence of the beams the old gentleman just arrived turned on the twins, that the first guest appeared to be extraordinarily and undesirably affectionate. He thought he had seen him at the Cosmopolitan, but wasn't sure. He didn't know that the Annas, after their conversation with him there, felt towards him as old friends, and he considered their manner was a little unduly familiar. Perhaps, after all, he thought uneasily, Mrs. Bilton had better do the waiting and the Annas sit with him in the office. The ledger could be written up at the end of the day. Or he could hire somebody.... Mr. Twist felt worried, and pulled at his ear. And why was there only one guest? It was twenty minutes to five; and this time yesterday the road had been choked with cars. He felt very much worried. With every minute this absence of guests grew more and more remarkable. Perhaps he had better, this beings the opening day, go in and welcome the solitary one there was. Perhaps it would be wise to elaborate the idea of the inn for his edification, so that he could hand on what he had heard to those others who so unaccountably hadn't come. He got up and went into the other room; and just as Anna-Felicitas was reappearing with the teapot followed by Anna-Rose with a tray of cakes, Mr. Ridding, who was sitting up expectantly and giving his tie a little pat of adjustment, perceived bearing down upon him that fellow Teapot Twist. This was a blow. He hadn't run risks and walked in the afternoon heat to sit and talk to Twist. Mr. Ridding was a friendly and amiable old man, and at any other time would have talked to him with pleasure; but he had made up his mind for the Twinklers as one makes up one's mind for a certain dish and is ravaged by strange fury if it isn't produced. Besides, hang it all, he was going to pay five dollars for his tea, and for that sum he ought to least to have it under the conditions he preferred. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Twist," he nevertheless said as Mr. Twist introduced himself, his eyes, however, roving over the ministering Annas,--a roving Mr. Twist noticed with fresh misgivings. It made him sit down firmly at the table and say, "If you don't mind, Mr.--" "Ridding is my name." "If you don't mind, Mr. Ridding, I'd like to explain our objects to you." But he couldn't help wondering what he would do if there were several tables with roving-eyed guests at them, it being clear that there wouldn't be enough of him in such a case to go round. Mr. Ridding, for his part, couldn't help wondering why the devil Teapot Twist sat down unasked at his table. Five dollars. Come now. For that a man had a right to a table to himself. But anyhow the Annas wouldn't have stayed talking for at that moment a car stopped in the lane and quite a lot of footsteps were heard coming up the neatly sanded path. Mr. Ridding pricked up his ears, for from the things he had heard being said all the evening before and all that morning in Acapulco, besides most of the night from the lips of that strange old lady with whom by some dreadful mistake he was obliged to sleep, he hadn't supposed there would be exactly a rush. Four young men came in. Mr. Ridding didn't know them. No class, he thought, looking them over; and was seized with a feeling of sulky vexation suitable to twenty when he saw with what enthusiasm the Twinklers flew to meet them. They behaved, thought Mr. Ridding crossly, as if they were the oldest and dearest friends. "Who are they?" he asked curtly of Mr. Twist, cutting into the long things he was saying. "Only the different experts who helped me rebuild the place," said Mr. Twist a little impatiently; he too had pricked up his ears in expectation at the sound of all those feet, and was disappointed. He continued what Mr. Ridding, watching the group of young people, called sulkily to himself his rigmarole, but continued more abstractedly. He also was watching the Annas and the experts. The young men were evidently in the highest spirits, and were walking round the Annas admiring their get-up and expressing their admiration in laughter and exclamations. One would have thought they had known each other all their lives. The twins were wreathed in smiles. They looked as pleased, Mr. Twist thought, as cats that are being stroked. Almost he could hear them purring. He glanced helplessly across to where Mrs. Bilton sat, as he had told her, bent pen in hand over the ledger. She didn't move. It was true he had told her to sit like that, but hadn't the woman any imagination? What she ought to do now was to bustle forward and take that laughing group in charge. "As I was telling you--" resumed Mr. Twist, returning with an effort to Mr. Ridding, only to find his eyes fixed on the young people and catch an unmistakably thwarted look in his face. In a flash Mr. Twist realized what he had come for,--it was solely to see and talk to the twins. He must have noticed them at the Cosmopolitan, and come out just for them. Just for that. "Unprincipled old scoundrel," said Mr. Twist under his breath, his ears flaming. Aloud he said, "As I was telling you--" and went on distractedly with his rigmarole. Then some more people came in. They had motored, but the noise the experts were making had drowned the sound of their arrival. Mr. Ridding and Mr. Twist, both occupied in glowering at the group in the middle of the room, were made aware of their presence by Anna-Felicitas suddenly dropping the pencil and tablets she had been provided with for writing down orders and taking an uncertain and obviously timid step forward. They both looked round in the direction of her reluctant step, and saw a man and two women standing on the threshold. Mr. Twist, of course, didn't know them; he hardly knew anybody, even by sight. But Mr. Ridding did. That is, he knew them well by sight and had carefully avoided knowing them any other way, for they were Germans. Mr. Ridding was one of those who didn't like Germans. He was a man who liked or disliked what his daily paper told him to, and his daily paper was anti-German. For reasons natural to one who disliked Germans and yet at the same time had a thirstily affectionate disposition, he declined to believe the prevailing theory about the Twinklers. Besides, he didn't believe it anyhow. At that age people were truthful, and he had heard them explain they had come from England and had acquired their rolling r's during a sojourn abroad. Why should he doubt? But he refrained from declaring his belief in their innocence of the unpopular nationality, owing to a desire to avoid trouble in that bedroom he couldn't call his but was obliged so humiliatingly to speak of as ours. Except, however, for the Twinklers, for all other persons of whom it was said that they were Germans, naturalized or not, immediate or remote, he had, instructed by his newspaper, what his called a healthy instinctive abhorrence. "And she's got it too," he thought, much gratified at this bond between them, as he noted Anna-Felicitas's hesitating and reluctant advance to meet the new guests. "There's proof that people are wrong." But what Anna-Felicitas had got was stage-fright; for here were the first strangers, the first real, proper visitors such as any shop or hotel might have. Mr. Ridding was a friend. So were the experts friends. This was trade coming in,--real business being done. Anna-Felicitas hadn't supposed she would be shy when the long-expected and prepared-for moment arrived, but she was. And it was because the guests seemed so disconcertingly pleased to see her. Even on the threshold the whole three stood smiling broadly at her. She hadn't been prepared for that, and it unnerved her. "Charming, charming," said the newcomers, advancing towards her and embracing the room and the tables and the Annas in one immense inclusive smile of appreciation. "Know those?" asked Mr. Ridding, again cutting into Mr. Twist's explanations. "No," said he. "Wangelbeckers," said Mr. Ridding briefly. "Indeed," said Mr. Twist, off whose ignorance the name glanced harmlessly. "Well, as I was telling yous--" "But this is delicious--this is a conception of genius," said Mr. Wangelbecker all-embracingly, after he had picked up Anna-Felicitas's tablets and restored them to her with a low bow. "Charming, charming," said Mrs. Wangelbecker, looking round. "Real cunning," said Miss Wangelbecker, "as they say here." And she laughed at Anna-Felicitas with an air of mutual understanding. "Will you have tea or coffee?" asked Anna-Felicitas nervously. "Or perhaps you would prefer frothed chocolate. Each of these beverages can be--" "Delicious, delicious," said Mrs. Wangelbecker, enveloping Anna-Felicitas in her smile. "The frothed chocolate is very delicious," said Anna-Felicitas with a kind of grave nervousness. "Ah--charming, charming," said Mrs. Wangelbecker, obstinately appreciative. "And there's ice-cream as well," said Anna-Felicitas, her eyes on her tablets so as to avoid seeing the Wangelbecker smile. "And--and a great many kinds of cakes--" "Well, hadn't we better sit down first," said Mr. Wangelbecker genially, "or are all the tables engaged?" "Oh I _beg_ your pardon," said Anna-Felicitas, blushing and moving hastily towards a table laid for three. "Ah--that's better," said Mr. Wangelbecker, following closely on her heels. "Now we can go into the serious business of ordering what we shall eat comfortably. But before I sit down allow me to present myself. My name is Wangelbecker. An honest German name. And this is my wife. She too had an honest German name before she honoured mine by accepting it--she was a Niedermayer. And this is my daughter, with whom I trust you will soon be friends." And they all put out their hands to be shaken, and Anna-Felicitas shook them. "Look at that now," said Mr. Ridding watching. "As I was telling you--" said Mr. Twist irritably, for really why should Anna II. shake hands right off with strangers? Her business was to wait, not to get shaking hands. He must point out to her very plainly. "Pleased to meet you Miss von Twinkler," said Mrs. Wangelbecker; and at this Anna-Felicitas was so much startled that she dropped her tablets a second time. "As they say here," laughed Miss Wangelbecker, again with that air of mutual comprehension. "But they don't," said Anna Felicitas hurriedly, taking her tablets from the restoring hand of Mr. Wangelbecker and forgetting to thank him. "What?" said Mrs. Wangelbecker. "When you are both so charming that for once the phrase must be sincere?" "Miss von Twinkler means she finds it wiser not to use her title," said Mr. Wangelbecker. "Well, perhaps--perhaps. Wiser perhaps from the point of view of convenience. Is that where you will sit, Güstchen? Still, we Germans when we are together can allow ourselves the refreshment of being ourselves, and I hope to be frequently the means of giving you the relief, you and your charming sister, of hearing yourselves addressed correctly. It is a great family, the von Twinklers. A great family. In these sad days we Germans must hang together--" Anna-Felicitas stood, tablets in hand, looking helplessly from one Wangelbecker to the other. The situation was beyond her. "But--" she began; then stopped. "Shall I bring you tea or coffee?" she ended by asking again. "Well now this is amusing," said Mr. Wangelbecker, sitting down comfortably and leaning his elbows on the table. "Isn't it, Güstchen. To see a von Twinkler playing at waiting on us." "Charming, charming," said his wife. "It's real sporting," said his daughter, laughing up at Anna-Felicitas, again with comprehension,--with, almost, a wink. "You must let me come and help. I'd look nice in that costume, wouldn't I mother." "There is also frothed choc--" "I suppose, now, Mr. Twist--he must be completely sympathy--" interrupted Mr. Wangelbecker confidentially, leaning forward and lowering his voice a little. Anna-Felicitas gazed at him blankly. Some more people were coming in at the door, and behind them she could see on the path yet more, and Anna-Rose was in the pantry fetching the tea for the experts. "Would you mind telling me what I am to bring you?" she asked. "Because I'm afraid--" Mr. Wangelbecker turned his head in the direction she was looking. "Ah--" he said getting up, "but this is magnificent Güstchen, here are Mrs. Kleinbart and her sister--why, and there come the Diederichs--but splendid, splendid--" "Say," said Mr. Ridding, turning to Mr. Twist with a congested face, "ever been to Berlin?" "No," said Mr. Twist, annoyed by a question of such wanton irrelevance flung into the middle of his sentence. "Well, it's just like this." "Like this?" repeated Mr. Twist. "Those there," said Mr. Ridding, jerking his head. "That lot there--see 'em any day in Berlin, or Frankfurt, or any other of their confounded towns." "I don't follow," said Mr. Twist, very shortly indeed. "Germans," said Mr. Ridding. "Germans?" "All Germans," said Ridding. "All Germans?" "Wangelbeckers are Germans," said Mr. Ridding. "Didn't you know?" "No," said Mr. Twist. "So are the ones who've just come in." "Germans?" "All Germans. So are those behind, just coming in." "Germans?" "All Germans." There was a pause, during which Mr. Twist stared round the room. It was presenting quite a populous appearance. Then he said slowly, "Well I'm damned." And Mr. Ridding for the first time looked pleased with Mr. Twist. He considered that at last he was talking sense. "Mr. Twist," he said heartily, "I'm exceedingly glad you're damned. It was what I was sure at the bottom of my heart you would be. Shake hands, sir." CHAPTER XXXII That evening depression reigned in The Open Arms. Mr. Twist paced up and down the tea-room deep in thought that was obviously unpleasant and perplexed; Mrs. Bilton went to bed abruptly, after a short outpour of words to the effect that she had never seen so many Germans at once before, that her psyche was disharmonious to Germans, that they made her go goose-fleshy just as cats in a room made Mr. Bilton go goose-fleshy in the days when he had flesh to go it with, that she hadn't been aware the inn was to be a popular resort and rendezvous for Germans, and that she wished to speak alone with Mr. Twist in the morning; while the twins, feeling the ominousness of this last sentence,--as did Mr. Twist, who started when he heard it,--and overcome by the lassitude that had succeeded the shocks of the afternoon, a lassitude much increased by their having tried to finish up the pailsful of left-over ices and the huge piles of cakes slowly soddening in their own souring cream, went out together on to the moonlit verandah and stood looking up in silence at the stars. There they stood in silence, and thought things about the immense distance and indifference of those bright, cold specks, and how infinitely insignificant after all they, the Twinklers were, and how they would both in any case be dead in a hundred years. And this last reflection afforded them somehow a kind of bleak and draughty comfort. Thus the first evening, that was to have been so happy, was spent by everybody in silence and apart. Li Koo felt the atmosphere of oppression even in his kitchen, and refrained from song. He put away, after dealing with it cunningly so that it should keep until a more propitious hour, a wonderful drink he had prepared for supper in celebration of the opening day--"Me make li'l celebrity," he had said, squeezing together strange essences and fruits--and he moved softly about so as not to disturb the meditations of the master. Li Koo was perfectly aware of what had gone wrong: it was the unexpected arrival to tea of Germans. Being a member of the least blood-thirsty of the nations, he viewed Germans with peculiar disfavour and understood his master's prolonged walking up and down. Also he had noted through a crack in the door the way these people of blood and death crowded round the white-lily girls; and was not that sufficient in itself to cause his master's numerous and rapid steps? Numerous indeed that evening were Mr. Twist's steps. He felt he must think, and he could think better walking up and down. Why had all those Germans come? Why, except old Ridding and the experts, had none of the Americans come? It was very strange. And what Germans! So cordial, so exuberant to the twins, so openly gathering them to their bosoms, as though they belonged there. And so cordial too to him, approaching him in spite of his withdrawals, conveying to him somehow, his disagreeable impression had been, that he and they perfectly understood each other. Then Mrs. Bilton; was she going to give trouble? It looked like it. It looked amazingly like it. Was she after all just another edition of his mother, and unable to discriminate between Germans and Germans, between the real thing and mere technicalities like the Twinklers? It is true he hadn't told her the twins were German, but then neither had he told her they weren't. He had been passive. In Mrs. Bilton's presence passivity came instinctively. Anything else involved such extreme and unusual exertion. He had never had the least objection to her discovering their nationality for herself, and indeed had been surprised she hadn't done so long ago, for he felt sure she would quickly begin to love the Annas, and once she loved them she wouldn't mind what their father had happened to be. He had supposed she did love them. How affectionately she had kissed them that very afternoon and wished them luck. Was all that nothing? Was lovableness nothing, and complete innocence, after all in the matter of being born, when weighed against the one fact of the von? What he would do if Mrs. Bilton left him he couldn't imagine. What would happen to The Open Arms and the twins in such a case, his worried brain simply couldn't conceive. Out of the corner of his eye every time he passed the open door on to the verandah he could see the two Annas standing motionless on its edge, their up-turned faces, as they gazed at the stars, white in the moonlight and very serious. Pathetic children. Pathetic, solitary, alien children. What were they thinking of? He wouldn't mind betting it was their mother. Mr. Twist's heart gave a kind of tug at him. His sentimental, maternal side heaved to the top. A great impulse to hurry out and put his arms round them seized him, but he frowned and overcame it. He didn't want to go soft now. Nor was this the moment, his nicely brought up soul told him, his soul still echoing with the voice of Clark, to put his arms round them--this, the very first occasion on which Mrs. Bilton had left them alone with him. Whether it would become proper on the very second occasion was one of those questions that would instantly have suggested itself to the Annas themselves, but didn't occur to Mr. Twist. He merely went on to think of another reason against it, which was the chance of Mrs. Bilton's looking out of her window just as he did it. She might, he felt, easily misjudge the situation, and the situation, he felt, was difficult enough already. So he restrained himself; and the Annas continued to consider infinite space and to perceive, again with that feeling of dank and unsatisfactory consolation, that nothing really mattered. Next day immediately after breakfast Mrs. Bilton followed him into his office and gave notice. She called it formally tendering her resignation. She said that all her life she had been an upholder of straight dealing, as much in herself towards others as in others towards herself-- "Mrs. Bilton--" interrupted Mr. Twist, only it didn't interrupt. She had also all her life been intensely patriotic, and Mr. Twist, she feared, didn't look at patriotism with quite her single eye-- "Mrs. Bilton--" As her eye saw it, patriotism was among other things a determination to resist the encroachments of foreigners-- "Mrs. Bilton--" She had no wish to judge him, but she had still less wish to be mixed up with foreigners, and foreigners for her at that moment meant Germans-- "Mrs. Bilton--" She regretted, but psychically she would never be able to flourish in a soil so largely composed, as the soil of The Open Arms appeared to be, of that nationality-- "Mrs. Bilton--" And though it was none of her business, still she must say it did seem to her a pity that Mr. Twist with his well-known and respected American name should be mixed up-- "Mrs. Bilton--" And though she had no wish to be inquisitive, still she must say it did seem to her peculiar that Mr. Twist should be the guardian of two girls who, it was clear from what she had overheard that afternoon, were German-- Here Mr. Twist raised his voice and shouted. "Mrs. Bilton," he shouted, so loud that she couldn't but stop, "if you'll guarantee to keep quiet for just five minutes--sit down right here at this table and not say one single thing, not one single thing for just five minutes," he said, banging the table, "I'll tell you all about it. Oh yes, I'll accept your resignation at the end of that time if you're still set on leaving, but just for this once it's me that's going to do the talking." And this must be imagined as said so loud that only capital letters would properly represent the noise Mr. Twist made. Mrs. Bilton did sit down, her face flushed by the knowledge of how good her intentions had been when she took the post, and how deceitful--she was forced to think it--Mr. Twist's were when he offered it. She was prepared, however, to give him a hearing. It was only fair. But Mr. Twist had to burst into capitals several times before he had done, so difficult was it for Mrs. Bilton, even when she had agreed, even when she herself wished, not to say anything. It wasn't five minutes but twenty before Mrs. Bilton came out of the office again. She went straight into the garden, where the Annas, aware of the interview going on with Mr. Twist, had been lingering anxiously, unable at so crucial a moment to settle to anything, and with solemnity kissed them. Her eyes were very bright. Her face, ordinarily colourless as parchment, was red. Positively she kissed them without saying a single word; and they kissed her back with such enthusiasm, with a relief that made them hug her so tight and cling to her so close, that the brightness in her eyes brimmed over and she had to get out her handkerchief and wipe it away. "Gurls," said Mrs. Bilton, "I had a shock yesterday, but I'm through with it. You're motherless. I'm daughterless. We'll weld." And with this unusual brevity did Mrs. Bilton sum up the situation. She was much moved. Her heart was touched; and once that happened nothing could exceed her capacity for sticking through what she called thick and thin to her guns. For years Mr. Bilton had occupied the position of the guns; now it would be these poor orphans. No Germans could frighten her away, once she knew their story; no harsh judgments and misconceptions of her patriotic friends. Mr. Twist had told her everything, from the beginning on the _St. Luke_, harking back to Uncle Arthur and the attitude of England, describing what he knew of their mother and her death, not even concealing the part his own mother had played or that he wasn't their guardian at all. He made the most of Mrs. Bilton's silence; and as she listened her heart melted within her, and the immense store of grit which was her peculiar pride came to the top and once and for all overwhelmed her prejudices. But she couldn't think, and at last she burst out and told Mr. Twist she couldn't think, why he hadn't imparted all this to her long ago. "Ah," murmured Mr. Twist, bowing his head as a reed in the wind before the outburst of her released volubility. Hope once more filled The Open Arms, and the Twist party looked forward to the afternoon with renewed cheerfulness. It had just happened so the first day, that only Germans came. It was just accident. Mr. Twist, with the very large part of him that wasn't his head, found himself feeling like this too and declining to take any notice of his intelligence, which continued to try to worry him. Yet the hope they all felt was not realized, and the second afternoon was almost exactly like the first. Germans came and clustered round the Annas, and made friendly though cautious advances to Mr. Twist. The ones who had been there the first day came again and brought others with them worse than themselves, and they seemed more at home than ever, and the air was full of rolling r's--among them, Mr. Twist was unable to deny, being the r's of his blessed Annas. But theirs were such little r's, he told himself. They rolled, it is true, but with how sweet a rolling. While as for these other people--confound it all, the place might really have been, from the sounds that were filling it, a _Conditorei_ Unter den Linden. All his doubts and anxieties flocked back on him as time passed and no Americans appeared. Americans. How precious. How clean, and straight, and admirable. Actually he had sometimes, he remembered, thought they weren't. What an aberration. Actually he had been, he remembered, impatient with them when first he came back from France. What folly. Americans. The very word was refreshing, was like clear water on a thirsty day. One American, even one, coming in that afternoon would have seemed to Mr. Twist a godsend, a purifier, an emollient--like some blessed unction dropped from above. But none appeared; not even Mr. Ridding. At six o'clock it was quite dark, and obviously too late to go on hoping. The days in California end abruptly. The sun goes down, and close on its heels comes night. In the tea-room the charmingly shaded lights had been turned on some time, and Mr. Twist, watching from the partly open door of his office, waited impatiently for the guests to begin to thin out. But they didn't. They took no notice of the signals of lateness, the lights turned on, the stars outside growing bright in the surrounding blackness. Mr. Twist watched angrily. He had been driven into his office by the disconcerting and incomprehensible overtures of Mr. Wangelbecker, and had sat there watching in growing exasperation ever since. When six struck and nobody showed the least sign of going away he could bear it no longer, and touched the little muffled electric bell that connected him to Mrs. Bilton in what Anna-Felicitas called a mystical union--Anna II. was really excessively tactless; she had said this to Mrs. Bilton in his presence, and then enlarged on unions, mystical and otherwise, with an embarrassing abundance of imagery--by buzzing gently against her knee from the leg of the desk. She laid down her pen, as though she had just finished adding up a column, and went to him. "Now don't talk," said Mr. Twist, putting up an irritable hand directly she came in. Mrs. Bilton looked at him in much surprise. "Talk, Mr. Twist?" she repeated. "Why now, as though--" "Don't _talk_ I say, Mrs. Bilton, but listen. Listen now. I can't stand seeing those children in there. It sheer makes my gorge rise. I want you to fetch them in here--now don't talk--you and me'll do the confounded waiting--no, no, don't talk--they're to stay quiet in here till the last of those Germans have gone. Just go and fetch them, please Mrs. Bilton. No, no, we'll talk afterwards. I'll stay here till they come." And he urged her out into the tea-room again. The guests had finished their tea long ago, but still sat on, for they were very comfortable. Obviously they were thoroughly enjoying themselves, and all were growing, as time passed, more manifestly at home. They were now having a kind of supper of ices and fruit-salads. Five dollars, thought the sensible Germans, was after all a great deal to pay for afternoon tea, however good the cause might be and however important one's own ulterior motives; and since one had in any case to pay, one should eat what one could. So they kept the Annas very busy. There seemed to be no end, thought the Annas as they ran hither and thither, to what a German will hold. Mrs. Bilton waylaid the heated and harried Anna-Rose as she was carrying a tray of ices to a party she felt she had been carrying ices to innumerable times already. The little curls beneath her cap clung damply to her forehead. Her face was flushed and distressed. What with having to carry so many trays, and remember so many orders, and try at the same time to escape from the orderers and their questions and admiration, she was in a condition not very far from tears. Mrs. Bilton took the tray out of her hands, and told her Mr. Twist wanted to speak to her; and Anna-Rose was in such a general bewilderment that she felt quite scared, and thought he must be going to scold her. She went towards the office reluctantly. If Mr. Twist were to be severe, she was sure she wouldn't be able not to cry. She made her way very slowly to the office, and Mrs. Bilton looked round the room for the other one. There was no sign of her. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bilton, she was fetching something in the kitchen, and would appear in a minute; and seeing a group over by the entrance door, for whom the tray she held was evidently destined, gesticulating to her, she felt she had better keep them quiet first and then go and look for Anna-Felicitas. Mrs. Bilton set her teeth and plunged into her strange new duties. Never would she have dreamed it possible that she should have to carry trays to Germans. If Mr. Bilton could see her now he would certainly turn in his grave. Well, she was a woman of grit, of adhesiveness to her guns; if Mr. Bilton did see her and did turn in his grave, let him; he would, she dared say, be more comfortable on his other side after all these years. For the next few minutes she hurried hither and thither, and waited single-handed. She seemed to be swallowed up in activity. No wonder that child had looked so hot and bewildered. Mr. Twist didn't come and help, as he had promised, and nowhere was there any sign of Anna-Felicitas; and the guests not only wanted things to eat, they wanted to talk,--talk and ask questions. Well, she would wait on them, but she wouldn't talk. She turned a dry, parchment-like face to their conversational blandishments, and responded only by adding up their bills. Wonderful are the workings of patriotism. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Bilton was grumbled at for not talking. CHAPTER XXXIII In the office Anna-Rose found Mr. Twist walking up and down. "See here," he said, turning on her when she came in, "I'm about tired of looking on at all this twittering round that lot in there. You're through with that for to-day, and maybe for to-morrow and the day after as well." He waved his arm at the deep chair that had been provided for his business meditations. "You'll sit down in that chair now," he said severely, "and stay put." Anna-Rose looked at him with a quivering lip. She went rather unsteadily to the chair and tumbled into it. "I don't know if you're angry or being kind," she said tremulously, "but whichever it is I--I wish you wouldn't. I--I wish you'd manage to be something that isn't either." And, as she had feared, she began to cry. "Anna-Rose," said Mr. Twist, staring down at her in concern mixed with irritation--out there all those Germans, in here the weeping child; what a day he was having--"for heaven's sake don't do that." "I know," sobbed Anna-Rose. "I don't want to. It's awful being so natu--natu--naturally liquid." "But what's the matter?" asked Mr. Twist helplessly. "Nothing," sobbed Anna-Rose. He stood over her in silence for a minute, his hands in his pockets. If he took them out he was afraid he might start stroking her, and she seemed to him to be exactly between the ages when such a form of comfort would be legitimate. If she were younger ... but she was a great girl now; if she were older ... ah, if she were older, Mr. Twist could imagine.... "You're overtired," he said aloofly. "That's what you are." "No," sobbed Anna-Rose. "And the Germans have been too much for you." "They haven't," sobbed Anna-Rose, her pride up at the suggestion that anybody could ever be that. "But they're not going to get the chance again," said Mr. Twist, setting his teeth as much as they would set, which wasn't, owing to his natural kindliness, anything particular. "Mrs. Bilton and me--" Then he remembered Anna-Felicitas. "Why doesn't she come?" he asked. "Who?" choked Anna-Rose. "The other one. Anna II. Columbus." "I haven't seen her for ages," sobbed Anna-Rose, who had been much upset by Anna-Felicitas's prolonged disappearance and had suspected her, though she couldn't understand it after last night's finishings up, of secret unworthy conduct in a corner with ice-cream. Mr. Twist went to the door quickly and looked through. "I can't see her either," he said. "Confound them--what have they done to her? Worn her out too, I daresay. I shouldn't wonder if she'd crawled off somewhere and were crying too." "Anna-F.--doesn't crawl," sobbed Anna-Rose, "and she--doesn't cry but--I wish you'd find--her." "Well, will you stay where you are while I'm away, then?" he said, looking at her from the door uncertainly. And she seemed so extra small over there in the enormous chair, and somehow so extra motherless as she obediently gurgled and choked a promise not to move, that he found himself unable to resist going back to her for a minute in order to pat her head. "There, there," said Mr. Twist, very gently patting her head, his heart yearning over her; and it yearned the more that, the minute he patted, her sobs got worse; and also the more because of the feel of her dear little head. "You little bit of blessedness," murmured Mr. Twist before he knew what he was saying; at which her sobs grew louder than ever,--grew, indeed, almost into small howls, so long was it since anybody had said things like that to her. It was her mother who used to say things like that; things almost exactly like that. "Hush," said Mr. Twist in much distress, and with one anxious eye on the half-open door, for Anna-Rose's sobs were threatening to outdo the noise of teacups and ice-cream plates, "hush, hush--here's a clean handkerchief--you just wipe up your eyes while I fetch Anna II. She'll worry, you know, if she sees you like this,--hush now, hush--there, there--and I expect she's being miserable enough already, hiding away in some corner. You wouldn't like to make her more miserable, would you--" And he pressed the handkerchief into Anna-Rose's hands, and feeling much flurried went away to search for the other one who was somewhere, he was sure, in a state of equal distress. He hadn't however to search. He found her immediately. As he came out of the door of his office into the tea-room he saw her come into the tea-room from the door of the verandah, and proceed across it towards the pantry. Why the verandah? wondered Mr. Twist. He hurried to intercept her. Anyhow she wasn't either about to cry or getting over having done it. He saw that at once with relief. Nor was she, it would seem, in any sort of distress. On the contrary, Anna-Felicitas looked particularly smug. He saw that once too, with surprise,--why smug? wondered Mr. Twist. She had a pleased look of complete satisfaction on her face. She was oblivious, he noticed, as she passed between the tables, of the guests who tried in vain to attract her attention and detain her with orders. She wasn't at all hot, as Anna-Rose had been, nor rattled, nor in any way discomposed; she was just smug. And also she was unusually, extraordinarily pretty. How dared they all stare up at her like that as she passed? And try to stop her. And want to talk to her. And Wangelbecker actually laying his hand--no, his paw; in his annoyance Mr. Twist wouldn't admit that the object at the end of Mr. Wangelbecker's arm was anything but a paw--on her wrist to get her to listen to some confounded order or other. She took no notice of that either, but walked on towards the pantry. Placidly. Steadily. Obvious. Smug. "You're to come into the office," said Mr. Twist when he reached her. She turned her head and considered him with abstracted eyes. Then she appeared to remember him. "Oh, it's you," she said amiably. "Yes. It's me all right. And you're to come into the office." "I can't. I'm busy." "Now Anna II.," said Mr. Twist, walking beside her towards the pantry since she didn't stop but continued steadily on her way, "that's trifling with the facts. You've been in the garden. I saw you come in. Perhaps you'll tell me the exact line of business you've been engaged in." "Waiting," said Anna-Felicitas placidly. "Waiting? In the garden? Where it's pitch dark, and there's nobody to wait on?" They had reached the pantry, and Anna-Felicitas gave an order to Li Koo through the serving window before answering; the order was tea and hot cinnamon toast for one. "He's having his tea on the verandah," she said, picking out the most delicious of the little cakes from the trays standing ready, and carefully arranging them on a dish. "It isn't pitch dark at all there. There's floods of light coming through the windows. He won't come in." "And why pray won't he come in?" asked Mr. Twist. "Because he doesn't like Germans." "And who pray is he?" "I don't know." "Well I do," burst out Mr. Twist. "It's old Ridding, of course. His name is Ridding. The old man who was here yesterday. Now listen: I won't have--" But Anna-Felicitas was laughing, and her eyes had disappeared into two funny little screwed-up eyelashy slits. Mr. Twist stopped abruptly and glared at her. These Twinklers. That one in there shaken with sobs, this one in here shaken with what she would no doubt call quite the contrary. His conviction became suddenly final that the office was the place for both the Annas. He and Mrs. Bilton would do the waiting. "I'll take this," he said, laying hold of the dish of cakes. "I'll send Mrs. Bilton for the tea. Go into the office, Anna-Felicitas. Your sister is there and wants you badly. I don't know," he added, as Li Koo pushed the tea-tray through the serving window, "how it strikes you about laughter, but it strikes me as sheer silly to laugh except at something." "Well, I was," said Anna-Felicitas, unscrewing her eyes and with gentle firmness taking the plate of cakes from him and putting it on the tray. "I was laughing at your swift conviction that the man out there is Mr. Ridding. I don't know who he is but I know heaps of people he isn't, and one of the principal ones is Mr. Ridding." "I'm going to wait on him," said Mr. Twist, taking the tray. "It would be most unsuitable," said Anna-Felicitas, taking it too. "Let go," said Mr. Twist, pulling. "Is this to be an unseemly wrangle?" inquired Anna-Felicitas mildly; and her eyes began to screw up again. "If you'll oblige me by going into the office," he said, having got the tray, for Anna-Felicitas was never one to struggle, "Mrs. Bilton and me will do the rest of the waiting for to-day." He went out grasping the tray, and made for the verandah. His appearance in this new rôle was greeted by the Germans with subdued applause--subdued, because they felt Mr. Twist wasn't quite as cordial to them as they had supposed he would be, and they were accordingly being a little more cautious in their methods with him than they had been at the beginning of the afternoon. He took no notice of them, except that his ears turned red when he knocked against a chair and the tray nearly fell out of his hands and they all cried out _Houp là_. Damn them, thought Mr. Twist. _Houp là_ indeed. In the farthest corner of the otherwise empty and very chilly verandah, sitting alone and staring out at the stars, was a man. He was a young man. He was also an attractive young man, with a thin brown face and very bright blue twinkling eyes. The light from the window behind him shone on him as he turned his head when he heard the swing doors open, and Mr. Twist saw these things distinctly and at once. He also saw how the young man's face fell on his, Mr. Twist's, appearance with the tray, and he also saw with some surprise how before he had reached him it suddenly cleared again. And the young man got up too, just as Mr. Twist arrived at the table--got up with some little difficulty, for he had to lean hard on a thick stick, but yet obviously with _empressement._ "You've forgotten the sugar," said Anna-Felicitas's gentle voice behind Mr. Twist as he was putting down the tray; and there she was, sure enough, looking smugger than ever. "This is Mr. Twist," said Anna-Felicitas with an amiable gesture. "That I was telling you about," she explained to the young man. "When?" asked Mr. Twist, surprised. "Before," said Anna-Felicitas. "We were talking for some time before I went in to order the tea, weren't we?" she said to the young man, angelically smiling at him. "Rather," he said; and since he didn't on this introduction remark to Mr. Twist that he was pleased to meet him, it was plain he couldn't be an American. Therefore he must be English. Unless, suddenly suspected Mr. Twist who had Germans badly on his nerves that day and was ready to suspect anything, he was German cleverly got up for evil purposes to appear English. But the young man dispersed these suspicions by saying that he was over from England on six months' leave, and that his name was Elliott. "Like us," said Anna-Felicitas. The young man looked at her with what would have been a greater interest than ever if a greater interest had been possible, only it wasn't. "What, are you an Elliott too?" he asked eagerly. Anna-Felicitas shook her head. "On the contrary," she said, "I'm a Twinkler. And so is my sister. What I meant was, you're like us about coming from England. We've done that. Only our leave is for ever and ever. Or the duration of the war." Mr. Twist waved her aside. "Anna-Felicitas," he said, "your sister is waiting for you in the office and wants you badly. I'll see to Mr. Elliott." "Why not bring your sister here?" said the young man, who, being in the navy, was fertile in resourcefulness. And he smiled at Anna-Felicitas, who smiled back; indeed, they did nothing but smile at each other. "I think that's a brilliant idea," she said; and turned to Mr. Twist. "You go," she said gently, thereby proving herself, the young man considered, at least his equal in resourcefulness. "It's much more likely," she continued, as Mr. Twist gazed at her without moving, "that she'll come for you than for me. My sister," she explained to the young man, "is older than I am." "Then certainly I should say Mr. Twist is more likely--" "But only about twenty minutes older." "What? A twin? I say, how extraordinarily jolly. Two of you?" "Anna-Felicitas," interrupted Mr. Twist, "you will go to your sister immediately. She needs you. She's upset. I don't wish to draw Mr. Elliott behind the scenes of family life, but as nothing seems to get you into the office you force me to tell you that she is very, much upset indeed, and is crying." "Crying?" echoed Anna-Felicitas. "Christopher?" And she turned and departed in such haste that the young man, who luckily was alert as well as resourceful, had only just time to lean over and grab at a chair in her way and pull it aside, and so avert a deplorable catastrophe. "I hope it's nothing serious?" he inquired of Mr. Twist. "Oh no. Children will cry." "Children?" Mr. Twist sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. "Tell me about England," he said. "You've been wounded, I see." "Leg," said the young man, still standing leaning on his stick and looking after Anna-Felicitas. "But that didn't get you six months' leave." "Lungs," said the young man, looking down impatiently at Mr. Twist. Then the swing doors swung to, and he sat down and poured out his tea. He had been in the battle of Jutland, and was rescued after hours in the water. For months he was struggling to recover, but finally tuberculosis had developed and he was sent to California, to his sister who had married an American and lived in the neighbourhood of Acapulco. This Mr. Twist extracted out of him by diligent questioning. He had to question very diligently. What the young man wanted to talk about was Anna-Felicitas; but every time he tried to, Mr. Twist headed him off. And she didn't come back. He waited and waited, and drank and drank. When the teapot was empty he started on the hot water. Also he ate all the cakes, more and more deliberately, eking them out at last with slowly smoked cigarettes. He heard all about France and Mr. Twist's activities there; he had time to listen to the whole story of the ambulance from start to finish; and still she didn't come back. In vain he tried at least to get Mr. Twist off those distant fields, nearer home--to the point, in fact, where the Twinklers were. Mr. Twist wouldn't budge. He stuck firmly. And the swing doors remained shut. And the cakes were all eaten. And there was nothing for it at last but to go. So after half-an-hour of solid sitting he began slowly to get up, still spreading out the moments, with one eye on the swing doors. It was both late and cold. The Germans had departed, and Li Koo had lit the usual evening wood fire in the big fireplace. It blazed most beautifully, and the young man looked at it through the window and hesitated. "How jolly," he said. "Firelight is very pleasant," agreed Mr. Twist, who had got up too. "I oughtn't to have stayed so long out here," said the young man with a little shiver. "I was thinking it was unwise," said Mr. Twist. "Perhaps I'd better go in and warm myself a bit before leaving." "I should say your best plan is to get back quickly to your sister and have a hot bath before dinner," said Mr. Twist. "Yes. But I think I might just go in there and have a cup of hot coffee first." "There is no hot coffee at this hour," said Mr. Twist, looking at his watch. "We close at half-past six, and it is now ten minutes after." "Then there seems nothing for it but to pay my bill and go," said the young man, with an air of cheerful adaptation to what couldn't be helped. "I'll just nip in there and do that." "Luckily there's no need for you to nip anywhere," said Mr. Twist, "for surely that's a type of movement unsuited to your sick leg. You can pay me right here." And he took the young man's five dollars, and went with him as far as the green gate, and would have helped him into the waiting car, seeing his leg wasn't as other legs and Mr. Twist was, after all, humane, but the chauffeur was there to do that; so he just watched from the gate till the car had actually started, and then went back to the house. He went back slowly, perturbed and anxious, his eyes on the ground. This second day had been worse than the first. And besides the continued and remarkable absence of Americans and the continued and remarkable presence of Germans, there was a slipperiness suddenly developed in the Annas. He felt insecure; as though he didn't understand, and hadn't got hold. They seemed to him very like eels. And this Elliott--what did he think _he_ was after, anyway? For the second time that afternoon Mr. Twist set his teeth. He defied Elliott. He defied the Germans. He would see this thing successful, this Open Arms business, or his name wasn't Twist. And he stuck out his jaw--or would have stuck it out if he hadn't been prevented by the amiable weakness of that feature. But spiritually and morally, when he got back into the house he was all jaw. CHAPTER XXXIV That night he determined he would go into Acapulco next morning and drop in at his bank and at his lawyer's and other places, and see if he could pick up anything that would explain why Americans wouldn't come and have tea at The Open Arms. He even thought he might look up old Ridding. He didn't sleep. He lay all night thinking. The evening had been spent _tête-à-tête_ with Anna-Felicitas. Anna-Rose was in bed, sleeping off her tears; Mrs. Bilton had another headache, and disappeared early; so he was left with Anna-Felicitas, who slouched about abstractedly eating up the remains of ice-cream. She didn't talk, except once to remark a little pensively that her inside was dreadfully full of cold stuff, and that she knew now what it must feel like to be a mausoleum; but, eyeing her sideways as he sat before the fire, Mr. Twist could see that she was still smug. He didn't talk either. He felt he had nothing at present to say to Anna-Felicitas that would serve a useful purpose, and was, besides, reluctant to hear any counter-observations she might make. Watchfulness was what was required. Silent watchfulness. And wariness. And firmness. In fact all the things that were most foreign to his nature, thought Mr. Twist, resentful and fatigued. Next morning he had a cup of coffee in his room, brought by Li Koo, and then drove himself into Acapulco in his Ford without seeing the others. It was another of the perfect days which he was now beginning to take as a matter of course, so many had there been since his arrival. People talked of the wet days and of their desolate abundance once they started, but there had been as yet no sign of them. The mornings succeeded each other, radiant and calm. November was merging into December in placid loveliness. "Oh yes," said Mr. Twist to himself sardonically, as he drove down the sun-flecked lane in the gracious light, and crickets chirped at him, and warm scents drifted across his face, and the flowers in the grass, standing so bright and unruffled that they seemed almost as profoundly pleased as Anna-Felicitas, nodded at him, and everything was obviously perfectly contented and happy, "Oh yes--I daresay." And he repeated this remark several times as he looked round him,--he couldn't but look, it was all so beautiful. These things hadn't to deal with Twinklers. No wonder they could be calm and bright. So could he, if-- He turned a corner in the lane and saw some way down it two figures, a man and a girl, sitting in the grass by the wayside. Lovers, of course. "Oh yes--I daresay," said Mr. Twist again, grimly. They hadn't to deal with Twinklers either. No wonder they could sit happily in the grass. So could he, if-- At the noise of the approaching car, with the smile of the last thing they had been saying still on their faces, the two turned their heads, and it was that man Elliott and Anna-Felicitas. "Hello," called out Mr. Twist, putting on the brakes so hard that the Ford skidded sideways along the road towards them. "Hello," said the young man cheerfully, waving his stick. "Hello," said Anna-Felicitas mildly, watching his sidelong approach with complacent interest. She had no hat on, and had evidently escaped from Mrs. Bilton just as she was. Escaped, however, was far too violent a word Mr. Twist felt; sauntered from Mrs. Bilton better described her effect of natural and comfortable arrival at the place where she was. "I didn't know you were here," said Mr. Twist addressing her when the car had stopped. He felt it was a lame remark. He had torrents of things he wanted to say, and this was all that came out. Anna-Felicitas considered it placidly for a moment, and came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth answering, so she didn't. "Going into the town?" inquired Elliott pleasantly. "Yes. I'll give you a lift." "No thanks. I've just come from there." "I see. Then _you'd_ better come with me," said Mr. Twist to Anna-Felicitas. "I'm afraid I can't. I'm rather busy this morning." "Really," said Mr. Twist, in a voice of concentrated sarcasm. But it had no effect on Anna-Felicitas. She continued to contemplate him with perfect goodwill. He hesitated a moment. What could he do? Nothing, that he could see, before the young man; nothing that wouldn't make him ridiculous. He felt a fool already. He oughtn't to have pulled up. He ought to have just waved to them and gone on his way, and afterwards in the seclusion of his office issued very plain directions to Anna-Felicitas as to her future conduct. Sitting by the roadside like that! Openly; before everybody; with a young man she had never seen twenty-four hours ago. He jammed in the gear and let the clutch out with such a jerk that the car leaped forward. Elliott waved his stick again. Mr. Twist responded by the briefest touch of his cap, and whirred down the road out of sight. "Does he mind your sitting here?" asked Elliott. "It would be very unreasonable," said Anna-Felicitas gently. "One has to sit somewhere." And he laughed with delight at this answer as he laughed with delight at everything she said, and he told her for the twentieth time that she was the most wonderful person he had ever met, and she settled down to listen again, after the interruption caused by Mr. Twist, with a ready ear and the utmost complacency to these agreeable statements, and began to wonder whether perhaps after all she mightn't at last be about to fall in love. In the new interest of this possibility she turned her head to look at him, and he told her tumultuously--for being a sailor-man he went straight ahead on great waves when it came to love-making--that her eyes were as if pansies had married stars. She turned her head away again at this, for though it sounded lovely it made her feel a little shy and unprovided with an answer; and then he said, again tumultuously, that her ear was the most perfect thing ever stuck on a girl's cheek, and would she mind turning her face to him so that he might see if she had another just like it on the other side. She blushed at this, because she couldn't remember whether she had washed it lately or not--one so easily forgot one's ears; there were so many different things to wash--and he told her that when she blushed it was like the first wild rose of the first summer morning of the world. At this Anna-Felicitas was quite overcome, and subsided into a condition of blissful, quiescent waiting for whatever might come next. Fancy her face reminding him of all those nice things. She had seen it every day for years and years in the looking-glass, and not noticed anything particular about it. It had seemed to her just a face. Something you saw out of, and ate with, and had to clean whatever else you didn't when you were late for breakfast, because there it was and couldn't be hidden,--an object remote indeed from pansies, and stars, and beautiful things like that. She would have liked to explain this to the young man, and point out that she feared his imagination ran ahead of the facts and that perhaps when his leg was well again he would see things more as they were, but to her surprise when she turned to him to tell him this she found she was obliged to look away at once again. She couldn't look at him. Fancy that now, thought Anna-Felicitas, attentively gazing at her toes. And he had such dear eyes; and such a dear, eager sort of face. All the more, then, she reasoned, should her own eyes have dwelt with pleasure on him. But they couldn't. "Dear me," she murmured, watching her toes as carefully as if they might at any moment go away and leave her there. "I know," said Elliott. "You think I'm talking fearful flowery stuff. I'd have said Dear me at myself three years ago if I had ever caught myself thinking in terms of stars and roses. But it's all the beastly blood and muck of the war that does it,--sends one back with a rush to things like that. Makes one shameless. Why, I'd talk to you about God now without turning a hair. Nothing would have induced me so much as to mention seriously that I'd even heard of him three years ago. Why, I write poetry now. We all write poetry. And nobody would mind now being seen saying their prayers. Why, if I were back at school and my mother came to see me I'd hug her before everybody in the middle of the street. Do you realize what a tremendous change that means, you little girl who's never had brothers? You extraordinary adorable little lovely thing?" And off he was again. "When I was small," said Anna-Felicitas after a while, still watching her feet, "I had a governess who urged me to consider, before I said anything, whether it were the sort of thing I would like to say in the hearing of my parents. Would you like to say what you're saying to me in the hearing of your parents?" "Hate to," said Elliott promptly. "Well, then," said Anna-Felicitas, gentle but disappointed. She rather wished now she hadn't mentioned it. "I'd take you out of earshot," said Elliott. She was much relieved. She had done what she felt might perhaps be regarded by Aunt Alice as her duty as a lady, and could now give herself up with a calm conscience to hearing whatever else he might have to say. And he had an incredible amount to say, and all of it of the most highly gratifying nature. On the whole, looking at it all round and taking one thing with another, Anna-Felicitas came to the conclusion that this was the most agreeable and profitable morning she had ever spent. She sat there for hours, and they all flew. People passed in cars and saw her, and it didn't disturb her in the least. She perfectly remembered she ought to be helping Anna-Rose pick and arrange the flowers for the tea-tables, and she didn't mind. She knew Anna-Rose would be astonished and angry at her absence, and it left her unmoved. By midday she was hopelessly compromised in the eyes of Acapulco, for the people who had motored through the lane told the people who hadn't what they had seen. Once a great car passed with a small widow in it, who looked astonished when she saw the pair but had gone almost before Elliott could call out and wave to her. "That's my sister," he said. "You and she will love each other." "Shall we?" said Anna-Felicitas, much pleased by this suggestion of continuity in their relations; and remarked that she looked as if she hadn't got a husband. "She hasn't. Poor little thing. Rotten luck. Rotten. I hate people to die now. It seems so infernally unnatural of them, when they're not in the fighting. He's only been dead a month. And poor old Dellogg was such a decent chap. She isn't going anywhere yet, or I'd bring her up to tea this afternoon. But it doesn't matter. I'll take you to her." "Shall you?" said Anna-Felicitas, again much pleased. Dellogg. The name swam through her mind and swam out again. She was too busy enjoying herself to remark it and its coincidences now. "Of course. It's the first thing one does." "What first thing?" "To take the divine girl to see one's relations. Once one has found her. Once one has had"--his voice fell to a whisper--"the God-given luck to find her." And he laid his hand very gently on hers, which were clasped together in her lap. This was a situation to which Anna-Felicitas wasn't accustomed, and she didn't know what to do with it. She looked down at the hand lying on hers, and considered it without moving. Elliott was quite silent now, and she knew he was watching her face. Ought she, perhaps, to be going? Was this, perhaps, one of the moments in life when the truly judicious went? But what a pity to go just when everything was so pleasant. Still, it must be nearly lunch-time. What would Aunt Alice do in a similar situation? Go home to lunch, she was sure. Yet what was lunch when one was rapidly arriving, as she was sure now that she was, at the condition of being in love? She must be, or she wouldn't like his hand on hers. And she did like it. She looked down at it, and found that she wanted to stroke it. But would Aunt Alice stroke it? No; Anna-Felicitas felt fairly clear about that. Aunt Alice wouldn't stroke it; she would take it up, and shake it, and say good-bye, and walk off home to lunch like a lady. Well, perhaps she ought to do that. Christopher would probably think so too. But what a pity.... Still, behaviour was behaviour; ladies were ladies. She drew out her right hand with this polite intention, and instead--Anna-Felicitas never knew how it happened--she did nothing of the sort, but quite the contrary: she put it softly on the top of his. CHAPTER XXXV Meanwhile Mr. Twist had driven on towards Acapulco in a state of painful indecision. Should he or shouldn't he take a turning he knew of a couple of miles farther that led up an unused and practically undrivable track back by the west side to The Open Arms, and instruct Mrs. Bilton to proceed at once down the lane and salvage Anna-Felicitas? Should he or shouldn't he? For the first mile he decided he would; then, as his anger cooled, he began to think that after all he needn't worry much. The Annas were lucidly too young for serious philandering, and even if that Elliott didn't realize this, owing to Anna-Felicitas's great length, he couldn't do much before he, Mr. Twist, was back again along the lane. In this he under-estimated the enterprise of the British Navy, but it served to calm him; so that when he did reach the turning he had made up his mind to continue on his way to Acapulco. There he spent some perplexing and harassing hours. At the bank his reception was distinctly chilly. He wasn't used, since his teapot had been on the market, to anything but warmth when he went into a bank. On this occasion even the clerks were cold; and when after difficulty--actual difficulty--he succeeded in seeing the manager, he couldn't but perceive his unusual reserve. He then remembered what he had put down to mere accident at the time, that as he drove up Main Street half an hour before, all the people he knew had been looking the other way. From the bank, where he picked up nothing in the way of explanation of the American avoidance of The Open Arms, the manager going dumb at its mere mention, he went to the solicitors who had arranged the sale of the inn, and again in the street people he knew looked the other way. The solicitor, it appeared, wouldn't be back till the afternoon, and the clerk, an elderly person hitherto subservient, was curiously short about it. By this time Mr. Twist was thoroughly uneasy, and he determined to ask the first acquaintance he met what the matter was. But he couldn't find anybody. Every one, his architect, his various experts--those genial and frolicsome young men--were either engaged or away on business somewhere else. He set his teeth, and drove to the Cosmopolitan to seek out old Ridding--it wasn't a place he drove to willingly after his recent undignified departure, but he was determined to get to the bottom of this thing--and walking into the parlour was instantly aware of a hush falling upon it, a holding of the breath. In the distance he saw old Ridding,--distinctly; and distinctly he saw that old Ridding saw him. He was sitting at the far end of the great parlour, facing the entrance, by the side of something vast and black heaped up in the adjacent chair. He had the look on his pink and naturally pleasant face of one who has abandoned hope. On seeing Mr. Twist a ray of interest lit him up, and he half rose. The formless mass in the next chair which Mr. Twist had taken for inanimate matter, probably cushions and wraps, and now perceived was one of the higher mammals, put out a hand and said something,--at least, it opened that part of its face which is called a mouth but which to Mr. Twist in the heated and abnormal condition of his brain seemed like the snap-to of some great bag,--and at that moment a group of people crossed the hall in front of old Ridding, and when the path was again clear the chair that had contained him was empty. He had disappeared. Completely. Only the higher mammal was left, watching Mr. Twist with heavy eyes like two smouldering coals. He couldn't face those eyes. He did try to, and hesitated while he tried, and then he found he couldn't; so he swerved away to the right, and went out quickly by the side door. There was now one other person left who would perhaps clear him up as to the meaning of all this, and he was the lawyer he had gone to about the guardianship. True he had been angry with him at the time, but that was chiefly because he had been angry with himself. At bottom he had carried away an impression of friendliness. To this man he would now go as a last resource before turning back home, and once more he raced up Main Street in his Ford, producing by these repeated appearances an effect of agitation and restlessness that wasn't lost on the beholders. The lawyer was in his office, and disengaged. After his morning's experience Mr. Twist was quite surprised and much relieved by being admitted at once. He was received neither coldly nor warmly, but with unmistakable interest. "I've come to consult you," said Mr. Twist. The lawyer nodded. He hadn't supposed he had come not to consult him, but he was used to patience with clients, and he well knew their preference in conversation for the self-evident. "I want a straight answer to a straight question," said Mr. Twist, his great spectacles glaring anxiously at the lawyer who again nodded. "Go on," he said, as Mr. Twist paused. "What I want to know is," burst out Mr. Twist, "what the hell--" The lawyer put up a hand. "One moment, Mr. Twist," he said. "Sorry to interrupt--" And he got up quickly, and went to a door in the partition between his office and his clerks' room. "You may go out to lunch now," he said, opening it a crack. He then shut it, and came back to his seat at the table. "Yes, Mr. Twist?" he said, settling down again. "You were inquiring what the hell--?" "Well, I was about to," said Mr. Twist, suddenly soothed, "but you're so calm--" "Of course I'm calm. I'm a quietly married man." "I don't see what that's got to do with it." "Everything. For some dispositions, everything. Mine is one. Yours is another." "Well, I guess I've not come here to talk about marriage. What I want to know is why--" "Quite so," said the lawyer, as he stopped. "And I can tell you. It's because your inn is suspected of being run in the interests of the German Government." A deep silence fell upon the room. The lawyer watched Mr. Twist with a detached and highly intelligent interest. Mr. Twist stared at the lawyer, his kind, lavish lips fallen apart. Anger had left him. This blow excluded anger. There was only room in him for blank astonishment. "You know about my teapot?" he said at last. "Try me again, Mr. Twist." "It's on every American breakfast table." "Including my own." "They wouldn't use it if they thought--" "My dear sir, they're not going to," said the lawyer. "They're proposing, among other little plans for conveying the general sentiment to your notice, to boycott the teapot. It is to be put on an unofficial black list. It is to be banished from the hotels." Mr. Twist's stare became frozen. The teapot boycotted? The teapot his mother and sister depended on and The Open Arms depended on, and all his happiness, and the twins? He saw the rumour surging over America in great swift waves, that the proceeds of the Twist Non-Trickler were used for Germany. He saw--but what didn't he see in that moment of submerged horror? Then he seemed to come to the surface again and resume reason with a gasp. "Why?" he asked. "Why they're wanting to boycott the teapot?" "No. Why do they think the inn--" "The Miss Twinklers are German." "Half." "The half that matters--begging my absent wife's pardon. I know all about that, you see. You started me off thinking them over by that ward notion of yours. It didn't take me long. It was pretty transparent. So transparent that my opinion of the intelligence of my fellow-townsfolk has considerably lowered. But we live in unbalanced times. I guess it's women at the bottom of this. Women got on to it first, and the others caught the idea as they'd catch scarlet fever. It's a kind of scarlet fever, this spy scare that's about. Mind you, I admit the germs are certainly present among us." And the lawyer smiled. He thought he saw he had made a little joke in that last remark. Mr. Twist was not in the condition to see jokes, and didn't smile. "Do you mean to say those children--" he began. "They're not regarded as children by any one except you." "Well, if they're not," said Mr. Twist, remembering the grass by the wayside in the lane and what he had so recently met in it, "I guess I'd best be making tracks. But I know better. And so would you if you'd seen them on the boat. Why, twelve was putting their age too high on that boat." "No doubt. No doubt. Then all I can say is they've matured pretty considerably since. Now do you really want me to tell you what is being believed?" "Of course. It's what I've come for." "You mayn't find it precisely exhilarating, Mr. Twist." "Go ahead." "What Acapulco says--and Los Angeles, I'm told, too, and probably by this time the whole coast--is that you threw over your widowed mother, of whom you're the only son, and came off here with two German girls who got hold of you on the boat--now, Mr. Twist, don't interrupt--on the boat crossing from England, that England had turned them out as undesirable aliens--quite so, Mr. Twist, but let me finish--that they're in the pay of the German Government--no doubt, no doubt, Mr. Twist--and that you're their cat's-paw. It is known that the inn each afternoon has been crowded with Germans, among them Germans already suspected, I can't say how rightly or how wrongly, of spying, and that these people are so familiar with the Miss von Twinklers as to warrant the belief in a complete secret understanding." For a moment Mr. Twist continued both his silence and his stare. Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them. His hand shook. The lawyer was startled. Was there going to be emotion? One never knew with that sort of lips. "You're not--" he began. Then he saw that Mr. Twist was trying not to laugh. "I'm glad you take it that way," he said, relieved but surprised. "It's so darned funny," said Mr. Twist, endeavouring to compose his features. "To anybody who knows those twins it's so darned funny. Cat's-paw. Yes--rather feel that myself. Cat's-paw. That does seem a bit of a bull's eye--" And for a second or two his features flatly refused to compose. The lawyer watched him. "Yes," he said. "Yes. But the effect of these beliefs may be awkward." "Oh, damned," agreed Mr. Twist, going solemn again. And there came over him in a flood the clear perception of what it would mean,--the sheer disaster of it, the horrible situation those helpless Annas would be in. What a limitless fool he must have been in his conduct of the whole thing. His absorption in the material side of it had done the trick. He hadn't been clever enough, not imaginative enough, nor, failing that, worldly enough to work the other side properly. When he found there was no Dellogg he ought to have insisted on seeing Mrs. Dellogg, intrusion or no intrusion, and handing over the twins; and then gone away and left them. A woman was what was wanted. Fool that he was to suppose that he, a man, an unmarried man, could get them into anything but a scrape. But he was so fond of them. He just couldn't leave them. And now here they all were, in this ridiculous and terrible situation. "There are two things you can do," said the lawyer. "Two?" said Mr. Twist, looking at him with anxious eyes. "For the life of me I can't see even one. Except running amoke in slander actions--" "Tut, tut," said the lawyer, waving that aside. "No. There are two courses to pursue. And they're not alternative, but simultaneous. You shut down the inn--at once, to-morrow--that's Saturday. Close on Saturday, and give notice you don't re-open--now pray let me finish--close the inn as an inn, and use it simply as a private residence. Then, as quick as may be, marry those girls." "Marry what girls?" "The Miss von Twinklers." Mr. Twist stared at him. "Marry them?" he said helplessly. "Marry them who to?" "You for one." Mr. Twist stared at him in silence. Then he said, "You've said that to me before." "Yep. And I'll say it again. I'll go on saying it till you've done it." "'Well, if that's all you've got to offer as a suggestion for a way out--" But Mr. Twist wasn't angry this time; he was too much battered by events; he hadn't the spirits to be angry. "You've--got to--marry--one--of--those--girls," said the lawyer, at each word smiting the table with his open palm. "Turn her into an American. Get her out of this being a German business. And be able at the same time to protect the one who'll be your sister in-law. Why, even if you didn't want to, which is sheer nonsense, for of course any man would want to--I know what I'm talking about because I've seen them--it's your plain duty, having got them into this mess." "But--marry which?" asked Mr. Twist, with increased helplessness and yet a manifest profound anxiety for further advice. For the first time the lawyer showed impatience "Oh--either or both," he said. "For God's sake don't be such a--" He pulled up short. "I didn't quite mean that," he resumed, again calm. "The end of that sentence was, as no doubt you guess, fool. I withdraw it, and will substitute something milder. Have you any objection to ninny?" No, Mr. Twist didn't mind ninny, or any other word the lawyer might choose, he was in such a condition of mental groping about. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the beads on his forehead and round his mouth. "I'm thirty-five," he said, looking terribly worried. Propose to an Anna? The lawyer may have seen them, but he hadn't heard them; and the probable nature of their comments if Mr. Twist proposed to them--to one, he meant of course, but both would comment, the one he proposed to and the one he didn't--caused his imagination to reel. He hadn't much imagination; he knew that now, after his conduct of this whole affair, but all there was of it reeled. "I'm thirty-five," he said helplessly. "Pooh," said the lawyer, indicating the negligibleness of this by a movement of his shoulder. "They're seventeen," said Mr. Twist. "Pooh," said the lawyer again, again indicating negligibleness. "My wife was--" "I know. You told me that last time. Oh, I know all _that_" said Mr. Twist with sudden passion. "But these are children. I tell you they're _children_--" "Pooh," said the lawyer a third time, a third time indicating negligibleness. Then he got up and held out his hand. "Well, I've told you," he said. "You wanted to know, and I've told you. And I'll tell you one thing more, Mr. Twist. Whichever of those girls takes you, you'll have the sweetest, prettiest wife of any man in the world except one, and that's the man who has the luck to get the other one. Why, sweetest and prettiest are poor words. She'll be the most delectable, the most--" Mr. Twist rose from his chair in such haste that he pushed the table crooked. His ears flamed. "See here," he said very loud. "I won't have you talk familiarly like that about my wife." CHAPTER XXXVI Wife. The word had a remarkable effect on him. It churned him all up. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, and his driving on the way home matched them. He had at least three narrow shaves at cross streets before he got out of the town and for an entire mile afterwards he was on the wrong side of the road. During this period, deep as he was in confused thought, he couldn't but vaguely notice the anger on the faces of the other drivers and the variety and fury of their gesticulations, and it roused a dim wonder in him. Wife. How arid existence had been for him up to then in regard to the affections, how knobbly the sort of kisses he had received in Clark. They weren't kisses; they were disapproving pecks. Always disapproving. Always as if he hadn't done enough, or been enough, or was suspected of not going to do or be enough. His wife. Mr. Twist dreadfully longed to kiss somebody,--somebody kind and soft, who would let herself be adored. She needn't even love him,--he knew he wasn't the sort of man to set passion alight; she need only be kind, and a little fond of him, and let him love her, and be his very own. His own little wife. How sweet. How almost painfully sweet. Yes. But the Annas.... When he thought of the Annas, Mr. Twist went damp. He might propose--indeed, everything pointed to his simply having got to--but wouldn't they very quickly dispose? And then what? That lawyer seemed to think all he had to do was to marry them right away; not them, of course,--one; but they were so very plural in his mind. Funny man, thought Mr. Twist; funny man,--yet otherwise so sagacious. It is true he need only propose to one of them, for which he thanked God, but he could imagine what that one, and what the other one too, who would be sure to be somewhere quite near would ... no, he couldn't imagine; he preferred not to imagine. Mr. Twist's dampness increased, and a passing car got his mud-guard. It was a big car which crackled with language as it whizzed on its way, and Mr. Twist, slewed by the impact half across the road, then perceived on which side he had been driving. The lane up to the inn was in its middle-day emptiness and somnolence. Where Anna-Felicitas and Elliott had been sitting cool and shaded when he passed before, there was only the pressed-down grass and crushed flowers in a glare of sun. She had gone home long ago of course. She said she was going to be very busy. Secretly he wished she hadn't gone home, and that little Christopher too might for a bit be somewhere else, so that when he arrived he wouldn't immediately have to face everybody at once. He wanted to think; he wanted to have time to think; time before four o'clock came, and with four o'clock, if he hadn't come to any conclusion about shutting up the inn--and how could he if nobody gave him time to think?--those accursed, swarming Germans. It was they who had done all this. Mr. Twist blazed into sudden fury. They and their blasted war.... At the gate stood Anna-Rose. Her face looked quite pale in the green shade of the tunnelled-out syringa bushes. She as peering out down the lane watching him approach. This was awful, thought Mr. Twist. At the very gate one of them. Confronted at once. No time, not a minute's time given him to think. "Oh," cried out Anna-Rose the instant he pulled up, for she had waved to him to stop when he tried to drive straight on round to the stable, "she isn't with you?" "Who isn't?" asked Mr. Twist. Anna-Rose became paler than ever. "She has been kidnapped," she said. "How's that?" said Mr. Twist, staring at her from the car. "Kidnapped," repeated Anna-Rose, with wide-open horror-stricken eyes; for from her nursery she carried with her at the bottom of her mind, half-forgotten but ready to fly up to the top at any moment of panic, an impression that the chief activities and recreations of all those Americans who weren't really good were two: they lynched, and they kidnapped. They lynched you if they didn't like you enough, and if they liked you too much they kidnapped you. Anna-Felicitas, exquisite and unsuspecting, had been kidnapped. Some American's concupiscent eye had alighted on her, observed her beauty, and marked her down. No other explanation was possible of a whole morning's absence from duties of one so conscientious and painstaking as Anna-Felicitas. She never shirked; that is, she never had been base enough to shirk alone. If there was any shirking to be done they had always done it together. As the hours passed and she didn't appear, Anna-Rose had tried to persuade herself that she must have motored into Acapulco with Mr. Twist, strange and unnatural and reprehensible and ignoble as such arch shirking would have been; and now that the car had come back empty except for Mr. Twist she was convinced the worst had happened--her beautiful, her precious Columbus had been kidnapped. "Kidnapped," she said again, wringing her hands. Mr. Twist was horror-struck too, for he thought she was announcing the kidnapping of Mrs. Bilton. Somehow he didn't think of Anna-Felicitas; he had seen her too recently. But that Mrs. Bilton should be kidnapped seemed to him to touch the lowest depths of American criminal enterprise and depravity. At the same time though he recoiled before this fresh blow a thought did fan through his mind with a wonderful effect of coolness and silence,--"Then they'll gag her," he said. "What?" cried Anna-Rose, as though a whip had lashed her. "Gag her?" And pulling open the gate and running out to him as one possessed she cried again, "Gag Columbus?" "Oh that's it, is it," said Mr. Twist, with relief but also with disappointment, "Well, if it's that way I can tell you--" He stopped; there was no need to tell her; for round the bend of the lane, walking bare-headed in the chequered light and shade as leisurely as if such things as tours of absence didn't exist, or a distracted household, or an anguished Christopher, with indeed, a complete, an extraordinary serenity, advanced Anna-Felicitas. Always placid, her placidity at this moment had a shining quality. Still smug, she was now of a glorified smugness. If one could imagine a lily turned into a god, or a young god turned into a lily and walking down the middle of a sun-flecked Californian lane, it wouldn't be far out, thought Mr. Twist, as an image of the advancing Twinkler. The god would be so young that he was still a boy, and he wouldn't be worrying much about anything in the past or in the future, and he'd just be coming along like that with the corners of his mouth a little turned up, and his fair hair a little ruffled, and his charming young face full of a sober and abstracted radiance. "Not much kidnapping there, I guess," said Mr. Twist with a jerk of his thumb. "And you take it from me, Anna I.," he added quickly, leaning over towards her, determined to get off to the garage before he found himself faced by both twins together, "that when next your imagination gets the jumps the best thing you can do is to hold on to it hard till it settles down again, instead of wasting your time and ruining your constitution going pale." And he started the Ford with a bound, and got away round the corner into the yard. Here, in the yard, was peace; at least for the moment. The only living thing in it was a cat the twins had acquired, through the services of one of the experts, as an indispensable object in a really homey home. The first thing this cat had done had been to eat the canary, which gave the twins much unacknowledged relief. It was, they thought secretly, quite a good plan to have one's pets inside each other,--it kept them so quiet. She now sat unmoved in the middle of the yard, carefully cleaning her whiskers while Mr. Twist did some difficult fancy driving in order to get into the stable without inconveniencing her. Admirable picture of peace, thought Mr. Twist with a sigh of envy. He might have got out and picked her up, but he was glad to manoeuvre about, reversing and making intricate figures in the dust, because it kept him longer away from the luncheon-table. The cat took no notice of him, but continued to deal with her whiskers even when his front wheel was within two inches of her tail, for though she hadn't been long at The Open Arms she had already sized up Mr. Twist and was aware that he wouldn't hurt a fly. Thanks to her he had a lot of trouble getting the Ford into the stable, all of which he liked because of that luncheon-table; and having got it in he still lingered fiddling about with it, examining its engine and wiping its bonnet; and then when he couldn't do that any longer he went out and lingered in the yard, looking down at the cat with his hands in his pockets. "I must think," he kept on saying to himself. "Lunchee," said Li Koo, putting his head out of the kitchen window. "All right," said Mr. Twist. He stooped down as though to examine the cat's ear. The cat, who didn't like her ears touched but was prepared to humour him, got out of it by lying down on her back and showing him her beautiful white stomach. She was a black cat, with a particularly beautiful white stomach, and she had discovered that nobody could see it without wanting to stroke it. Whenever she found herself in a situation that threatened to become disagreeable she just lay down and showed her stomach. Human beings in similar predicaments can only show their tact. "Nice pussy--nice, nice pussy," said Mr. Twist aloud, stroking this irresistible object slowly, and forgetting her ear as she had intended he should. "Lunchee get cold," said Li Koo, again putting his head out of the kitchen window. "Mis' Bilton say, Come in." "All right," said Mr. Twist. He straightened himself and looked round the yard. A rake that should have been propped up against the tool-shed with some other gardening tools had fallen down. He crossed over and picked it up and stood it up carefully again. Li Koo watched him impassively from the window. "Mis' Bilton come out," he said; and there she was in the yard door. "Mr. Twist," she called shrilly, "if you don't come in right away and have your food before it gets all mushed up with cold I guess you'll be sorry." "All right--coming," he called back very loud and cheerfully, striding towards her as one strides who knows there is nothing for it now but courage. "All right, Mrs. Bilton--sorry if I've kept you waiting. You shouldn't have bothered about me--" And saying things like this in a loud voice, for to hear himself being loud made him feel more supported, he strode into the house, through the house, and out on to the verandah. They always lunched on the verandah. The golden coloured awning was down, and the place was full of a golden shade. Beyond it blazed the garden. Beneath it was the flower-adorned table set as usual ready for four, and he went out to it, strung up to finding the Annas at the table, Anna-Felicitas in her usual seat with her back to the garden, her little fair head outlined against the glowing light as he had seen it every day since they had lived in the inn, Anna-Rose opposite, probably volubly and passionately addressing her. And there was no one. "Why--" he said, stopping short. "Yes. It's real silly of them not to come and eat before everything is spoilt," said Mrs. Bilton bustling up, who had stayed behind to give an order to Li Koo. And she went to the edge of the verandah and shaded her eyes and called, "Gurls! Gurls! I guess you can do all that talking better after lunch." He then saw that down at the bottom of the garden, in the most private place as regards being overheard, partly concealed by some arum lilies that grew immensely there like splendid weeds, stood the twins facing each other. "Better leave them alone," he said quickly. "They'll come when they're ready. There's nothing like getting through with one's talking right away, Mrs. Bilton. Besides," he went on still more quickly for she plainly didn't agree with him and was preparing to sally out into the sun and fetch them in, "you and I don't often get a chance of a quiet chat together--" And this, combined with the resolute way he was holding her chair ready for her, brought Mrs. Bilton back under the awning again. She was flattered. Mr. Twist had not yet spoken to her in quite that tone. He had always been the gentleman, but never yet the eager gentleman. Now he was unmistakably both. She came back and sat down, and so with a sigh of thankfulness immediately did he, for here was an unexpected respite,--while Mrs. Bilton talked he could think. Fortunately she never noticed if one wasn't listening. For the first time since he had known her he gave himself up willingly to the great broad stream that at once started flowing over him, on this occasion with something of the comfort of warm water, and he was very glad indeed that anyhow that day she wasn't gagged. While he ate, he kept on furtively looking down the garden at the two figures facing each other by the arum lilies. Whenever Mrs. Bilton remembered them and wanted to call them in, as she did at the different stages, of the meal,--at the salad, at the pudding--he stopped her. She became more and more pleased by his evident determination to lunch alone with her, for after all one remains female to the end, and her conversation took on a gradual tinge of Mr. Bilton's views about second marriages. They had been liberal views; for Mr. Bilton, she said, had had no post-mortem pettiness about him, but they were lost on Mr. Twist, whose thoughts were so painfully preoccupied by first marriage. The conclusions he came to during that trying meal while Mrs. Bilton talked, were that he would propose first to Anna-Rose, she being the eldest and such a course being accordingly natural, and, if she refused, proceed at once to propose to Anna-Felicitas. But before proceeding to Anna-Felicitas, a course he regarded with peculiar misgiving, he would very earnestly explain to Anna-Rose the seriousness of the situation and the necessity, the urgency, the sanity of her marrying him. These proposals would be kept on the cool level of strict business. Every trace of the affection with which he was so overflowing would be sternly excluded. For instance, he wasn't going to let himself remember the feel of Christopher's little head the afternoon before when he patted it to comfort her. Such remembrances would be bound to bring a warmth into his remarks which wouldn't be fair. The situation demanded the most scrupulous fairness and delicacy in its treatment, the most careful avoidance of taking any advantage of it. But how difficult, thought Mr. Twist, his hand shaking as he poured himself out a glass of iced water, how difficult when he loved the Annas so inconveniently much. Mrs. Bilton observed the shaking of his hand, and felt more female than ever. Still, there it was, this situation forced upon them all by the war. Nobody could help it, and it had to be faced with calmness, steadfastness and tact. Calmness, steadfastness and tact, repeated Mr. Twist, raising the water to his mouth and spilling some of it. Mrs. Bilton observed this too, and felt still more female. Marriage was the quickest, and really the only, way out of it. He saw that now. The lawyer had been quite right. And marriage, he would explain to the Annas, would be a mere formal ceremony which after the war they--he meant, of course, she--could easily in that land of facile and honourable divorce get rid of. Meanwhile, he would point out, they--she, of course; bother these twins--would be safely American, and he would undertake never to intrude love on them--her--unless by some wonderful chance, it was wanted. Some wonderful chance ... Mr. Twist's spectacles suddenly went dim, and he gulped down more water. Yes. That was the line to take: the austere line of self-mortification for the Twinkler good. One Twinkler would be his wife--again at the dear word he had to gulp down water--and one his sister-in-law. They would just have to agree to this plan. The position was too serious for shilly-shallying. Yes. That was the line to take; and by the time he had got to the coffee it was perfectly clear and plain to him. But he felt dreadfully damp. He longed for a liqueur, for anything that would support him.... "Is there any brandy in the house?" he suddenly flung across the web of Mrs. Bilton's words. "Brandy, Mr. Twist?" she repeated, at this feeling altogether female, for what an unusual thing for him to ask for,--"You're not sick?" "With my coffee," murmured Mr. Twist, his mouth very slack, his head drooping. "It's nice...." "I'll go and see," said Mrs. Bilton, getting up briskly and going away rattling a bunch of keys. At once he looked down the garden. Anna-Felicitas was in the act of putting her arm round Anna-Rose's shoulder, and Anna-Rose was passionately disengaging herself. Yes. There was trouble there. He knew there would be. He gulped down more water. Anna-Felicitas couldn't expect to go off like that for a whole morning and give Anna-Rose a horrible fright without hearing about it. Besides, the expression on her face wanted explaining,--a lot of explaining. Mr. Twist didn't like to think so, but Anna-Felicitas's recent conduct seemed to him almost artful. It seemed to him older than her years. It seemed to justify the lawyer's scepticism when he described the twins to him as children. That young man Elliott-- But here Mr. Twist started and lost his thread of thought, for looking once more down the garden he saw that Anna-Felicitas was coming towards the verandah, and that she was alone. Anna-Rose had vanished. Why had he bothered about brandy, and let Mrs. Bilton go? He had counted, somehow, on beginning with Anna-Rose.... He seized a cigarette and lit it. He tried vainly to keep his hand steady. Before the cigarette was fairly plight there was Anna-Felicitas, walking in beneath the awning. "I'm glad you're alone," she said, "for I want to speak to you." And Mr. Twist felt that his hour had come. CHAPTER XXXVII "Hadn't you better have lunch first?" he asked, though he knew from the look on her face that she wouldn't. It was a very remarkable look. It was as though an angel, dwelling in perfect bliss, had unaccountably got its feet wet. Not more troubled than that; a little troubled, but not more than that. "No thank you," she said politely. "But if you've finished yours, do you mind coming into the office? Because otherwise Mrs. Bilton--" "She's fetching me some brandy," said Mr. Twist. "I didn't know you drank," said Anna-Felicitas, even at this moment interested. "But do you mind having it afterwards? Because otherwise Mrs. Bilton--" "I guess the idea was to have it first," said Mr. Twist. She was however already making for the tea-room, proceeding towards it without hurry, and with a single-mindedness that would certainly get her there. He could only follow. In the office she said, "Do you mind shutting the door?" "Not at all," said Mr. Twist; but he did mind. His hour had come, and he wasn't liking it. He wanted to begin with Anna-Rose. He wanted to get things clear with her first before dealing with this one. There was less of Anna-Rose. And her dear little head yesterday when he patted it.... And she needed comforting.... Anna-Rose cried, and let herself be comforted.... And it was so sweet to Mr. Twist to comfort.... "Christopher--" began Anna-Felicitas, directly he had shut the door. "I know. She's mad with you. What can you expect, Anna II.?" he interrupted in a very matter-of-fact voice, leaning against a bookcase. Even a bookcase was better than nothing to lean against. "Christopher is being unreasonable," said Anna-Felicitas, her voice softer and gentler than he had yet heard it. Then she stopped, and considered him a moment with much of the look of one who on a rather cold day considers the sea before diving in--with, that is, a slight but temporary reluctance to proceed. "Won't you sit down?" said Mr. Twist. "Perhaps I'd better," she said, disposing herself in the big chair. "It's very strange, but my legs feel funny. You wouldn't think being in love would make one want to sit down." "I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Twist. "I have fallen in love," said Anna-Felicitas, looking up at him with a kind of pensive radiance. "I did it this morning." Mr. Twist stared at her. "I beg your--what did you say?" he asked. She said, still with that air as she regarded him of pensive radiance, of not seeing him but something beyond him that was very beautiful to her and satisfactory, "I've fallen in love, and I can't tell you how pleased I am because I've always been afraid I was going to find it a difficult thing to do. But it wasn't. Quite the contrary." Then, as he only staged at her, she said, "He's coming round this afternoon on the new footing, and I wanted to prepare your and Christopher's minds in good time so that you shouldn't be surprised." And having said this she lapsed into what was apparently, judging from her expression, a silent contemplation of her bliss. "But you're too young," burst out Mr. Twist. "Too young?" repeated Anna-Felicitas, coming out of her contemplation for a moment to smile at him. "We don't think so." Well. This beat everything. Mr. Twist could only stare down at her. Conflicting emotions raged in him. He couldn't tell for a moment what they were, they were so violent and so varied. How dared Elliott. How dared a person they had none of them heard of that time yesterday come making love to a girl he had never seen before. And in such a hurry. So suddenly. So instantly. Here had he himself been with the twins constantly for weeks, and wouldn't have dreamed of making love to them. They had been sacred to him. And it wasn't as if he hadn't wanted to hug them often and often, but he had restrained himself as a gentleman should from the highest motives of delicacy, and consideration, and respect, and propriety, besides a great doubt as to whether they wouldn't very energetically mind. And then comes along this blundering Britisher, and straight away tumbles right in where Mr. Twist had feared to tread, and within twenty-four hours had persuaded Anna-Felicitas to think she was in love. New footing indeed. There hadn't been an old footing yet. And who was this Elliott? And how was Mr. Twist going to be able to find out if he were a proper person to be allowed to pay his addresses to one so precious as a Twinkler twin? Anger, jealousy, anxiety, sense of responsibility and mortification, all tumbled about furiously together inside Mr. Twist as he leaned against the bookcase and gazed down at Anna-Felicitas, who for her part was gazing beatifically into space; but through the anger, and the jealousy, and the anxiety, and the sense of responsibility and mortification one great thought was struggling, and it finally pushed every other aside and got out to the top of the welter: here, in the chair before him, he beheld his sister-in-law. So much at least was cleared up. He crossed to the bureau and dragged his office-stool over next to her and sat down. "So that's it, is it?" he said, trying to speak very calmly, but his face pulled all sorts of ways, as it had so often been since the arrival in his life of the twins. "Yes," she said, coming out of her contemplation. "It's love at last." "I don't know about at last. Whichever way you look at it, Anna II., that don't seem to hit it off as a word. What I meant was, it's Elliott." "Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "Which is the same thing. I believe," she added, "I now have to allude to him as John." Mr. Twist made another effort to speak calmly. "You don't," he said, "think it at all unusual or undesirable that you should be calling a man John to-day of whom you'd never heard yesterday." "I think it's wonderful," said Anna-Felicitas beaming. "It doesn't strike you in any way as imprudent to be so hasty. It doesn't strike you as foolish." "On the contrary," said Anna-Felicitas. "I can't help thinking I've been very clever. I shouldn't have thought it of myself. You see, I'm not _naturally_ quick." And she beamed with what she evidently regarded as a pardonable pride. "It doesn't strike you as even a little--well, a little improper." "On the contrary," said Anna-Felicitas. "Aunt Alice told us that the one man one could never be improper about, even if one tried, was one's husband." "Husband?" Mr. Twist winced. He loved, as we have seen, the word wife, but then that was different. "It's not time yet to talk of husbands," he said, full of a flaming unreasonableness and jealousy and the sore feeling that he who had been toiling so long and so devotedly in the heat of the Twinkler sun had had a most unfair march stolen on him by this eleventh-hour stranger. He flamed with unreasonableness. Yet he knew this was the solution of half his problem,--and of much the worst half, for it was after all Anna-Felicitas who had produced the uncomfortable feeling of slipperiness, of eels; Anna-Rose had been quite good, sitting in a chair crying and just so sweetly needing comfort. But now that the solution was presented to him he was full of fears. For on what now could he base his proposal to Anna-Rose? Elliott would be the legitimate protector of both the Twinklers. Mr. Twist, who had been so much perturbed by the idea of having to propose to one or other twin, was miserably upset by the realization that now he needn't propose to either. Elliott had cut the ground from under his feet. He had indeed--what was the expression he used the evening before?--yes, nipped in. There was now no necessity for Anna-Rose to marry him, and Mr. Twist had an icy and forlorn feeling that on no other basis except necessity would she. He was thirty-five. It was all very well for Elliott to get proposing to people of seventeen; he couldn't be more than twenty-five. And it wasn't only age. Mr. Twist hadn't shaved before looking-glasses for nothing, and he was very distinctly aware that Elliott was extremely attractive. "It's not time yet to talk of husbands," he therefore hotly and jealously said. "On the contrary," said Anna-Felicitas gently, "it's not only time but war-time. The war, I have observed, is making people be quick and sudden about all sorts of things." "You haven't observed it. That's Elliott said that." "He may have," said Anna-Felicitas. "He said so many things--" And again she lapsed into contemplation; into, thought Mr. Twist as he gazed jealously at her profile, an ineffable, ruminating, reminiscent smugness. "See here, Anna II.," he said, finding it impossibly painful to wait while she contemplated, "suppose you don't at this particular crisis fall into quite so many ecstatic meditations. There isn't as much time as you seem to think." "No--and there's Christopher," said Anna-Felicitas, giving herself a shake, and with that slightly troubled look coming into her face again as of having, in spite of being an angel in glory, somehow got her feet wet. "Precisely," said Mr. Twist, getting up and walking about the room. "There's Christopher. Now Christopher, I should say, would be pretty well heart-broken over this." "But that's so unreasonable," said Anna-Felicitas with gentle deprecation. "You're all she has got, and she'll be under the impression--the remarkably vivid impression--that she's losing you." "But _that's_ so unreasonable. She isn't losing me. It's sheer gain. Without the least effort or bother on her part she's acquiring a brother-in-law." "Oh, I know what Christopher feels," said Mr. Twist, going up and down the room quickly. "I know right enough, because I feel it all myself." "But _that's_ so unreasonable," said Anna-Felicitas earnestly. "Why should two of you be feeling things that aren't?" "She has always regarded herself as responsible for you, and I shouldn't be surprised if she were terribly shocked at your conduct." "But there has to _be_ conduct," said Anna-Felicitas, still very gentle, but looking as though her feet were getting wetter. "I don't see how anybody is ever to fall in love unless there's been some conduct first." "Oh, don't argue--don't argue. You can't expect Anna-Rose not to mind your wanting to marry a perfect stranger, a man she hasn't even seen." "But everybody you marry started by being a perfect stranger and somebody you hadn't ever seen," said Anna-Felicitas. "Oh Lord, if only you wouldn't _argue_!" exclaimed Mr. Twist. "And as for your aunt in England, what's she going to say to this twenty-four-hours, quick-lunch sort of engagement? She'll be terribly upset. And Anna-Rose knows that, and is I expect nigh worried crazy." "But what," asked Anna-Felicitas, "have aunts to do with love?" Then she said very earnestly, her face a little flushed, her eyes troubled, "Christopher said all that you're saying now, and a lot more, down in the garden before I came to you, and I said what I've been saying to you, and a lot more, but she wouldn't listen. And when I found she wouldn't listen I tried to comfort her, but she wouldn't be comforted. And then I came to you; for besides wanting to tell you what I've done I wanted to ask you to comfort Christopher." Mr. Twist paused a moment in his walk. "Yes," he said, staring at the carpet. "Yes. I can very well imagine she needs it. But I don't suppose anything I would say--" "Christopher is very fond of you," said Anna-Felicitas gently. "Oh yes. You're both very fond of me," said Mr. Twist, pulling his mouth into a crooked and unhappy smile. "We love you," said Anna-Felicitas simply. Mr. Twist looked at her, and a mist came over his spectacles. "You dear children," he said, "you dear, dear children--" "I don't know about children--" began Anna-Felicitas; but was interrupted by a knock at the door. "It's only the brandy," said Mr. Twist, seeing her face assume the expression he had learned to associate with the approach of Mrs. Bilton. "Take it away, please Mrs. Bilton," he called out, "and put it on the--" Mrs. Bilton however, didn't take anything away, but opened the door an inch instead. "There's someone wants to speak to you, Mr. Twist," she said in a loud whisper, thrusting in a card. "He says he just must. I found him on the verandah when I took your brandy out, and as I'm not the woman to leave a stranger alone with good brandy I brought him in with me, and he's right here back of me in the tea-room." "It's John," remarked Anna-Felicitas placidly. "Come early." "I say--" said a voice behind Mrs. Bilton. "Yes," nodded Anna-Felicitas, getting up out of the deep chair. "That's John." "I say--may I come in? I've got something important--" Mr. Twist looked at Anna-Felicitas. "Wouldn't you rather--?" he began. "I don't mind John," she said softly, her face flooded with a most beautiful light. Mr. Twist opened the door and went out. "Come in," he said. "Mrs. Bilton, may I present Mr. Elliott to you--Commander Elliott of the British Navy." "Pleased to meet you, Commander Elliott," said Mrs. Bilton. "Mr. Twist, your brandy is on the verandah. Shall I bring it to you in here?" "No thank you, Mrs. Bilton. I'll go out there presently. Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting for me there--I don't suppose Mr. Elliott will want to keep me long. Come in, Mr. Elliott." And having disposed of Mrs. Bilton, who was in a particularly willing and obedient and female mood, he motioned Elliott into the office. There stood Anna-Felicitas. Elliott stopped dead. "This isn't fair," he said, his eyes twinkling and dancing. "What isn't?" inquired Anna-Felicitas gently, beaming at him. "Your being here. I've got to talk business. Look here, sir," he said, turning to Mr. Twist, "could _you_ talk business with her there?" "Not if she argued," said Mr. Twist. "Argued! I wouldn't mind her arguing. It's just her being there. I've got to talk business," he said, turning to Anna-Felicitas,--"business about marrying you. And how can I with you standing there looking like--well, like that?" "I don't know," said Anna-Felicitas placidly, not moving. "But you'll interrupt--just your being there will interrupt. I shall see you out of the corner of my eye, and it'll be impossible not to--I mean I know I'll want to--I mean, Anna-Felicitas my dear, it isn't done. I've got to explain all sorts of things to your guardian--" "He isn't my guardian," corrected the accurate Anna-Felicitas gently. "He only very nearly once was." "Well, anyhow I've got to explain a lot of things that'll take some time, and it isn't so much explain as persuade--for I expect," he said, turning to Mr. Twist, "this strikes you as a bit sudden, sir?" "It would strike anybody," said Mr. Twist trying to be stern but finding it difficult, for Elliott was so disarmingly engaging and so disarmingly in love. The radiance on Anna-Felicitas's face might have been almost a reflection caught from his. Mr. Twist had never seen two people look so happy. He had never, of course, before been present at the first wonderful dawning of love. The whole room seemed to glow with the surprise of it. "There. You see?" said Elliott, again appealing to Anna-Felicitas, who stood smiling beatifically at him without moving. "I've got to explain that it isn't after all as mad as it seems, and that I'm a fearfully decent chap and can give you lots to eat, and that I've got a jolly little sister here who's respectable and well-known besides, and I'm going to produce references to back up these assertions, and proofs that I'm perfectly sound in health except for my silly foot, which isn't health but just foot and which you don't seem to mind anyhow, and how--I ask you _how_, Anna-Felicitas my dear, am I to do any of this with you standing there looking like--well, like that?" "I don't know," said Anna-Felicitas again, still not moving. "Anna-Felicitas, my dear," he said, "won't you go?" "No, John," said Anna-Felicitas gently. His eyes twinkled and danced more than ever. He took a step towards her, then checked himself and looked round beseechingly at Mr. Twist. "_Somebody's_ got to go," he said. "Yes," said Mr. Twist. "And I guess it's me." CHAPTER XXXVIII He went straight in search of Anna-Rose. He was going to propose to her. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear the idea of his previous twins, his blessed little Twinklers, both going out of his life at the same time, and he couldn't bear, after what he had just seen in the office, the loneliness of being left outside love. All his life he had stood on the door-mat outside the shut door of love. He had had no love; neither at home, where they talked so much about it and there wasn't any, nor, because of his home and its inhibitions got so thoroughly into his blood, anywhere else. He had never tried to marry,--again because of his home and his mother and the whole only-son-of-a-widow business. He would try now. He would risk it. It was awful to risk it, but it was more awful not to. He adored Anna-Rose. How nearly the afternoon before, when she sat crying in his chair, had he taken her in his arms! Why, he would have taken her into them then and there, while she was in that state, while she was in the need of comfort, and never let her go out of them again, if it hadn't been that he had got the idea so firmly fixed in his head that she was a child. Fool that he was. Elliott had dispelled that idea for him. It wasn't children who looked as Anna-Felicitas had looked just now in the office. Anna-Rose, it is true, seemed younger than Anna-Felicitas, but that was because she was little and easily cried. He loved her for being little. He loved her because she easily cried. He yearned and hungered to comfort, to pet to take care of. He was, as has been pointed out, a born mother. Avoiding the verandah and Mrs. Bilton, Mr. Twist filled with recklessness, hurried upstairs and knocked at Anna-Rose's door. No answer. He listened. Dead silence. He opened it a slit and peeped in. Emptiness. Down he went again and made for the kitchen, because Li Koo, who always knew everything, might know where she was. Li Koo did. He jerked his head towards the window, and Mr. Twist hurried to it and looked out. There in the middle of the yard was the cat, exactly where he had left her an hour before, and kneeling beside her stroking her stomach was Anna-Rose. She had her back to the house and her face was hidden. The sun streamed down on her bare head and on the pale gold rings of hair that frisked round her neck. She didn't hear him till he was close to her, so much absorbed was she apparently in the cat; and when she did she didn't look up, but bent her head lower than before and stroked more assiduously. "Anna-Rose," said Mr. Twist. "Yes." "Come and talk to me." "I'm thinking." "Don't think. Come and talk to me, little--little dear one." She bent her head lower still. "I'm thinking," she said again. "Come and tell me what you're thinking." "I'm thinking about cats." "About cats?" said Mr. Twist, uncertainly. "Yes," said Anna-Rose, stroking the cat's stomach faster and carefully keeping her face hidden from him. "About how wise and wonderful they are." "Well then if that's all, you can go on with that presently and come and talk to me now." "You see," said Anna-Rose, not heeding this, "they're invariably twins, and more than twins, for they're often fours and sometimes sixes, but still they sit in the sun quietly all their lives and don't mind a bit what their--what their twins do--" "Ah," said Mr. Twist. "Now I'm getting there." "They don't mind a bit about anything. They just clean their whiskers and they purr. Perhaps it's that that comforts them. Perhaps if I--if I had whiskers and a--and a purr--" The cat leaped suddenly to her feet and shook herself violently. Something hot and wet had fallen on her beautiful stomach. Anna-Rose made a little sound strangers might have taken for a laugh as she put out her arms and caught her again, but it was a sound so wretched, so piteous in the attempt to hide away from him, that Mr. Twist's heart stood still. "Oh, don't go," she said, catching at the cat and hugging her tight, "I can't let _you_ go--" And she buried her face in her fur, so that Mr. Twist still couldn't see it. "Now that's enough about the cat," he said, speaking very firmly. "You're coming with me." And he stooped and picked her up, cat and all, and set her on her feet. Then he saw her face. "Good God, Anna-Rose!" he exclaimed. "I did try not to show you," she said; and she added, taking shelter behind her pride and looking at him as defiantly as she could out of eyes almost closed up, "but you mustn't suppose just because I happen to--to seem as if I'd been crying that I--that I'm minding anything." "Oh no," said Mr. Twist, who at sight of her face had straightway forgotten about himself and his longings and his proposals, and only knew that he must comfort Christopher. "Oh no," he said, looking at her aghast, "I'm not supposing we're minding anything, either of us." He took her by the arm. Comfort Christopher; that's what he had got to do. Get rid as quickly as possible of that look of agony--yes, it was downright agony--on her face. He thought he guessed what she was thinking and feeling; he thought--he was pretty sure--she was thinking and feeling that her beloved Columbus had gone from her, and gone to a stranger, in a day, in a few hours, to a stranger she had never even seen, never even heard of; that her Columbus had had secrets from her, had been doing things behind her back; that she had had perfect faith and trust in her twin, and now was tasting the dreadful desolation of betrayal; and he also guessed that she must be sick with fears,--for he knew how responsible she felt, how seriously she took the charge of her beautiful twin--sick with fear about this unknown man, sick with the feeling of helplessness, of looking on while Columbus rushed into what might well be, for all any one knew, a deadly mess-up of her happiness. Well, he could reason her out of most of this, he felt. Certainly he could reassure her about Elliott, who did inspire one with confidence, who did seem, anyhow outwardly, a very fitting mate for Anna-Felicitas. But he was aghast at the agony on her face. All that he guessed she was thinking and feeling didn't justify it. It was unreasonable to suffer so violently on account of what was, after all, a natural happening. But however unreasonable it was, she was suffering. He took her by the arm. "You come right along with me," he said; and led her out of the yard, away from Li Koo and the kitchen window, towards the eucalyptus grove behind the house. "You come right along with me," he repeated, holding her firmly for she was very wobbly on her feet, "and we'll tell each other all about the things we're not minding. Do you remember when the _St. Luke_ left Liverpool? You thought I thought you were minding things then, and were very angry with me. We've made friends since, haven't we, and we aren't going to mind anything ever again except each other." But he hardly knew what he was saying, so great was his concern and distress. Anna-Rose went blindly. She stumbled along, helped by him, clutching the cat. She couldn't see out of her swollen eyes. Her foot caught in a root, and the cat, who had for some minutes past been thoroughly uneasy, became panic-stricken and struggled out of her arms, and fled into the wood. She tried to stop it, but it would go. For some reason this broke down her self-control. The warm cat clutched to her breast had at least been something living to hold on to. Now the very cat had gone. Her pride collapsed, and she tumbled against Mr. Twist's arm and just sobbed. If ever a man felt like a mother it was Mr. Twist at that moment. He promptly sat her down on the grass. "There now--there, there now," he said, whipping out his handkerchief and anxiously mopping up her face. "This is what I did on the _St. Luke_--do you remember?--there now--that time you told me about your mother--it looks like being my permanent job--there, there now--don't now--you'll have no little eyes left soon if you go on like this--" "Oh but--oh but--Co-Columbus--" "Yes, yes I know all about Columbus. Don't you worry about her. She's all right. She's all right in the office at this moment, and we're all right out here if only you knew it, if only you wouldn't cry such quantities. It beats me where it all comes from, and you so little--there, there now--" "Oh but--oh but Columbus--" "Yes, yes, I know--you're worrying yourself sick because you think you're responsible for her to your aunt and uncle, but you won't be, you know, once she's married--there, there now--" "Oh but--oh but--" "Now don't--now please--yes, yes, I know--he's a stranger, and you haven't seen him yet, but everybody was a stranger once," said Mr. Twist, quoting Anna-Felicitas's own argument, the one that had especially irritated him half-an-hour before, "and he's real good--I'm sure of it. And you'll be sure too the minute you see him. That's to say, if you're able to see anything or anybody for the next week out of your unfortunate stuck-together little eyes." "Oh but--oh but--you don't--you haven't--" "Yes, yes, I have. Now turn your face so that I can wipe the other side properly. There now, I caught an enormous tear. I got him just in time before he trickled into your ear. Lord, how sore your poor little eyes are. Don't it even cheer you to think you're going to be a sister-in-law, Anna-Rose?" "Oh but you don't--you haven't--" she sobbed, her face not a whit less agonized for all his reassurances. "Well, I know I wish I were going to be a brother-in-law," said Mr. Twist, worried by his inability to reassure, as he tenderly and carefully dabbed about the corners of her eyes and her soaked eyelashes. "My, shouldn't I think well of myself." Then his hand shook. "I wish I were going to be Anna-Felicitas's brother-in-law," he said, suddenly impelled, perhaps by this failure to get rid of the misery in her face, to hurl himself on his fate. "Not _yours_--get your mind quite clear about that,--but Anna-Felicitas's." And his hand shook so much that he had to leave off drying. For this was a proposal. If only Anna-Rose would see it, this was a proposal. Anna-Rose, however, saw nothing. Even in normal times she wasn't good at relationships, and had never yet understood the that-man's-father-was-my-father's-son one; now she simply didn't hear. She was sitting with her hands limply in her lap, and sobbing in a curious sort of anguish. He couldn't help being struck by it. There was more in this than he had grasped. Again he forgot himself and his proposal. Again he was overwhelmed by the sole desire to help and comfort. He put his hand on the two hands lying with such an air of being forgotten on her lap. "What is it?" he asked gently. "Little dear one, tell me. It's clear I'm not dead on to it yet." "Oh--Columbus--" She seemed to writhe in her misery. "Well yes, yes Columbus. We know all about that." Anna-Rose turned her quivering face to him. "Oh, you haven't seen--you don't see--it's only me that's seen--" "Seen what? What haven't I seen? Ah, don't cry--don't cry like that--" "Oh, I've lost her--lost her--" "Lost her? Because she's marrying?" "Lost her--lost her--" sobbed Anna-Rose. "Come now," remonstrated Mr. Twist. "Come now. That's just flat contrary to the facts. You've lost nothing, and you've gained a brother." "Oh,--lost her--lost her," sobbed Anna-Rose. "Come, come now," said Mr. Twist helplessly. "Oh," she sobbed, looking at him out of her piteous eyes, "has nobody thought of it but me? Columbus hasn't. I--I know she hasn't from what--from what--she said. She's too--too happy to think. But--haven't you thought--haven't you seen--that she'll be English now--really English--and go away from me to England with him--and I--I can't go to England--because I'm still--I'm still--an alien enemy--and so I've lost her--lost her--lost my own twin--" And Anna-Rose dropped her head on to her knees and sobbed in an abandonment of agony. Mr. Twist sat without saying or doing anything at all. He hadn't thought of this; nor, he was sure, had Anna-Felicitas. And it was true. Now he understood Anna-Rose's face and the despair of it. He sat looking at her, overwhelmed by the realization of her misfortune. For a moment he was blinded by it, and didn't see what it would mean for him. Then he did see. He almost leaped, so sudden was the vision, and so luminous. "Anna-Rose," he said, his voice trembling, "I want to put my arm round you. That's because I love you. And if you'll let me do that I could tell you of a way there is out of this for you. But I can't tell you so well unless--unless you let me put my arm round you first...." He waited trembling. She only sobbed. He couldn't even be sure she was listening. So he put his arm round her to try. At least she didn't resist. So he drew her closer. She didn't resist that either. He couldn't even be sure she knew about it. So he put his other arm round her too, and though he couldn't be sure, he thought--he hardly dared think, but it did seem as if--she nestled. Happiness, such as in his lonely, loveless life he had never imagined, flooded Mr. Twist. He looked down at her face, which was now so close to his, and saw that her eyes were shut. Great sobs went on shaking her little body, and her tears, now that he wasn't wiping them, were rolling down her cheeks unchecked. He held her closer to him, close to his heart where she belonged, and again he had that sensation, that wonderful sensation, of nestling. "Little Blessed, the way out is so simple," he whispered. "Little Blessed, don't you see?" But whether Anna-Rose saw seemed very doubtful. There was only that feeling, as to which he was no doubt mistaken, of nestling to go on. Her eyes, anyhow, remained shut, and her body continued to heave with sobs. He bent his head lower. His voice shook. "It's so, so simple," he whispered. "All you've got to do is to marry me." And as she made an odd little movement in his arms he held her tighter and began to talk very fast. "No, no," he said, "don't answer anything yet. Just listen. Just let me tell you first. I want to tell you to start with how terribly I love you. But that doesn't mean you've got to love me--you needn't if you don't want to--if you can't--if you'd rather not I'm eighteen years older than you, and I know what I'm like to look at--no, don't say anything yet--just listen quiet first--but if you married me you'd be an American right away, don't you see? Just as Anna-Felicitas is going to be English. And I always intended going back to England as soon as may be, and if you married me what is to prevent your coming too? Coming to England? With Anna-Felicitas and her husband. Anna-Rose--little Blessed--think of it--all of us together. There won't be any aliens in that quartette, I guess, and the day you marry me you'll be done with being German for good and all. And don't you get supposing it matters about your not loving me, because, you see, I love you so much, I adore you so terribly, that anyhow there'll be more than enough love to go round, and you needn't ever worry about contributing any if you don't feel like it--" Mr. Twist broke off abruptly. "What say?" he said, for Anna-Rose was making definite efforts to speak. She was also making definite and unmistakable movements, and this time there could be no doubt about it; she was coming closer. "What say?" said Mr. Twist breathlessly, bending his head. "But I do," whispered Anna-Rose. "Do what?" said Mr. Twist, again breathlessly. She turned her face up to his. On it was the same look he had lately seen on Anna-Felicitas's, shining through in spite of the disfiguration of her tears. "But--_of course_ I do," whispered Anna-Rose, an extraordinary smile, an awe-struck sort of smile, coming into her face at the greatness of her happiness, at the wonder of it. "What? Do what?" said Mr. Twist, still more breathlessly. "I--always did," whispered Anna-Rose. "_What_ did you always did?" gasped Mr. Twist, hardly able to believe it, and yet--and yet--there on her little face, on her little transfigured face, shone the same look. "Oh--_love_ you," sighed Anna-Rose, nestling as close as she could get. * * * * * It was Mr. Twist himself who got on a ladder at five minutes past four that afternoon and pasted a strip of white paper obliquely across the sign of The Open Arms with the word. SHUT on it in big letters. Li Koo held the foot of the ladder. Mr. Twist had only remembered the imminence of four o'clock and the German inrush a few minutes before the hour, because of his being so happy; and when he did he flew to charcoal and paper. He got the strip on only just in time. A car drove up as he came down the ladder. "What?" exclaimed the principal male occupant of the car, pointing, thwarted and astonished, to the sign. "Shut," said Mr. Twist. "Shut?" "Shut." 
13545	----	Distributed Proofreaders Team Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13545-h.htm or 13545-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/4/13545/13545-h/13545-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/4/13545/13545-h.zip) MARY AT THE FARM AND BOOK OF RECIPES COMPILED DURING HER VISIT AMONG THE "PENNSYLVANIA GERMANS" by EDITH M. THOMAS With Illustrations 1915 We love our Pennsylvania, grand old Keystone State; Land of far famed rivers, and rock-ribbed mountains great. With her wealth of "Dusky Diamonds" and historic valleys fair, Proud to claim her as our birthplace; land of varied treasures rare. PREFACE The incidents narrated in this book are based on fact, and, while not absolutely true in every particular, the characters are all drawn from real life. The photographs are true likenesses of the people they are supposed to represent, and while in some instances the correct names are not given (for reasons which the reader will readily understand), the various scenes, relics, etc., are true historically and geographically. The places described can be easily recognized by any one who has ever visited the section of Pennsylvania in which the plot (if it can really be called a plot) of the story is laid. Many of the recipes given Mary by Pennsylvania German housewives, noted for the excellence of their cooking, have never appeared in print. THE AUTHOR. THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY FRIENDS WITH GRATITUDE FOR THEIR MANY HELPFUL KINDNESSES. [Illustration] "HE WHO HAS A THOUSAND FRIENDS, HAS NEVER A ONE TO SPARE." THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SYMPHONY "To do the best that I can, from morn till night. And pray for added strength with coming light; To make the family income reach alway, With some left over for a rainy day; To do distasteful things with happy face, To try and keep the odds and ends in place. To smile instead of frown at Fate, Which placed me in a family always late For meals; to do the sewing, mending and The thousand small things always near at hand, And do them always with a cheerful heart, Because in life they seem to be my part; To know the place of everything and keep It there, to think, to plan, to cook, to sweep, To brew, to bake, to answer questions, To be the mainspring of the family clock. (Or that effect) and see that no tick, tock Is out of time or tune, or soon or late, This is the only symphony which I Can ever hope to operate." MARION WILEY. CONTENTS I Mary's Letter Received at Clear Spring Farm II Mary's Arrival at the Farm III Schuggenhaus Township IV John Landis V The Old Farm-House and Garden VI Mary Confides in "Aunt Sarah" and Gives Her Views on Suffrage for Women VII Professor Schmidt VIII Uses of An Old-Fashioned Wardrobe IX Poetry and Pie X Sibylla Linsabigler XI New Colonial Rag Rugs XII Mary Imitates Navajo Blankets XIII "The Girls' Camp Fire" Organized by Mary XIV Mary Makes "Violet and Rose Leaf" Beads XV Mary and Elizabeth Visit Sadie Singmaster XVI The Old Parlor Made Beautiful (Modernized) XVII An Old Song Evening XVIII A Visit to the "Pennsylvania Palisades" XIX Mary Is Taught to Make Pastry, Patties and Rosenkuchcen XX Old Potteries and Decorated Dishes XXI The Value of Wholesome, Nutritious Food XXII A Variety of Cakes Evolved From One Recipe XXIII The Old "Taufschien" XXIV The Old Store on the Ridge Road XXV An Elbadritchel Hunt XXVI The Old Shanghai Rooster XXVII A "Potato Pretzel" XXVIII Faithful Service XXIX Mary, Ralph, Jake and Sibylla Visit the Allentown Fair XXX Fritz Schmidt Explores Durham Cave XXXI Mary's Marriage ILLUSTRATIONS Mary Aunt Sarah The Old Spring House The Old Mill Wheel The Old Mill Old Corn Crib The New Red Barn The Old Farm-House Ralph Jackson Rocky Valley Professor Schmidt Frau Schmidt Old Time Patch-Work Quilts Old Time Patch-Work Home-Made Rag Carpet A Hit-and-Miss Rug A Brown and Tan Rug A Circular Rug Imitation of Navajo Blankets Rug With Design Rug With Swastika in Centre Home Manufactured Silk Prayer Rug Elizabeth Schmidt--"Laughing Water" Articles in the Old Parlor Before It Was Modernized Other Articles in the Old Parlor Before It Was Modernized Palisades, or Narrows of Nockamixon The Canal at the Narrows The Narrows, or Pennsylvania Palisades Top Rock Ringing Rocks of Bucks County, Pennsylvania High Falls Big Rock at Rocky Dale The Old Towpath at the Narrows Old Earthenware Dish Igraffito Plate Old Plates Fund in Aunt Sarah's Corner Cupboard Old Style Lamps Old Taufschien The Old Store on Ridge Road Catching Elbadritchels Old Egg Basket at the Farm A Potato Pretzel Loaf of Rye Bread A "Brod Corvel," or Bread Basket Church Which Sheltered Liberty Bell in 1777-78 Liberty Bell Tablet Durham Cave The Woodland Stream Polly Schmidt An Old-Fashioned Bucks County Bake-Oven [Illustration: MARY] CHAPTER I. MARY'S LETTERS RECEIVED AT CLEAR SPRING FARM. One morning in early spring, John Landis, a Pennsylvania German farmer living in Schuggenhaus Township, Bucks County, on opening his mail box, fastened to a tree at the crossroads (for the convenience of rural mail carriers) found one letter for his wife Sarah, the envelope addressed in the well-known handwriting of her favorite niece, Mary Midleton, of Philadelphia. [Illustration] A letter being quite an event at "Clear Spring" farm, he hastened with it to the house, finding "Aunt Sarah," as she was called by every one (Great Aunt to Mary), in the cheery farm house kitchen busily engaged kneading sponge for a loaf of rye bread, which she carefully deposited on a well-floured linen cloth, in a large bowl for the final raising. Carefully adjusting her glasses more securely over the bridge of her nose, she turned at the sound of her husband's footsteps. Seeing the letter in his hand she inquired: "What news, John?" Quickly opening the letter handed her, she, after a hasty perusal, gave one of the whimsical smiles peculiar to her and remarked decisively, with a characteristic nod of her head: "John, Mary Midleton intends to marry, else why, pray tell me, would she write of giving up teaching her kindergarten class in the city, to spend the summer with us on the farm learning, she writes, to keep house, cook, economize and to learn how to get the most joy and profit from life?" "Well, well! Mary is a dear girl, why should she not think of marrying?" replied her husband; "she is nineteen. Quite time, I think, she should learn housekeeping--something every young girl should know. We should hear of fewer divorces and a less number of failures of men in business, had their wives been trained before marriage to be good, thrifty, economical housekeepers and, still more important, good homemakers. To be a helpmate in every sense of the word is every woman's duty, I think, when her husband works early and late to procure the means to provide for her comforts and luxuries and a competency for old age. Write Mary to come at once, and under your teaching she may, in time, become as capable a housekeeper and as good a cook as her Aunt Sarah; and, to my way of thinking, there is none better, my dear." Praise from her usually reticent husband never failed to deepen the tint of pink on Aunt Sarah's still smooth, unwrinkled, youthful looking face, made more charming by being framed in waves of silvery gray hair, on which the "Hand of Time," in passing, had sprinkled some of the dust from the road of life. In size, Sarah Landis was a little below medium height, rather stout, or should I say comfortable, and matronly looking; very erect for a woman of her age. Her bright, expressive, gray eyes twinkled humorously when she talked. She had developed a fine character by her years of unselfish devotion to family and friends. Her splendid sense of humor helped her to overcome difficulties, and her ability to rise above her environment, however discouraging their conditions, prevented her from being unhappy or depressed by the small annoyances met daily. She never failed to find joy and pleasure in the faithful performance of daily tasks, however small or insignificant. Aunt Sarah attributed her remarkably fine, clear complexion, seldom equalled in a woman of her years, to good digestion and excellent health; her love of fresh air, fruit and clear spring water. She usually drank from four to five tumblerfuls of water a day. She never ate to excess, and frequently remarked: "I think more people suffer from over-eating than from insufficient food." An advocate of deep breathing, she spent as much of her time as she could spare from household duties in the open air. [Illustration: AUNT SARAH] Sarah Landis was not what one would call beautiful, but good and whole-souled looking. To quote her husband: "To me Sarah never looks so sweet and homelike when all 'fussed up' in her best black dress on special occasions, as she does when engaged in daily household tasks around home, in her plain, neat, gray calico dress." This dress was always covered with a large, spotlessly clean, blue gingham apron of small broken check, and she was very particular about having a certain-sized check. The apron had a patch pocket, which usually contained small twists or little wads of cord, which, like "The Old Ladies in Cranford," she picked up and saved for a possible emergency. One of Aunt Sarah's special economies was the saving of twine and paper bags. The latter were always neatly folded, when emptied, and placed in a cretonne bag made for that purpose, hanging in a convenient corner of the kitchen. Aunt Sarah's gingham apron was replaced afternoons by one made from fine, Lonsdale cambric, of ample proportions, and on special occasions she donned a hemstitched linen apron, inset at upper edge of hem with crocheted lace insertion, the work of her own deft fingers. Aunt Sarah's aprons, cut straight, on generous lines, were a part of her individuality. Sarah Landis declared: "Happiness consists in giving and in serving others," and she lived up to the principles she advocated. She frequently quoted from the "Sons of Martha," by Kipling: "Lift ye the stone or cleave the wood, to make a path more fair or flat, Not as a ladder from earth to heaven, not as an altar to any creed, But simple service, simply given, to his own kind in their human need." "I think this so fine," said Aunt Sarah, "and so true a sentiment that I am almost compelled to forgive Kipling for saying 'The female of the species is more deadly than the male.'" Aunt Sarah's goodness was reflected in her face and in the tones of her voice, which were soft and low, yet very decided. She possessed a clear, sweet tone, unlike the slow, peculiar drawl often aiding with the rising inflection peculiar to many country folk among the "Pennsylvania Germans." The secret of Aunt Sarah's charm lay in her goodness. Being always surrounded by a cheery atmosphere, she benefited all with whom she came in contact. She took delight in simple pleasures. She had the power of extracting happiness from the common, little every-day tasks and frequently remarked, "Don't strive to live without work, but to find more joy in your work." Her opinions were highly respected by every one in the neighborhood, and, being possessed of an unselfish disposition, she thought and saw good in every one; brought out the best in one, and made one long to do better, just to gain her approval, if for no higher reward. Sarah Landis was a loyal friend and one would think the following, by Mrs. Craik, applied to her: "Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort, of feeling safe with a person--having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are--chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." She was never so happy as when doing an act of kindness for some poor unfortunate, and often said. "If 'twere not for God and good people, what would become of the unfortunate?" and thought like George McDonald, "If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman (I should add child) I shall feel that I have worked with God." Aunt Sarah's sweet, lovable face was the first beheld by many a little, new-born infant; her voice, the first to hush its wailing cries as she cuddled it up to her motherly breast, and oft, with loving hands, softly closed the lids over eyes no longer able to see; whom the Gracious Master had taken into His keeping. One day I overheard Aunt Sarah quote to a sorrowing friend these fine, true lines from Longfellow's "Resignation": "Let us be patient, these severe afflictions not from the ground arise, but celestial benedictions assume the dark disguise." [Illustration: THE OLD SPRING HOUSE] CHAPTER II. MARY'S ARRIVAL AT THE FARM. The day preceding that of Mary's arrival at the farm was a busy one for Aunt Sarah, who, since early morning, had been preparing the dishes she knew Mary enjoyed. Pans of the whitest, flakiest rolls, a large loaf of sweetest nut-brown, freshly-baked "graham bread," of which Mary was especially fond; an array of crumb-cakes and pies of every description covered the well-scrubbed table in the summer kitchen, situated a short distance from the house. A large, yellow earthenware bowl on the table contained a roll of rich, creamy "smier kase" just as it had been turned from the muslin bag, from which the "whey" had dripped over night; ready to be mixed with cream for the supper table. Pats of sweet, freshly-churned butter, buried in clover blossoms, were cooling in the old spring-house near by. The farm house was guiltless of dust from cellar to attic. Aunt Sarah was a model housekeeper; she accomplished wonders, yet never appeared tired or flurried as less systematic housekeepers often do, who, with greater expenditure of energy, often accomplish less work. She took no unnecessary steps; made each one count, yet never appeared in haste to finish her work. Said Aunt Sarah, "The lack of system in housework is what makes it drudgery. If young housekeepers would sit down and plan their work, then do it, they would save time and labor. When using the fire in the range for ironing or other purposes, use the oven for preparing dishes of food which require long, slow cooking, like baked beans, for instance. Bake a cake or a pudding, or a pan of quickly-made corn pone to serve with baked beans, for a hearty meal on a cold winter day. A dish of rice pudding placed in the oven requires very little attention, and when baked may be placed on ice until served. If this rule be followed, the young housewife will be surprised to find how much easier will be the task of preparing a meal later in the day, especially in hot weather." * * * * * The day following, John Landis drove to the railroad station, several miles distant, to meet his niece. As Mary stepped from the train into the outstretched arms of her waiting Uncle, many admiring glances followed the fair, young girl. Her tan-gold naturally wavy, masses of hair rivaled ripened grain. The sheen of it resembled corn silk before it has been browned and crinkled by the sun. Her eyes matched in color the exquisite, violet-blue blossoms of the chicory weed. She possessed a rather large mouth, with upturned corners, which seemed made for smiles, and when once you had been charmed with them, she had made an easy conquest of you forever. There was a sweet, winning personality about Mary which was as impossible to describe as to resist. One wondered how so much adorable sweetness could be embodied in one small maid. But Mary's sweetness of expression and charming manner covered a strong will and tenacity of purpose one would scarcely have believed possible, did they not have an intimate knowledge of the young girl's disposition. Her laugh, infectious, full of the joy of living, the vitality of youth and perfect health and happiness, reminded one of the lines: "A laugh is just like music for making living sweet." Seated beside her Uncle in the carriage, Mary was borne swiftly through the town out into the country. It was one of those preternaturally quiet, sultry days when the whole universe appears lifeless and inert, free from loud noise, or sound of any description, days which we occasionally have in early Spring or Summer, when the stillness is oppressive. Frequently at such times there is borne to the nostrils the faint, stifling scent of burning brush, indicating that land is being cleared by the forehanded, thrifty farmer for early planting. Often at such times, before a shower, may be distinctly heard the faintest twitter and "peep, peep" of young sparrows, the harsh "caw, caw" of the crow, and the song of the bobolink, poised on the swaying branch of a tall tree, the happiest bird of Spring; the dozy, drowsy hum of bees; the answering call of lusty young chanticleers, and the satisfied cackle of laying hens and motherly old biddies, surrounded by broods of downy, greedy little newly-hatched chicks. The shrill whistle of a distant locomotive startles one with its clear, resonant intonation, which on a less quiet day would pass unnoticed. Mary, with the zest of youth, enjoyed to the full the change from the past months of confinement in a city school, and missed nothing of the beauty of the country and the smell of the good brown earth, as her Uncle drove swiftly homeward. "Uncle John," said Mary, "'tis easy to believe God made the country." "Yes," rejoined her Uncle, "the country is good enough for me." "With the exception of the one day in the month, when you attend the 'Shriners' meeting' in the city," mischievously supplemented Mary, who knew her Uncle's liking for the Masonic Lodge of which he was a member, "and," she continued, "I brought you a picture for your birthday, which we shall celebrate tomorrow. The picture will please you, I know. It is entitled, 'I Love to Love a Mason, 'Cause a Mason Never Tells.'" They passed cultivated farms. Inside many of the rail fences, inclosing fields of grain or clover, were planted numberless sour cherry trees, snowy with bloom, the ground underneath white with fallen petals. The air was sweet with the perfume of the half-opened buds on the apple trees in the near-by orchards and rose-like pink blossoms of the "flowering" crab-apple, in the door yards. Swiftly they drove through cool, green, leafy woods, crossing a wooden bridge spanning a small stream, so shallow that the stones at the bottom were plainly to be seen. A loud splash, as the sound of carriage wheels broke the uninterrupted silence, and a commotion in the water gave evidence of the sudden disappearance of several green-backed frogs, sunning themselves on a large, moss-grown rock, projecting above the water's edge; from shady nooks and crevices peeped clusters of early white violets; graceful maidenhair ferns, and hardier members of the fern family, called "Brake," uncurled their graceful, sturdy fronds from the carpet of green moss and lichen at the base of tree trunks, growing along the water's edge. Partly hidden by rocks along the bank of the stream, nestled a few belated cup-shaped anemones or "Wind Flowers," from which most of the petals had blown, they being one of the earliest messengers of Spring. Through the undergrowth in the woods, in passing, could be seen the small buds of the azalea or wild honeysuckle, "Sheep's Laurel," the deep pink buds on the American Judas tree, trailing vines of "Tea Berry," and beneath dead leaves one caught an occasional glimpse of fragrant, pink arbutus. In marshy places beside the creek, swaying in the wind from slender stems, grew straw-colored, bell-shaped blossoms of "Adder's Tongue" or "Dog Tooth Violet," with their mottled green, spike-shaped leaves. In the shadow of a large rock grew dwarf huckleberry bushes, wild strawberry vines, and among grasses of many varieties grew patches of white and pink-tinted Alsatian clover. Leaving behind the spicy, fragrant, "woodsy" smell of wintergreen, birch and sassafras, and the faint, sweet scent of the creamy, wax-like blossoms of "Mandrake" or May apple, peeping from beneath large, umbrella-like, green leaves they emerged at last from the dim, cool shadows of the woods into the warm, bright sunlight again. Almost before Mary realized it, the farm house could be seen in the distance, and her Uncle called her attention to his new, red barn, which had been built since her last visit to the farm, and which, in her Uncle's estimation, was of much greater importance than the house. Mary greeted with pleasure the old landmarks so familiar to her on former visits. They passed the small, stone school house at the crossroads, and in a short time the horses turned obediently into the lane leading to the barn a country lane in very truth, a tangle of blackberry vines, wild rose bushes, by farmers called "Pasture Roses," interwoven with bushes of sumach, wild carrots and golden rod. Mary insisted that her Uncle drive directly to the barn, as was his usual custom, while she was warmly welcomed at the farm house gate by her Aunt. As her Uncle led away the horses, he said, "I will soon join you, Mary, 'to break of our bread and eat of our salt,' as they say in the 'Shrine.'" On their way to the house, Mary remarked: "I am so glad we reached here before dusk. The country is simply beautiful! Have you ever noticed, Aunt Sarah, what a symphony in green is the yard? Look at the buds on the maples and lilacs--a faint yellow green--and the blue-green pine tree near by; the leaves of the German iris are another shade; the grass, dotted with yellow dandelions, and blue violets; the straight, grim, reddish-brown stalks of the peonies before the leaves have unfolded, all roofed over with the blossom-covered branches of pear, apple and 'German Prune' trees. Truly, this must resemble Paradise!" "Yes," assented her Aunt, "I never knew blossoms to remain on the pear trees so long a time. We have had no 'blossom shower' as yet to scatter them, but there will be showers tonight, I think, or I am no prophet. I feel rain in the atmosphere, and Sibylla said a few moments ago she heard a 'rain bird' in the mulberry tree." "Aunt Sarah," inquired Mary, "is the rhubarb large enough to use?" "Yes, indeed, we have baked rhubarb pies and have had a surfeit of dandelion salad or 'Salat,' as our neighbors designate it. Your Uncle calls 'dandelion greens' the farmers' spring tonic; that and 'celadine,' that plant you see growing by the side of the house. Later in the season it bears small, yellow flowers not unlike a very small buttercup blossom, and it is said to be an excellent remedy for chills and fevers, and it tastes almost as bitter as quinine. There are bushels of dandelion blossoms, some of which we shall pick tomorrow, and from them make dandelion wine." "And what use will my thrifty Aunt make of the blue violets?" mischievously inquired Mary. "The violets," replied her Aunt, "I shall dig up carefully with some earth adhering to their roots and place them in a glass bowl for a centrepiece on the table for my artistic and beauty-loving niece; and if kept moist, you will be surprised at the length of time they will remain 'a thing of beauty' if not 'a joy forever.' And later, Mary, from them I'll teach you to make violet beads." "Aunt Sarah, notice that large robin endeavoring to pull a worm from the ground. Do you suppose the same birds return here from the South every Summer?" "Certainty, I do." "That old mulberry tree, from the berries of which you made such delicious pies and marmalade last Summer, is it dead?" "No; only late about getting its Spring outfit of leaves." CHAPTER III. SCHUGGENHAUS TOWNSHIP. "Schuggenhaus," said Sarah Landis, speaking to her niece, Mary Midleton, "is one of the largest and most populous townships in Bucks County, probably so named by the early German settlers, some of whom, I think, were my father's ancestors, as they came originally from Zweibrucken, Germany, and settled in Schuggenhaus Township. Schuggenhaus is one of the most fertile townships in Bucks County and one of the best cultivated; farming is our principal occupation, and the population of the township today is composed principally of the descendants of well-to-do Germans, frequently called 'Pennsylvania Dutch.'" "I have often heard them called by that name," said Mary. "Have you forgotten, Aunt Sarah, you promised to tell me something interesting about the first red clover introduced in Bucks County?" "Red clover," replied her Aunt, "that having bright, crimson-pink heads, is the most plentiful and the most common variety of clover; but knowing how abundantly it grows in different parts of the country at the present time, one would scarcely have believed, in olden times, that it would ever be so widely distributed as it now is. "One reason clover does so well in this country is that the fertilization of the clover is produced by pollenation by the busy little bumble-bee, who carries the pollen from blossom to blossom, and clover is dependent upon these small insects for fertilization, as without them clover would soon die out." "I admire the feathery, fuzzy, pink-tipped, rabbit-foot clover," said Mary; "it is quite fragrant, and usually covered with butterflies. It makes such very pretty bouquets when you gather huge bunches of it." [Illustration: THE OLD MILL WHEEL] "No, Mary, I think you are thinking of Alsatian clover, which is similar to white clover. The small, round heads are cream color, tinged with pink; it is very fragrant and sweet and grows along the roadside and, like the common white clover, is a favorite with bees. The yellow hop clover we also find along the roadside. As the heads of clover mature, they turn yellowish brown and resemble dried hops; sometimes yellow, brown and tan blossoms are seen on one branch. The cultivation of red clover was introduced here a century ago, and when in bloom the fields attracted great attention. Being the first ever grown in this part of Bucks County, people came for miles to look at it, the fence around the fields some days being lined with spectators, I have been told by my grandfather. I remember when a child nothing appeared to me more beautiful than my father's fields of flax; a mass of bright blue flowers. I also remember the fields of broom-corn. Just think! We made our own brooms, wove linen from the flax raised on our farm and made our own tallow candles. Mary, from what a thrifty and hard-working lot of ancestors you are descended! You inherit from your mother your love of work and from your father your love of books. Your father's uncle was a noted Shakespearean scholar." Many old-time industries are passing away. Yet Sarah Landis, was a housewife of the old school and still cooked apple butter, or "Lodt Varrik," as the Germans call it; made sauerkraut and hard soap, and naked old-fashioned "German" rye bread on the hearth, which owed its excellence not only to the fact of its being hearth baked but to the rye flour being ground in an old mill in a near-by town, prepared by the old process of grinding between mill-stones instead of the more modern roller process. This picture of the old mill, taken by Fritz Schmidt, shows it is not artistic, but, like most articles of German manufacture, the mill was built more for its usefulness than to please the eye. [Illustration: THE OLD MILL] "Aunt Sarah, what is pumpernickel?" inquired Mary, "is it like rye bread?" "No, my dear, not exactly, it is a dark-colored bread, used in some parts of Germany. Professor Schmidt tells me the bread is usually composed of a mixture of barley flour and rye flour. Some I have eaten looks very much like our own brown bread. Pumpernickel is considered a very wholesome bread by the Germans--and I presume one might learn to relish it, but I should prefer good, sweet, home-made rye bread. I was told by an old gentleman who came to this country from Germany when a boy, that pumpernickel was used in the German army years ago, and was somewhat similar to 'hard tack,' furnished our soldiers in the Civil War. But I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion." "Aunt Sarah," said Mary later, "Frau Schmidt tells me the Professor sends his rye to the mill and requests that every part of it be ground without separating--making what he calls 'whole rye flour,' and from this Frau Schmidt bakes wholesome, nutritious bread which they call 'pumpernickel,' She tells me she uses about one-third of this 'whole rye flour' to two-thirds white bread flour when baking bread, and she considers bread made from this whole grain more wholesome and nutritious than the bread made from our fine rye flour." CHAPTER IV. JOHN LANDIS. The Bucks County farmer, John Landis, rather more scholarly in appearance than men ordinarily found in agricultural districts, was possessed of an adust complexion, caused by constant exposure to wind and weather; tall and spare, without an ounce of superfluous fat; energetic, and possessed of remarkable powers of endurance. He had a kindly, benevolent expression; his otherwise plain face was redeemed by fine, expressive brown eyes. Usually silent and preoccupied, and almost taciturn, yet he possessed a fund of dry humor. An old-fashioned Democrat, his wife was a Republican. He usually accompanied Aunt Sarah to her church, the Methodist, although he was a member of the German Reformed, and declared he had changed his religion to please her, but change his politics, never. A member of the Masonic Lodge, his only diversion was an occasional trip to the city with a party of the "boys" to attend a meeting of the "Shriners." Aunt Sarah protested. "The idea, John, at your age, being out so late at night and returning from the city on the early milk train the following morning, and then being still several miles from home. It's scandalous!" He only chuckled to himself; and what the entertainment had been, which was provided at Lulu Temple, and which he had so thoroughly enjoyed, was left to her imagination. His only remark when questioned was: "Sarah, you're not in it. You are not a 'Shriner.'" And as John had in every other particular fulfilled her ideal of what constitutes a good husband, Sarah, like the wise woman she was, allowed the subject to drop. A good, practical, progressive farmer, John Landis constantly read, studied and pondered over the problem of how to produce the largest results at least cost of time and labor. His crops were skillfully planted in rich soil, carefully cultivated and usually harvested earlier than those of his neighbors. One summer he raised potatoes so large that many of them weighed one pound each, and new potatoes and green peas, fresh from the garden, invariably appeared on Aunt Sarah's table the first of July, and sometimes earlier. I have known him to raise cornstalks which reached a height of thirteen feet, which were almost equaled by his wife's sunflower stalks, which usually averaged nine feet in height. Aunt Sarah, speaking one day to Mary, said: "Your Uncle John is an unusually silent man. I have heard him remark that when people talk continuously they are either _very_ intelligent or tell untruths." He, happening to overhear her remark, quickly retorted: "The man who speaks a dozen tongues, When all is said and done, Don't hold a match to him who knows How to keep still in one." When annoyed at his wife's talkativeness, her one fault in her husband's eyes, if he thought she had a fault, he had a way of saying, "Alright, Sarah, Alright," as much as to say "that is final; you have said enough," in his peculiar, quick manner of speaking, which Aunt Sarah never resented, he being invariably kind and considerate in other respects. John Landis was a successful farmer because he loved his work, and found joy in it. While not unmindful of the advantages possessed by the educated farmer of the present day, he said, "'Tis not college lore our boys need so much as practical education to develop their efficiency. While much that we eat and wear comes out of the ground, we should have more farmers, the only way to lower the present high cost of living, which is such a perplexing problem to the housewife. There is almost no limit to what might be accomplished by some of our bright boys should they make agriculture a study. Luther Burbank says, 'To add but one kernel of corn to each ear grown in this country in a single year would increase the supply five million bushels.'" CHAPTER V. THE OLD FARM HOUSE AND GARDEN. The old unpainted farm house, built of logs a century ago, had changed in the passing years to a grayish tint. An addition had been built to the house several years before Aunt Sarah's occupancy, The sober hue of the house harmonized with the great, gnarled old trunk of the meadow willow near-by. Planted when the house was built, it spread its great branches protectingly over it. A wild clematis growing at the foot of the tree twined its tendrils around the massive trunk until in late summer they had become an inseparable part of it, almost covering it with feathery blossoms. [Illustration: Old Corn Crib] [Illustration: The New Barn] Near by stood an antique arbor, covered with thickly-clustering vines, in season bending with the weight of "wild-scented" grapes, their fragrance mingling with the odor of "Creek Mint" growing near by a small streamlet and filling the air with a delicious fragrance. The mint had been used in earlier years by Aunt Sarah's grandfather as a beverage which he preferred to any other. From a vine clambering up the grape arbor trellies, in the fall of the year, hung numerous orange-colored balsam apples, which opened, when ripe, disclosing bright crimson interior and seeds. These apples, Aunt Sarah claimed, if placed in alcohol and applied externally, possessed great medicinal value as a specific for rheumatism. [Illustration: THE OLD FARM HOUSE] A short distance from the house stood the newly-built red barn, facing the pasture lot. On every side stretched fields which, in summer, waved with wheat, oats, rye and buckwheat, and the corn crib stood close by, ready for the harvest to fill it to overflowing. Beside the farm house door stood a tall, white oleander, planted in a large, green-painted wooden tub. Near by, in a glazed earthenware pot, grew the old-fashioned lantana plant, covered with clusters of tiny blossoms, of various shades of orange, red and pink. In flower beds outlined by clam shells which had been freshly whitewashed blossomed fuchsias, bleeding hearts, verbenas, dusty millers, sweet clove-scented pinks, old-fashioned, dignified, purple digitalis or foxglove, stately pink Princess Feather, various brilliant-hued zinnias, or more commonly called "Youth and Old Age," and as gayly colored, if more humble and lowly, portulacas; the fragrant white, star-like blossoms of the nicotiana, or "Flowering Tobacco," which, like the yellow primrose, are particularly fragrant at sunset. Geraniums of every hue, silver-leaved and rose-scented; yellow marigolds and those with brown, velvety petals; near by the pale green and white-mottled leaves of the plant called "Snow on the Mountain" and in the centre of one of the large, round flower beds, grew sturdy "Castor Oil Beans," their large, copper-bronze leaves almost covering the tiny blue forget-me-nots growing beneath. Near the flower bed grew a thrifty bush of pink-flowering almonds; not far distant grew a spreading "shrub" bush, covered with fragrant brown buds, and beside it a small tree of pearly-white snowdrops. Sarah Landis loved the wholesome, earthy odors of growing plants and delighted in her flowers, particularly the perennials, which were planted promiscuously all over the yard. I have frequently heard her quote: "One is nearer God's heart in a garden than any place else on earth." And she would say, "I love the out-of-door life, in touch with the earth; the natural life of man or woman." Inside the fence of the kitchen garden were planted straight rows of both red and yellow currants, and several gooseberry bushes. In one corner of the garden, near the summer kitchen, stood a large bush of black currants, from the yellow, sweet-scented blossoms of which Aunt Sarah's bees, those "Heaven instructed mathematicians," sucked honey. Think of Aunt Sarah's buckwheat cakes, eaten with honey made from currant, clover, buckwheat and dandelion blossoms! Her garden was second to none in Bucks County. She planted tomato seeds in boxes and placed them in a sunny window, raising her plants early; hence she had ripe tomatoes before any one else in the neighborhood. Her peas were earlier also, and her beets and potatoes were the largest; her corn the sweetest; and, as her asparagus bed was always well salted, her asparagus was the finest to be had. Through the centre of the garden patch, on either side the walk, were large flower beds, a blaze of brilliant color from early Spring, when the daffodils blossomed, until frost killed the dahlias, asters, scarlet sage, sweet Williams, Canterbury bells, pink and white snapdragon, spikes of perennial, fragrant, white heliotrope; blue larkspur, four o'clocks, bachelor buttons and many other dear, old-fashioned flowers. The dainty pink, funnel-shaped blossoms of the hardy swamp "Rose Mallow'" bloomed the entire Summer, the last flowers to be touched by frost, vying in beauty with the pink monthly roses planted near by. Children who visited Aunt Sarah delighted in the small Jerusalem cherry tree, usually covered with bright, scarlet berries, which was planted near the veranda, and they never tired pinching the tiny leaves of the sensitive plant to see them quickly droop, as if dead, then slowly unfold and straighten as if a thing of life. Visitors to the farm greatly admired the large, creamy-white lily-like blossoms of the datura. Farthest from the house were the useful herb beds, filled with parsley, hoarhound, sweet marjoram, lavender, saffron, sage, sweet basil, summer savory and silver-striped rosemary or "old man," as it was commonly called by country folk. Tall clusters of phlox, a riot of color in midsummer, crimson-eyed, white and rose-colored blossoms topping the tall steins, and clusters of brilliant-red bergamot near by had been growing, from time immemorial, a cluster of green and white-striped grass, without which no door yard in this section of Bucks County was considered complete in olden times. Near by, silvery plumes of pampas grass gently swayed on their reed-like stems. Even the garden was not without splashes of color, where, between rows of vegetables, grew pale, pink-petaled poppies, seeming to have scarcely a foothold in the rich soil. But the daintiest, sweetest bed of all, and the one that Mary enjoyed most, was where the lilies of the valley grew in the shade near a large, white lilac bush. Here, on a rustic bench beneath an old apple tree, stitching on her embroidery, she dreamed happy dreams of her absent lover, and planned for the life they were to live together some day, in the home he was striving to earn for her by his own manly exertions; and she assiduously studied and pondered over Aunt Sarah's teaching and counsel, knowing them to be wise and good. A short distance from the farm house, where the old orchard sloped down to the edge of the brook, grew tall meadow rue, with feathery clusters of green and white flowers; and the green, gold-lined, bowl-shaped blossoms of the "Cow Lily," homely stepsisters of the fragrant, white pond lily, surrounded by thick, waxy, green leaves, lazily floated on the surface of the water from long stems in the bed of the creek, and on the bank a carpet was formed by golden-yellow, creeping buttercups. In the side yard grew two great clumps of iris, or, as it is more commonly called, "Blue Flag." Its blossoms, dainty as rare orchids, with lily-like, violet-veined petals of palest-tinted mauve and purple. On the sunny side of the old farm house, facing the East, where at early morn the sun shone bright and warm, grew Aunt Sarah's pansies, with velvety, red-brown petals, golden-yellow and dark purple. They were truly "Heart's Ease," gathered with a lavish hand, and sent as gifts to friends who were ill. The more she picked the faster they multiplied, and came to many a sick bed "sweet messengers of Spring." If Aunt Sarah had a preference for one particular flower, 'twas the rose, and they well repaid the time and care she lavished on them. She had pale-tinted blush roses, with hearts of deepest pink; rockland and prairie and hundred-leaf roses, pink and crimson ramblers, but the most highly-prized roses of her collection were an exquisite, deep salmon-colored "Marquis De Sinety" and an old-fashioned pink moss rose, which grew beside a large bush of mock-orange, the creamy blossoms of the latter almost as fragrant as real orange blossoms of the sunny Southland. Not far distant, planted in a small bed by themselves, grew old-fashioned, sweet-scented, double petunias, ragged, ripple, ruffled corollas of white, with splotches of brilliant crimson and purple, their slender stems scarcely strong enough to support the heavy blossoms. In one of the sunniest spots in the old garden grew Aunt Sarah's latest acquisition. "The Butterfly Bush," probably so named on account of its graceful stems, covered with spikes of tiny, lilac-colored blossoms, over which continually hovered large, gorgeously-hued butterflies, vying with the flowers in brilliancy of color, from early June until late Summer. Aunt Sarah's sunflowers, or "Sonnen Blume," as she liked to call them, planted along the garden fence to feed chickens and birds alike, were a sight worth seeing. The birds generally confiscated the larger portion of seeds. A pretty sight it was to see a flock of wild canaries, almost covering the tops of the largest sunflowers, busily engaged picking out the rich, oily seeds. Aunt Sarah loved the golden flowers, which always appeared to be nodding to the sun, and her sunflowers were particularly fine, some being as much as fifty inches in circumference. A bouquet of the smaller ones was usually to be seen in a quaint, old, blue-flowered, gray jar on the farm house veranda in Summertime. Earlier in the season blossoms of the humble artichoke, which greatly resemble small sunflowers, or large yellow daisies, filled the jar. Failing either of these, she gathered large bouquets of golden-rod or wild carrot blossoms, both of which grew in profusion along the country lanes and roadside near the farm. But the old gray jar never held a bouquet more beautiful than the one of bright, blue "fringed gentians," gathered by Aunt Sarah in the Fall of the year, several miles distant from the farm. CHAPTER VI. MARY CONFIDES IN AUNT SARAH AND GIVES HER VIEWS ON SUFFRAGE FOR WOMEN. "There's no deny'n women are foolish, God A'mighty made them to match the men." A short time after her arrival at the farm Mary poured into the sympathetic ear of Aunt Sarah her hopes and plans. Her lover, Ralph Jackson, to whom she had become engaged the past Winter, held a position with the Philadelphia Electric Company, and was studying hard outside working hours. His ambition was to become an electrical engineer. He was getting fair wages, and wished Mary to marry him at once. She confessed she loved Ralph too well to marry him, ignorant as she was of economical housekeeping and cooking. Mary, early left an orphan, had studied diligently to fit herself for a kindergarten teacher, so she would be capable of earning her own living on leaving school, which accounted for her lack of knowledge of housework, cooking, etc. Aunt Sarah, loving Mary devotedly, and knowing the young man of her choice to be clean, honest and worthy, promised to do all in her power to make their dream of happiness come true. Learning from Mary that Ralph was thin and pale from close confinement, hard work and study, and of his intention of taking a short vacation, she determined he should spend it on the farm, where she would be able to "mother him." "You acted sensibly, Mary," said her Aunt, "in refusing to marry Ralph at the present time, realizing your lack of knowledge of housework and inability to manage a home. Neither would you know how to spend the money provided by him economically and wisely, and, in this age of individual efficiency, a business knowledge of housekeeping is almost as important in making a happy home as is love. I think it quite as necessary that a woman who marries should understand housekeeping in all its varied branches as that the man who marries should understand his trade or profession; for, without the knowledge of means to gain a livelihood (however great his love for a woman), how is the man to hold that woman's love and affection unless he is able by his own exertions to provide her with necessities, comforts, and, perhaps, in later years, luxuries? And in return, the wife should consider it her duty and pleasure to know how to do her work systematically; learn the value of different foods and apply the knowledge gained daily in preparing them; study to keep her husband in the best of health, physically and mentally. Then will his efficiency be greater and he will be enabled to do his 'splendid best' in whatever position in life he is placed, be he statesman or hod-carrier. What difference, if an honest heart beat beneath a laborer's hickory shirt, or one of fine linen? 'One hand, if it's true, is as good as another, no matter how brawny or rough.' Mary, do not think the trivial affairs of the home beneath your notice, and do not imagine any work degrading which tends to the betterment of the home. Remember, 'Who sweeps a room as for Thy law, makes that and the action fine.' "Our lives are all made up of such small, commonplace things and this is such a commonplace old world, Mary. 'The commonplace earth and the commonplace sky make up the commonplace day,' and 'God must have loved common people, or He would not have made so many of them.' And, what if we are commonplace? We cannot all be artists, poets and sculptors. Yet, how frequently we see people in commonplace surroundings, possessing the soul of an artist, handicapped by physical disability or lack of means! We are all necessary in the great, eternal plan. 'Tis not good deeds alone for which we receive our reward, but for the performance of duty well done, in however humble circumstances our lot is cast. Is it not Lord Houghton who says: 'Do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life.' I consider a happy home in the true sense of the word one of the greatest of blessings. How important is the work of the housemother and homemaker who creates the home! There can be no happiness there unless the wheels of the domestic machinery are oiled by loving care and kindness to make them run smoothly, and the noblest work a woman can do is training and rearing her children. Suffrage, the right of woman to vote; will it not take women from the home? I am afraid the home will then suffer in consequence. Will man accord woman the same reverence she has received in the past? Should she have equal political rights? A race lacking respect for women would never advance socially or politically. I think women could not have a more important part in the government of the land than in rearing and educating their children to be good, useful citizens. In what nobler work could women engage than in work to promote the comfort and well-being of the ones they love in the home? I say, allow men to make the laws, as God and nature planned. I think women should keep to the sphere God made them for--the home. Said Gladstone, 'Woman is the most perfect when most womanly.' There is nothing, I think, more despicable than a masculine, mannish woman, unless it be an effeminate, sissy man. Dr. Clarke voiced my sentiments when he said: 'Man is not superior to woman, nor woman to man. The relation of the sexes is one of equality, not of better or worse, of higher and lower. The loftiest ideal of humanity demands that each shall be perfect in its kind and not be hindered in its best work. The lily is not inferior to the rose, nor the oak superior to the clover; yet the glory of the lily is one and the glory of the oak is another, and the use of the oak is not the use of the clover.' "This present-day generation demands of women greater efficiency in the home than ever before. And Mary, many of the old-time industries which I had been accustomed to as a girl have passed away. Electricity and numerous labor-saving devices make household tasks easier, eliminating some altogether. When housekeeping you will find time to devote to many important questions of the day which we old-time housekeepers never dreamed of having. Considerable thought should be given to studying to improve and simplify conditions of the home-life. It is your duty. Obtain books; study food values and provide those foods which nourish the body, instead of spending time uselessly preparing dainties to tempt a jaded appetite. Don't spoil Ralph when you marry him. Give him good, wholesome food, and plenty of it; but although the cooking of food takes up much of a housekeeper's time, it is not wise to allow it to take up one's time to the exclusion of everything else. Mary, perhaps my views are old-fashioned. I am not a 'new woman' in any sense of the word. The new woman may take her place beside man in the business world and prove equally as efficient, but I do not think woman should invade man's sphere any more than he should assume her duties." "Aunt Sarah, I am surprised to hear you talk in that manner about woman's sphere," replied Mary, "knowing what a success you are in the home, and how beautifully you manage everything you undertake. I felt, once you recognized the injustice done woman in not allowing them to vote, you would feel differently, and since women are obliged to obey the laws, should they not have a voice in choosing the lawmakers? When you vote, it will not take you out of the home. You and Uncle John will merely stop on your way to the store, and instead of Uncle John going in to write and register what he thinks should be done and by whom it should be done, you too will express your opinion. This will likely be twice a year. By doing this, no woman loses her womanliness, goodness or social position, and to these influences the vote is but another influence. I know there are many things in connection with the right of equal suffrage with what you do not sympathize. "Aunt Sarah, let me tell you about a dear friend of mine who taught school with me in the city. Emily taught a grammar grade, and did not get the same salary the men teachers received for doing the same work, which I think was unfair. Emily studied and frequently heard and read about what had been done in Colorado and other States where women vote. She got us all interested, and the more we learned about the cause the harder we worked for it. Emily married a nice, big, railroad man. They bought a pretty little house in a small town, had three lovely children and were very happy. More than ever as time passed Emily realized the need of woman's influence in the community. It is true, I'll admit, Aunt Sarah, housekeeping and especially home-making are the great duties of every woman, and to provide the most wholesome, nourishing food possible for the family is the duty of every mother, as the health, comfort and happiness of the family depend so largely on the _common sense_ (only another name for efficiency) and skill of the homemaker, and the wise care and though she expends on the preparation of wholesome, nutritious food in the home, either the work of her own hands or prepared under her direction. You can _not_ look after these duties without getting _outside_ of your home, especially when you live like Emily, in a town where the conditions are so different from living as you do on a farm in the country. Milk, bread and water are no longer controlled by the woman in her home, living in cities and towns; and just because women want to look out for their families they should have a voice in the larger problems of municipal housekeeping. To return to Emily, she did not bake her own bread, as you do, neither did she keep a cow, but bought milk and bread to feed the children. Wasn't it her duty to leave the home and see where these products were produced, and if they were sanitary? And, knowing the problem outside the home would so materially affect the health, and perhaps lives, of her children, she felt it her distinctive duty to keep house in a larger sense. When the children became old enough to attend school, Emily again took up her old interest in schools. She began to realize how much more just it would be if an equal number of women were on the school board." "But what did the husband think of all this?" inquired Aunt Sarah, dubiously. "Oh, Tom studied the case, too, at first just to tease Emily, but he soon became as enthusiastic as Emily. He said, 'The first time you are privileged to vote, Emily, I will hire an automobile to take you to the polls in style.' But poor Emily was left alone with her children last winter. Tom died of typhoid fever. Contracted it from the bad drainage. They lived in a town not yet safeguarded with sewerage. Now Emily is a taxpayer as well as a mother, and she has no say as far as the town and schools are concerned. There are many cases like that, where widows and unmarried women own property, and they are in no way represented. And think of the thousands and thousands of women who have no home to stay in and no babies to look after." "Mercy, Mary! Do stop to take breath. I never thought when I started this subject I would have an enthusiastic suffragist with whom to deal." "I am glad you started the subject, Aunt Sarah, because there is so much to be said for the cause. I saw you glance at the clock and I see it is time to prepare supper. But some day I'm going to stop that old clock and bring down some of my books on 'Woman's Suffrage' and you'll he surprised to hear what they have done in States where equal privileges were theirs. I am sure 'twill not be many years before every State in the Union will give women the right of suffrage." * * * * * After Mary retired that evening Aunt Sarah had a talk with her John, whom she knew needed help on the farm. As a result of the conference, Mary wrote to Ralph the following day, asking him to spend his vacation on the farm as a "farm hand." Needless to say, the offer was gladly accepted by Ralph, if for no other reason than to be near the girl he loved. Ralph came the following week--"a strapping big fellow," to quote Uncle John, being several inches over six feet. "All you need, young chap," said Mary's Uncle, "is plenty of good, wholesome food of Sarah's and Mary's preparing, and I'll see that you get plenty of exercise in the fresh air to give you an appetite to enjoy it, and you'll get a healthy coat of tan on your pale cheeks before the Summer is ended." Ralph Jackson, or "Jack," as he was usually called by his friends, an orphan like Mary, came of good, old Quaker stock, his mother having died immediately after giving birth to her son. His father, supposed to be a wealthy contractor, died when Ralph was seventeen, having lost his fortune through no fault of his own, leaving Ralph penniless. Ralph Jackson possessed a good face, a square, determined jaw, sure sign of a strong will and quick temper; these Berserker traits he inherited from his father; rather unusual in a Quaker. He possessed a head of thick, coarse, straight brown hair, and big honest eyes. One never doubted his word, once it had been given. 'Twas good as his bond. This trait he inherited also from his father, noted for his truth and integrity. Ralph was generous to a fault. When a small boy he was known to take off his shoes and give them to a poor little Italian (who played a violin on the street for pennies) and go home barefoot. Ralph loved Mary devotedly, not only because she fed him well at the farm, as were his forefathers, the "Cave Men," fed by their mates in years gone by, but he loved her first for her sweetness of disposition and lovable ways; later, for her quiet unselfishness and lack of temper over trifles--so different from himself. When speaking to Mary of his other fine qualities, Aunt Sarah said: "Ralph is a manly young fellow; likeable, I'll admit, but his hasty temper is a grave fault in my eyes." Mary replied, "Don't you think men are very queer, anyway, Aunt Sarah? I do, and none of us is perfect." [Illustration: RALPH JACKSON] To Mary, Ralph's principal charm lay in his strong, forceful way of surmounting difficulties, she having a disposition so different. Mary had a sweet, motherly way, seldom met with in so young a girl, and this appealed to Ralph, he having never known "mother love," and although not at all inclined to be sentimental, he always called Mary his "Little Mother Girl" because of her motherly ways. [Illustration: ROCKY VALLEY] "Well," continued Mary's Aunt, "a quick temper is one of the most difficult faults to overcome that flesh is heir to, but Ralph, being a young man of uncommon good sense, may in time curb his temper and learn to control it, knowing that unless be does so it will handicap him in his career. Still, a young girl will overlook many faults in the man she loves. Mary, ere marrying, one should be sure that no love be lacking to those entering these sacred bonds. 'Tis not for a day, but for a lifetime, to the right thinking. Marriage, as a rule, is too lightly entered into in this Twentieth Century of easy divorces, and but few regard matrimony in its true holy relation, ordained by our Creator. If it be founded on the tower of enduring love and not ephemeral passion, it is unassailable, lasting in faith and honor until death breaks the sacred union and annuls the vows pledged at God's holy altar." "Well," replied Mary, as her Aunt paused to take breath, "I am sure of my love for Ralph." "God grant you may both be happy," responded her Aunt. "Mary, did you ever hear this Persian proverb? You will understand why I have so much to say after hearing it." "'Says a proverb of Persia provoking mirth; When this world was created by order divine. Ten measures of talk were put down on the earth, And the woman took nine.'" Speaking to Mary of life on the farm one day, Ralph laughingly said: "I am taught something new every day. Yesterday your Uncle told me it was 'time to plant corn when oak leaves were large as squirrels' ears.'" Ralph worked like a Trojan. In a short time both his hands and face took on a butternut hue. He became strong and robust. Mary called him her "Cave Man," and it taxed the combined efforts of Aunt Sarah and Mary to provide food to satisfy the ravenous appetite Mary's "Cave Man" developed. And often, after a busy day, tired but happy, Mary fell asleep at night to the whispering of the leaves of the Carolina poplar outside her bedroom window. But country life on a farm has its diversions. One of Mary's and Ralph's greatest pleasures after a busy day at the farm was a drive about the surrounding country early Summer evenings, frequently accompanied by either Elizabeth or Pauline Schmidt, their nearest neighbors. One of the first places visited by them was a freak of nature called "Rocky Valley," situated at no great distance from the farm. [Illustration: PROFESSOR SCHMIDT] CHAPTER VII PROFESSOR SCHMIDT. A small country place named "Five Oaks," a short distance from "Clear Spring" farm, was owned by a very worthy and highly-educated, but rather eccentric, German professor. He came originally from Heidelberg, but had occupied the position of Professor of German for many years in a noted university in a near by town. A kind, warm-hearted, old-fashioned gentleman was the Professor; a perfect Lord Chesterfield in manners. Very tall, thin almost to emaciation, although possessed of excellent health; refined, scholarly looking: a rather long, hooked nose, faded, pale-blue eyes; snowy, flowing "Lord Dundreary" whiskers, usually parted in the centre and twisted to a point on either side with the exceedingly long, bony fingers of his well-kept, aristocratic-looking white hands. He had an abrupt, quick, nervous manner when speaking. A fringe of thin, white hair showed at the lower edge of the black silk skull cap which he invariably wore about home, and in the absence of this covering for his bald head, he would not have looked natural to his friends. The Professor always wore a suit of well-brushed, "shiny" black broadcloth, and for comfort old-fashioned soft kid "gaiters," with elastic in the sides. He was a man with whom one did not easily become acquainted, having very decided opinions on most subjects. He possessed exquisite taste, a passionate love of music, flowers and all things beautiful; rather visionary, poetical and a dreamer; he was not practical, like his wife; warm-hearted, impulsive, energetic Frau Schmidt, who was noted for her executive abilities. I can imagine the old Professor saying as Mohammed has been quoted as saying, "Had I two loaves, I would sell one and buy hyacinths to feed my soul." Impulsive, generous to a fault, quick to take offense, withal warm-hearted, kind and loyal to his friends, he was beloved by the students, who declared that "Old Snitzy" always played fair when he was obliged to reprimand them for their numerous pranks, which ended sometimes, I am obliged to confess, with disastrous results. The dignified old Professor would have raised his mild, blue, spectacled eyes in astonishment had he been so unfortunate as to have overheard the boys, to whom he was greatly attached, call their dignified preceptor by such a nickname. The Professor's little black-eyed German wife, many years younger than her husband, had been, before her marriage, teacher of domestic science in a female college in a large city. "She was a most excellent housekeeper," to quote the Professor, and "a good wife and mother." The family consisted of "Fritz," a boy of sixteen, with big, innocent, baby-blue eyes like his father, who idolized his only son, who was alike a joy and a torment. Fritz attended the university in a near-by town, and was usually head of the football team. He was always at the front in any mischief whatever, was noted for getting into scrapes innumerable through his love of fun, yet he possessed such a good-natured, unselfish, happy-go-lucky disposition that one always forgave him. Black-eyed, red-cheeked Elizabeth was quick and impulsive, like her mother. A very warm and lasting friendship sprung up between merry Elizabeth and serious Mary Midleton during Mary's Summer on the farm, although not at all alike in either looks or disposition, and Elizabeth was Mary's junior by several years. The third, last and least of the Professor's children was Pauline, or "Pollykins," as she was always called by her brother Fritz, the seven-year-old pet and baby of the family. A second edition of Fritz, the same innocent, questioning, violet-blue eyes, fair complexion, a kissable little mouth and yellow, kinky hair, she won her way into every one's heart and became greatly attached to Mary, who was usually more patient with the little maid (who, I must confess, was sometimes very willful) than was her sister Elizabeth. Mary, who had never been blessed with a sister, dearly loved children, and thought small "Polly" adorable, and never wearied telling her marvelous fairy tales. [Illustration: FRAU SCHMIDT] CHAPTER VIII. USES OF AN OLD-FASHIONED WARDROBE. Shortly after Mary's advent at the farm she one day said: "Aunt Sarah, the contents of this old trunk are absolutely worthless to me; perhaps they may be used by you for carpet rags." "Mary Midleton!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah, in horrified tones, "you extravagant girl. I see greater possibilities in that trunk of partly-worn clothing than, I suppose, a less economically-inclined woman than I ever would have dreamed of." Mary handed her Aunt two blue seersucker dresses, one plain, the other striped. "They have both shrunken, and are entirely too small for me," said Mary. "Well," said her Aunt, considering, "they might be combined in one dress, but you need aprons for kitchen work more useful than those little frilly, embroidered affairs you are wearing. We should make them into serviceable aprons to protect your dresses. Mary, neatness is an attribute that every self-respecting housewife should assiduously cultivate, and no one can be neat in a kitchen without a suitable apron to protect one from grime, flour and dust." "What a pretty challis dress; its cream-colored ground sprinkled over with pink rose buds!" Mary sighed. "I always did love that dress, Aunt Sarah, 'Twas so becoming, and he--he--admired it so!" "And HE, can do so still," replied Aunt Sarah, with a merry twinkle in her kind, clear, gray eyes, "for that pale-green suesine skirt, slightly faded, will make an excellent lining, with cotton for an interlining, and pale green Germantown yarn with which to tie the comfortable. At small cost you'll have a dainty, warm spread which will be extremely pretty in the home you are planning with HIM. I have several very pretty-old-style patchwork quilts in a box in the attic which I shall give you when you start housekeeping. That pretty dotted, ungored Swiss skirt will make dainty, ruffled sash curtains for bedroom windows. Mary, sometimes small beginnings make great endings; if you make the best of your small belongings, some day your homely surroundings will be metamorphosed into what, in your present circumstances, would seem like extravagant luxuries. An economical young couple, beginning life with a homely, home-made rag carpet, have achieved in middle age, by their own energy and industry, carpets of tapestry and rich velvet, and costly furniture in keeping; but, never--never, dear, are they so valued, I assure you, as those inexpensive articles, conceived by our inventive brain and manufactured by our own deft fingers during our happy Springtime of life when, with our young lover husband, we built our home nest on the foundation of pure, unselfish, self-sacrificing love." Aunt Sarah sighed; memory led her far back to when she had planned her home with her lover, John Landis, still her lover, though both have grown gray together, and shared alike the joys and sorrows of the passing years. Aunt Sarah had always been the perfect "housemother" or "Haus Frau," as the Germans phrase it, and on every line of her matured face could be read an anxious care for the family welfare. Truly could it be said of her, in the language of Henry Ward Beecher: "Whoever makes home seem to the young dearer and happier is a public benefactor." Aunt Sarah said earnestly to Mary, "I wish it were possible for me to impart to young, inexperienced girls, about to become housewives and housemothers, a knowledge of those small economics, so necessary to health and prosperity, taught me by many years of hard work, mental travail, experience and some failures. In this extravagant Twentieth Century economy is more imperative than formerly. We feel that we need so much more these days than our grandmothers needed; and what we need, or feel that we need, is so costly. The housemother has larger problems today than yesterday. "Every husband should give his wife an allowance according to his income, so that she will be able to systematize her buying and occasionally obtain imperishable goods at less cost. Being encouraged thus to use her dormant economical powers; she will become a powerful factor in the problem of home-making along lines that will essentially aid her husband in acquiring a comfortable competency, if not a fortune. Then she will have her husband's interest truly at heart; will study to spend his money carefully, and to the best advantage; and she herself, even, will be surprised at the many economies which will suggest themselves to save his hard-earned money when she handles that money herself, which certainly teaches her the saving habit and the value of money. "The majority of housewives of today aren't naturally inclined to be extravagant or careless. It is rather that they lack the knowledge and experience of spending money, and spending it to the best advantage for themselves and their household needs. "'Tis a compulsory law in England, I have heard, to allow a wife pin money, according to a man's means. 'Tis a most wise law. To a loyal wife and mother it gives added force, dignity and usefulness to have a sufficient allowance and to be allowed unquestioningly to spend that money to her best ability. Her husband, be he a working or professional man, would find it greatly to his advantage in the home as well as in his business and less of a drain on his bank account should he give his wife a suitable allowance and trust her to spend it according to her own intelligence and thrift. "Child, many a man is violently prejudiced against giving a young wife money; many allow her to run up bills, to her hurt and to his, rather than have her, even in her household expenditure, independent of his supervision. I sincerely hope, dear, that your intended, Ralph Jackson, will be superior to this male idiosyncrasy, to term it mildly, and allow you a stated sum monthly. The home is the woman's kingdom, and she should be allowed to think for it, to buy for it, and not to be cramped by lack of money to do as she thinks best for it." "But, Aunt Sarah, some housewives are so silly that husbands cannot really be blamed for withholding money from them and preventing them from frittering it away in useless extravagance." "Mary, wise wives should not suffer for those who are silly and extravagant. I don't like to be sarcastic, but with the majority of the men, silliness appeals to them more than common sense. Men like to feel their superiority to us. However, though inexperienced, Mary, you aren't silly or extravagant, and Ralph could safely trust you with his money. It makes a woman so self-respecting, puts her on her mettle, to have money to do as she pleases with, to be trusted, relied upon as a reasoning, responsible being. A man, especially a young husband, makes a grave mistake when he looks upon his wife as only a toy to amuse him in his leisure moments and not as one to be trusted to aid him in his life work. A trusted young housewife, with a reasonable and regular allowance at her command, be she ever so inexperienced, will soon plan to have wholesome, nutritious food at little cost, instead of not knowing until a half hour before meal time what she will serve. She would save money and the family would be better nourished; nevertheless, I would impress it on the young housewife not to be too saving or practice too close economy, especially when buying milk and eggs, as there is nothing more nutritious or valuable. A palatable macaroni and cheese; eggs or a combination of eggs and milk, are dishes which may be substituted occasionally, at less expense, for meat. A pound of macaroni and cheese equals a pound of steak in food value. Take time and trouble to see that all food be well cooked and served, both in an attractive and appetizing manner. Buy the cheaper cuts of stewing meats, and by long, slow simmering, they will become sweet and tender and of equal nutritive value as higher priced sirloins and tenderloins. "But, Mary, I've not yet finished that trunk and its contents. That slightly-faded pink chambray I'll cut up into quilt blocks. Made up with white patches, and quilted nicely, a pretty quilt lined with white, will be evolved. I have such a pretty design of pink and white called the 'Winding Way,' very simple to make. The beauty of the quilt consists altogether in the manner in which the blocks are put together, or it might be made over the pattern called 'The Flying Dutchman.' From that tan linen skirt may be made a laundry bag, shoe pocket, twine bag, a collar bag and a table runner, the only expense being several skeins of green embroidery silk, and a couple yards of green cord to draw the bags up with, and a couple of the same-hued skirt braids for binding edges, and," teasingly, "Mary, you might embroider Ralph Jackson's initials on the collar and laundry bag." [Illustration: A-12 Pine Tree Quilt A-13 Tree of Life A-14 Pineapple A-15 Enlarged Block of Winding Way Quilt A-16 Lost Rose in the Wilderness A-17 Tree Quilt] Mary blushed rosily red and exclaimed in an embarrassed manner, most bewitchingly, "Oh!" Aunt Sarah laughed. She thought to have Mary look that way 'twas worth teasing her. "Well, Mary, we can in leisure moments, from that coarse, white linen skirt which you have discarded, make bureau scarfs, sideboard cover, or a set of scalloped table mats to place under hot dishes on your dining-room table. I will give you pieces of asbestos to slip between the linen mats when finished. They are a great protection to the table. You could also make several small guest towels with deep, hemstitched ends with your initials on. You embroider so beautifully, and the drawn work you do is done as expertly as that of the Mexican women." "Oh, Aunt Sarah, how ingenious you are." "And, Mary, your rag carpet shall not be lacking. We shall tear up those partly-worn muslin skirts into strips one-half inch in width, and use the dyes left over from dyeing Easter eggs. I always save the dye for this purpose, they come in such pretty, bright colors. The rags, when sewed together with some I have in the attic, we'll have woven into a useful carpet for the home you are planning.' "Oh! Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Mary, "do you mean a carpet like the one in the spare bedroom?" "Yes, my dear, exactly like that, if you wish." "Indeed I do, and I think one like that quite good enough to have in a dining-room. I think it so pretty. It does not look at all like a common rag carpet." "No, my dear, it is nothing very uncommon. It is all in the way it is woven. Instead of having two gay rainbow stripes about three inches wide running through the length of the carpet, I had it woven with the ground work white and brown chain to form checks. Then about an inch apart were placed two threads of two shades of red woolen warp, alternating with two threads of two shades of green, across the whole width, running the length of the carpet. It has been greatly admired, as it is rather different from that usually woven. All the rag carpets I found in the house when we moved here, made by John's mother, possessed very wide stripes of rainbow colors, composed of shaded reds, yellows, blues and greens. You can imagine how very gorgeous they were, and so very heavy. Many of the country weavers use linen chain or warp instead of cotton, and always use wool warp for the stripes." "Aunt Sarah, I want something so very much for the Colonial bedroom I should like to have when I have a home of my very own." "What is it, dear? Anything, e'en to the half of my kingdom," laughingly replied her Aunt. "Why, I'd love to have several rag rugs like those in your bedroom, which you call 'New Colonial' rugs." "Certainly, my dear. They are easily made from carpet rags. I have already planned in my mind a pretty rag rug for you, to be made from your old, garnet merino shirtwaist, combined with your discarded cravenette stormcoat. "And you'll need some pretty quilts, also," said her Aunt. "I particularly admire the tree quilts," said Mary. "You may have any one you choose; the one called 'Tree of Paradise,' another called 'Pineapple Design,' which was originally a border to 'Fleur de lis' quilt or 'Pine Tree,' and still another called 'Tree of Life,' and 'The Lost Rose in the Wilderness.'" "They are all so odd," said Mary, "I scarcely know which one I think prettiest." "All are old-fashioned quilts, which I prize highly," continued her Aunt. "Several I pieced together when a small girl, I think old-time patchwork too pretty and useful an accomplishment to have gone out of fashion. "You shall have a small stand cover like the one you admired so greatly, given me by Aunt Cornelia. It is very simple, the materials required being a square of yard-wide unbleached muslin. In the centre of this baste a large, blue-flowered handkerchief with cream-colored ground, to match the muslin. Turn up a deep hem all around outside edge; cut out quarter circles of the handkerchief at each of four corners; baste neatly upon the muslin, leaving a space of muslin the same width as the hem around each quarter circle; briarstitch all turned-in edges with dark-blue embroidery silk, being washable, these do nicely as covers for small tables or stands on the veranda in Summertime." "Aunt Sarah," ecstatically exclaimed Mary, "you are a wizard to plan so many useful things from a trunk of apparently useless rags. What a treasure Uncle has in you. I was fretting about having so little to make my home attractive, but I feel quite elated at the thought of having a carpet and rugs already planned, besides the numerous other things evolved from your fertile brain." Aunt Sarah loved a joke. She held up an old broadcloth cape. "Here is a fine patch for Ralph Jackson's breeches, should he ever become sedentary and need one." Mary reddened and looked almost offended and was at a loss for a reply. [Illustration: A-18 Fleur DeLys Quilt A-19 Oak Leaf Quilt A-20 One Block of Fleur DeLys Quilt A-21 Winding Way Quilt A-22 Tulip Quilt A-23 Flower Pot Quilt] Greatly amused, Aunt Sarah quoted ex-President Roosevelt: "'Tis time for the man with the patch to come forward and the man with the dollar to step back,'" and added, "Never mind, Mary, your Ralph is such an industrious, hustling young man that he will never need a patch to step forward, I prophesy that with such a helpmeet and 'Haus Frau' as you, Mary, he'll always be most prosperous and happy. Kiss me, dear." Mary did so, and her radiant smile at such praise from her honored relative was beautiful to behold. [Illustration: OLD RAG CARPET] CHAPTER IX. POETRY AND PIE. "Aunt Sarah," questioned Mary one day, "do you mind if I copy some of your recipes?" "Certainly not, my dear," replied her Aunt. "And I'd like to copy some of the poems, also, I never saw any one else have so much poetry in a book of cooking recipes." "Perhaps not," replied her Aunt, "but you know, Mary, I believe in combining pleasure with my work, and our lives are made up of poetry and prose, and some lives are so very prosy. Many times when too tired to look up a favorite volume of poems, it has rested me to turn the pages of my recipe book and find some helpful thought, and a good housewife will always keep her book of recipes where it may be readily found for reference. I think, Mary, the poem 'Pennsylvania,' by Lydia M.D. O'Neil, a fine one, and I never tire of reading it over and over again. I have always felt grateful to my old schoolmaster. Professor T----, for teaching me, when a school girl, to love the writing of Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, Tennyson and other well-known poets. I still, in memory, hear him repeat 'Thanatopsis,' by Bryant and 'The Builders,' by Longfellow. The rhymes of the 'Fireside Poet' are easily understood, and never fail to touch the heart of common folk. I know it appears odd to see so many of my favorite poems sandwiched in between old, valued cooking recipes, but, Mary, the happiness of the home life depends so largely on the food we consume. On the preparation and selection of the food we eat depends our health, and on our health is largely dependent our happiness and prosperity. Who is it has said, 'The discovery of a new dish makes more for the happiness of man than the discovery of a star'? So, dearie, you see there is not such a great difference between the one who writes a poem and the one who makes a pie. I think cooking should be considered one of the fine arts--and the woman who prepares a dainty, appetizing dish of food, which appeals to the sense of taste, should be considered as worthy of praise as the artist who paints a fine picture to gratify our sense of sight. I try to mix all the poetry possible in prosaic every-day life. We country farmers' wives, not having the opportunities of our more fortunate city sisters, such as witnessing plays from Shakespeare, listening to symphony concerts, etc., turn to 'The Friendship of Books,' of which Washington Irving writes: 'Cheer us with the true friendship, which never deceived hope nor deserted sorrow.'" "Yes," said Mary, "but remember, Aunt Sarah, Chautauqua will be held next Summer in a near-by town, and, as Uncle John is one of the guarantors, you will wish to attend regularly and will, I know, enjoy hearing the excellent lectures, music and concerts." "Yea," replied her Aunt, "Chautauqua meetings will commence the latter part of June, and I will expect you and Ralph to visit us then. I think Chautauqua a godsend to country women, especially farmers' wives; it takes them away from their monotonous daily toil and gives them new thoughts and ideas." "I can readily understand, Aunt Sarah, why the poem, 'Life's Common Things,' appeals to you; it is because you see beauty in everything. Aunt Sarah, where did you get this very old poem, 'The Deserted City'?" "Why, that was given me by John's Uncle, who thought the poem fine." "Sad is the sight, the city once so fair! An hundred palaces lie buried there; Her lofty towers are fallen, and creepers grow O'er marbled dome and shattered portico. "Once in the gardens, lovely girls at play, Culled the bright flowers, and gently touched the spray; But now wild creatures in their savage joy Tread down the flowers and the plants destroy. "By night no torches in the windows gleam; By day no women in their beauty beam; The smoke has ceased--the spider there has spread His snares in safety--and all else is dead." "Indeed, it is a 'gem,'" said Mary, after slowly reading aloud parts of several stanzas. "Yes," replied her Aunt, "Professor Schmidt tells me the poem was written by Kalidasa (the Shakespeare of Hindu literature), and was written 1800 years before Goldsmith gave us his immortal work, 'The Deserted Village.'" "I like the poem, 'Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel,'" said Mary, "and I think this true by Henry Ward Beecher:" "'Do not be troubled because you have not great virtues, God made a million spears of grass where He made one tree; The earth is fringed and carpeted not with forests but with grasses, Only have enough of little virtues and common fidelities, And you need not mourn because you are neither a hero nor a saint.' "This is a favorite little poem of mine, Aunt Sarah. I'll just write it on this blank page in your book." There's a little splash of sunshine and a little spot of shade, always somewhere near, The wise bask in the sunshine, but the foolish choose the shade. The wise are gay and happy, on the foolish, sorrow's laid, And the fault's their own, I fear. For the little splash of sunshine and the little spot of shade Are here for joint consumption, for comparison are made; We're all meant to be happy, not too foolish or too staid. And the right dose to be taken is some sunshine mixed with shade. "Aunt Sarah, I see there is still space on this page to write another poem, a favorite of mine. It is called, 'Be Strong,' by Maltbie Davenport." Be Strong! We are not here to play, to dream, to drift; We have hard word to do, and loads to lift, Shun not the struggle; face it, 'tis God's gift. Be Strong! Say not the days are evil--who's to blame? And fold the hands and acquiesce--Oh, shame! Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name. Be Strong! It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, How hard the battle goes, the day how long; Faint not, fight on! Tomorrow comes the song, LIFE'S COMMON THINGS. How lovely are life's common things. When health flows in the veins; The golden sunshine of the days When Phoebus holds the reins; The floating clouds against the blue; The fragrance of the air; The nodding flowers by the way; The green grass everywhere; The feathery beauty of the elm, With graceful-swaying boughs. Where nesting songbirds find a home And the night wind sighs and soughs; The hazy blue of distant hill, With wooded slope and crest; The crimson sky when low at night The sun sinks in the West; The thrilling grandeur of the storm, The lightning's vivid flash, The mighty rush of wind and rain, The thunder's awful crash. And then the calm that follows storm, And rainbow in the sky; The rain-washed freshness of the earth-- A singing bird near by. And oh, the beauty of the night! Its hush, its thrill, its charm; The twinkling brilliance of its stars; Its tranquil peace and calm. Oh, loving fatherhood of God To give us every day The lovely common things of life To brighten all the way! (Susan M. Perkins, in the Boston Transcript) ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. Abou Ben Adhem--may his tribe increase-- Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said: "What writest thou?" The vision raised his head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered: "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke low, But cheerily still, and Said, "I pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great, wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. LEIGH HUNT. CHAPTER X. SIBYLLA LINSABIGLER. A very original character was Sibylla Linsabigler, who had been a member of the Landis household several years. She was Aunt Sarah's only maid servant, but she disliked being referred to as a servant, and when she overheard "Fritz" Schmidt, as he passed the Landis farm on his way to the creek for a days fishing, call to Mary: "Miss Midleton, will you please send the butter over with the servant today, as I shall not return home in time for dinner" Sibylla said, "I ain't no servant. I'm hired girl What does that make out if I do work here? Pop got mad with me 'cause I wouldn't work at home no more for him and Mom without they paid me. They got three more girls to home yet that can do the work. My Pop owns a big farm and sent our 'Chon' to the college, and it's mean 'fer' him not to give us girls money for dress, so I work out, 'Taint right the way us people what has to work are treated these days," said Sibylla to herself, as she applied the broom vigorously to the gay-flowered carpet in the Landis parlor. "Because us folks got to work ain't no reason why them tony people over to the Perfessor's should call me a 'servant.' I guess I know I milk the cows, wash dishes, scrub floors, and do the washin' and ir'nin' every week, but I'm no 'servant,' I'm just as good any day as that good-fer-nothin' Perfesser's son," continued Sibylla, growing red in the face with indignation. "Didn't I hear that worthless scamp, Fritz Schmidt, a-referrin' to me and a-sayin' to Miss Midleton fer the 'servant' to bring over the butter? Betch yer life this here 'servant' ain't a-goin' to allow eddicated people to make a fool of her. First chance I get I'll give that Perfesser a piece of my mind." Sibylla's opportunity came rather unexpectedly. The gentle, mild-mannered Professor was on good terms with his sturdy, energetic neighbor, John Landis, and frequently visited him for a neighborly chat. On this particular day he called as usual and found Sibvlla in the mood described. "Good afternoon, Sibylla," said the Professor, good-naturedly. "How are you today?" "I'd be a whole lot better if some people weren't so smart," replied Sibylla, venting her feelings on the broom. "Should think a Perfesser would feel himself too big to talk to a 'servant'." "On the contrary, my dear girl, I feel honored. I presume you are not feeling as well as usual. What makes you think it is condescension for me to address you?" asked the genial old man, kindly. "Well, since you ask me, I don't mind a-tellin' you. Yesterday your son insulted me, I won't take no insult from nobody, I am just as good as what you are, even if I hain't got much book larnin'." With this deliverance, Sibylla felt she had done full justice to the occasion and would have closed the interview abruptly had not the Professor, with a restraining hand, detained her. "We must get to the bottom of this grievance, Sibylla. I am sure there is some mistake somewhere. What did my son say?" "Well, if you want to know," replied the irate domestic, 'I'll tell you. He called me a 'servant.' I know I'm only a working girl, but your son nor nobody else ain't got no right to abuse me by callin' me a 'servant'." "Ah! I see. You object to the term 'servant' being applied to you," said the Professor, comprehendingly. "The word 'servant' is distasteful to you. You feel it is a disgrace to be called a servant. I see! I see!" In a fatherly way, the old man resumed: "In a certain sense we are all servants. The history of human achievements is a record of service. The men and women who have helped the world most were all servants--servants to humanity. The happiest man is he who serves. God calls some men to sow and some to reap; some to work in wood and stone; to sing and speak. Work is honorable in all, regardless of the capacity in which we serve. There is no great difference, after all, between the ordinary laborer and the railroad president; both are servants, and the standard of measurement to be applied to each man is the same. It is not so much a question of station in life as it is the question of efficiency. Best of all, work is education. There is culture that comes without college and university. He who graduates from the college of hard work is as honorable as he who takes a degree at Yale or Harvard; for wisdom can be found in shop and foundry, field and factory, in the kitchen amid pots and kettles, as well as in office and school. The truly educated man is the man who has learned the duty and responsibility of doing something useful, something helpful, something to make this old world of ours better and a happier place in which to live. The word 'servant,' Sibylla, is a beautiful one, rightly understood. The greatest man who ever lived was a servant. All His earthly ministry was filled with worthy deeds. When man pleaded with Him to rest, He answered: 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.' When one of Christ's followers desired to express the true nature of his work and office, he called himself a servant. He used a word, 'doulos,' which means, in the Greek language, a slave or a bond-servant. By the word 'doulos' he meant to say that his mission in life was to work, to do good, to serve. This man was a great preacher, but it is possible for any one to become a 'doulos' in so far as he is willing to serve God and his fellowman. You see, Sibylla, the spirit of Christian work and brotherly love is the spirit of 'doulos.' The word has been transformed by service and unselfish devotion to duty. Great men who have blessed the world, and good and noble women who have helped to uplift humanity, have done it through service. It is just as honorable to bake well, and cook well, and to do the humblest daily tasks efficiently, as it is to play well on the piano and talk fluently about the latest books." At the conclusion of the Professor's little talk on the dignity of labor, a new light shone in Sibylla's eyes and a new thought gripped her soul. The spirit of "doulos" had displaced her antipathy toward the word servant. "I'll take that butter over to the Professer's home right away," she said, to herself. Before leaving Sibylla, the Professor quoted from the "Toiling of Felix," by Henry Vandyke: "Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and cleaving sod, All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of God, March together toward His triumph, do the task His hands prepare; Honest toil is holy service, faithful work is praise and prayer." They who work without complaining, do the holy will of God. Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil. Sibylla Linsabigler was a healthy, large-boned, solidly-built, typical "Pennsylvania German" girl. Her clear, pinkish complexion looked as if freshly scrubbed with soap and water. A few large, brown freckles adorned the bridge of her rather broad, flat nose. She possessed red hair and laughing, red-brown eyes, a large mouth, which disclosed beautiful even, white teeth when she smiled, extraordinary large feet and hands, strong, willing and usually good-natured, although possessed of a quick temper, as her red hair indicated. Kind-hearted to a fault, she was of great assistance to Aunt Sarah, although she preferred any other work to that of cooking or baking. She kept the kitchen as well as other parts of the house, to quote Aunt Sarah, "neat as a pin," and did not object to any work, however hard or laborious, as long as she was not expected to do the thinking and planning. She was greatly attached to both Aunt Sarah and Mary, but stood rather in awe of John Landis, who had never spoken a cross word to her in the three years she had lived at the farm. Sarah Landis, knowing Sibylla to be an honest, industrious girl, appreciated her good qualities, thought almost as much of Sibylla as if she had been her daughter, and treated her in like manner, and for this reason, if for no other, she received willing service from the girl. Sibylla, a swift worker at all times, never finished work so quickly as on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, when she "kept company" with Jake Crouthamel. "Chake," as Sibylla called him, was a sturdy, red-faced young farmer, all legs and arms. He appeared to be put together loosely at the joints, like a jumping-jack, and never appeared at ease in his ill-fitting "store clothes." He usually wore gray corduroy trousers and big cowhide boots, a pink and white striped shirt and red necktie. Sibylla did not notice his imperfections, and thought him handsome as a Greek god. Jake, an honest, industrious young fellow, worked on a near-by farm, owned his own carriage, and had the privilege of using one of the farm horses when he wished, so he and Sibylla frequently took "choy rides," as Sibylla called them. Jake Crouthamel was usually called "Boller-Yockel," this name having been accorded him on account of his having delivered to a purchaser a load of hay largely composed of rag-weed. The man called him an old "Boller-Yockel," and the name had clung to Jake for years. CHAPTER XI. "NEW COLONIAL" RAG RUGS. Several days had elapsed since that on which Mary's Aunt had planned to use the contents of her trunk to such good advantage, when Mary, coming into the room where her Aunt was busily engaged sewing, exclaimed: "Don't forget, Auntie, you promised to teach me to crochet rag rugs!" [Illustration: A "HIT-AND-MISS" RUG] "Indeed, I've not forgotten, and will make my promise good at once," said Aunt Sarah. "We shall need quantities of carpet rags cut about one-half inch in width, the same as those used for making rag carpet. Of course, you are aware, Mary, that heavier materials should be cut in narrower strips than those of thinner materials. You will also require a long, wooden crochet needle, about as thick as an ordinary wooden lead pencil, having a hook at one end, similar to a common bone crochet needle, only larger. For a circular rug, crochet about twelve stitches (single crochet) over one end of a piece of candle wick or cable cord; or, lacking either of these, use a carpet rag of firm material; then draw the crocheted strip into as small a circle as possible, fasten and crochet round and round continuously until finished. The centre of a circular or oblong rug may be a plain color, with border of colored light and dark rags, sewed together promiscuously, called 'Hit and Miss.' [Illustration: A BROWN AND TAN RUG] "Or you might have a design similar to a 'Pin-wheel' in centre of the circular rug, with alternate stripes, composed of dark and light-colored rags." "I'd like one made in that manner from different shades that harmonize, browns and tans, for instance," said Mary. "You may easily have a rug of that description," continued her Aunt. "With a package of brown dye, we can quickly transform some light, woolen carpet rags I possess into pretty shades of browns and tans." [Illustration: RUG] "For a circular rug, with design in centre resembling a pin-wheel, commence crocheting the rug same as preceding one. Crochet three rows of one color, then mark the rug off into four parts, placing a pin to mark each section or quarter of the rug. At each of four points crochet one stitch of a contrasting shade. Crochet once around the circle, using a shade similar to that of the centre of rug for design, filling in between with the other shade. For the following row, crochet two stitches beneath the one stitch (not directly underneath the stitch, but one stitch beyond), filling in between with the other color. The third row, add three stitches beneath the two stitches in same manner as preceding row, and continue, until design in centre is as large as desired, then crochet 'Hit or Miss' or stripes. Do not cut off the carpet rags at each of the four points after crocheting stitches, but allow each one to remain and crochet over them, then pick up on needle and crochet every time you require stitches of contrasting shade. Then crochet several rows around the rug with different shades until rug is the required size. The under side should be finished off as neatly as the right, or upper side. Mary, when not making a design, sew the rags together as if for weaving carpet. When crocheting circular rugs, occasionally stretch the outside row to prevent the rug from curling up at edges when finished, as it would be apt to do if too tightly crocheted. If necessary, occasionally add an extra stitch. Avoid also crocheting it too loosely, as it would then appear like a ruffle. The advantage of crocheting over a heavy cord is that the work may be easily drawn up more tightly if too lose." CHAPTER XII. MARY IMITATES NAVAJO BLANKETS. On her return from an afternoon spent at Professor Schmidt's, Mary remarked to Aunt Sarah, "For the first time in my life I have an original idea!" "Do tell me child, what it is!" "The 'New Colonial' rag rugs we have lately finished are fine, but I'd just love to have a Navajo blanket like those owned by Professor Schmidt; and I intend to make a rag rug in imitation of his Navajo blanket." "Yes," answered her Aunt, "I have always greatly admired them myself, especially the large gray one which covers the Professor's own chair in the library. The Professor brought them with him when he returned from 'Cutler's Ranch' at Rociada, near Las Vegas, New Mexico, where he visited his nephew, poor Raymond, or rather, I should say, fortunate Raymond, an only child of the Professor's sister. A quiet, studious boy, he graduated at the head of his class at an early age, but he inherited the weak lungs of his father, who died of consumption. Raymond was a lovable boy, with a fund of dry humor and wit--the idol of his mother, who, taking the advice of a specialist, accompanied her boy, as a last resort, to New Mexico, where, partly owing to his determination to get well, proper food and daily rides on the mesa, on the back of his little pinto pony, he regained perfect health, and today is well, happily married and living in Pasadena, California, so I have been told by Frau Schmidt, who dearly loves the boy." "But Mary, forgive an old woman for rambling away from the subject in which you are interested--Navajo blankets. Ever since we planned to make a rug with a swastika in the centre, I nave been trying to evolve from my brain (and your Uncle John says my bump of inventiveness is abnormally large) a Navajo rag rug for the floor of the room you intend to furnish as Ralph's den, in the home you are planning. Well, my dear, a wooden crochet hook in your deft fingers will be the magic wand which will perform a miracle and transform into Navajo blankets such very commonplace articles as your discarded gray eiderdown kimona, and a pair of your Uncle's old gray trousers, which have already been washed and ripped by Sibylla, to be used for making carpet rags. These, combined with the gray skirt I heard you say had outlived its day of usefulness, will furnish the background of the rug. The six triangles in the centre of the rug, also lighter stripes at each end of the rug, we will make of that old linen chair-cover and your faded linen skirt, which you said I might use for carpet rags; and, should more material be needed, I have some old, gray woolen underwear in my patch bag, a gray-white, similar to the real Navajo. The rows of black with which we shall outline the triangles may be made from those old, black, silk-lisle hose you gave me, by cutting them round and round in one continuous strip. Heavy cloth should be cut in _very_ narrow strips. Sibylla will do that nicely; her hands are more used to handling large, heavy shears than are yours. The linen-lawn skirt you may cut in strips about three-fourths of an inch in width, as that material is quite thin. I would sew rags of one color together like carpet rags, not lapping the ends more than necessary to hold them together. The rug will be reversible, both sides being exactly alike when finished. I should make the rug about fifty-three stitches across. This will require about six and one-fourth yards of carpet rags, when sewed together, to crochet once across. I think it would be wise to cut all rags of different weight materials before commencing to crochet the rug, so they may be well mixed through. I will assist you with the work at odd moments, and in a short time the rug will be finished." The rug, when finished, was truly a work of art, and represented many hours of labor and thought. But Mary considered it very fascinating work, and was delighted with the result of her labor--a rug the exact imitation of one of the Professor's genuine Indian Navajo blankets, the work of her own hands, and without the expenditure of a penny. Mary remarked: "I do not think all the triangles in my rug are the exact size of the paper pattern you made me, Aunt Sarah. The two in the centre appear larger than the others." "Well," remarked her Aunt, "if you examine closely the blankets owned by Professor Schmidt, you will find the on the ones woven by Navajo Indians are not of an equal size." 'Tis said Navajo blankets and Serapes will become scarce and higher in price in the future, on account of the numerous young Indians who have been educated and who prefer other occupations to that of weaving blankets, as did their forefathers; and the present disturbance in Mexico will certainly interfere with the continuance of this industry for a time. [Illustration: IMITATION OF NAVAJO BLANKET] [Illustration: RUG WITH DESIGN] "Mary, while you have been planning your Navajo rug, I have been thinking how we may make a very attractive as well as useful rug. You remember, we could not decide what use to make of your old, tan cravenette stormcoat? I have been thinking we might use this, when cut into carpet rags, for the principal part of the rug, and that old, garnet merino blouse waist might be cut and used for the four corners of a rug, and we might have gay stripes in the centre of the rug to form a sort of design, and also put gay stripes at each end of the rug. "And you might crochet a rug, plain 'Hit or Miss,' of rather bright-colored rags." "Yes," said Mary, "I think I will crochet a swastika in the centre of a rug, as you suggest, of bright orange, outlined with black, and a stripe of orange edged with black at each end of the rug to match the centre. Don't you think that would be pretty, Aunt Sarah?" [Illustration: "HIT-OR-MISS" RUG WITH SWASTIKA CENTRE] "Yes indeed, but Mary, don't you think the swastika would show more distinctly on a rug with a plain background?" "Perhaps it would," replied Mary, "but I think I'll crochet one of very gayly-colored rags, with a swastika in the centre." [Illustration: A "PRAYER RUG" OF SILK SCRAPS.] "Aunt Sarah," said Mary, "do tell me how that pretty little rug composed of silk scraps is made." "Oh, that _silk_ rug; 'twas given me by Aunt Cornelia, who finished it while here on a visit from New York. I never saw another like it, and it has been greatly admired. Although possessed of an ordinary amount of patience, I don't think I'll ever make one for myself. I don't admire knitted rugs of any description, neither do I care for braided rugs. I think the crocheted ones prettier. But, Mary, this small silk rug is easily made should you care to have one. I will commence knitting one for you at once. You will then find a use for the box of bright-colored silks you possess, many of which are quite too small to be used in any other manner. Professor Schmidt calls this a 'Prayer Rug.' He said: 'This rug, fashioned of various bright-hued silks of orange, purple and crimson, a bright maze of rich colors, without any recognizable figure or design, reminds me of the description of the 'Prayer Carpet' or rugs of the Mohammedans. They are composed of rich-hued silks of purple, ruby and amber. 'Tis said their delicacy of shade is marvelous and was suggested by the meadows of variegated flowers.' But this is a digression; you wished directions for making the rug. "Use tiny scraps of various bright-hued silks, velvets and satins, cut about 3-1/2 inches long and about one-half inch in width. Ends should always be cut slanting or bias; never straight. All you will require besides the silk scraps, will be a ball of common cord or twine, or save all cord which comes tied around packages, as I do, and use that and two ordinary steel knitting needles. When making her rug, Aunt Cornelia knitted several strips a couple of inches in width and the length she wished the finished rug to be. The strips when finished she sewed together with strong linen thread on the wrong side of the rug. She commenced the rug by knitting two rows of the twine or cord. (When I was a girl we called this common knitting 'garter stitch.') Then, when commencing to knit third row, slip off first stitch onto your other needle; knit one stitch, then lay one of the tiny scraps of silk across or between the two needles; knit one stitch with the cord. This holds the silk in position. Then fold or turn one end of silk back on the other piece of silk and knit one stitch of cord to hold them in place, always keeping silk on one side, on the top of rug, as this rug is not reversible. Continue in this manner until one row is finished. Then knit once across plain with cord, and for next row lay silk scraps in and knit as before. Always knit one row of the cord across plain after knitting in scraps of silk, as doing this holds them firmly in position. Of course, Mary, you will use judgment and taste in combining light and dark, bright and dull colors. Also, do not use several scraps of velvet together. Use velvet, silk and satin alternately. Should any scraps of silk be longer than others after knitting, trim off evenly so all will be of uniform size. When her rug was finished, Aunt Cornelia spread it, wrong side uppermost, on an unused table, covered it with a thick boiled paste, composed of flour and water, allowed it to dry thoroughly, then lined the rug with a heavy piece of denim. This was done to prevent the rug from curling up at edges, and caused it to lie flat on floor; but I think I should prefer just a firm lining or foundation of heavy burlap or denim." "Thank you, Aunt Sarah, for your explicit directions. I cannot fail to know just how to knit a silk rug, should I ever care to do so. I think the work would be simply fascinating." CHAPTER XIII. THE GIRLS' CAMPFIRE, ORGANIZED BY MARY. One day in early June, when all nature seemed aglow with happiness, we find Mary earnestly discussing with Elizabeth Schmidt the prosaic, humdrum life of many of the country girls, daughters of well-to-do farmers in the vicinity. "I wish," said Mary, wrinkling her forehead thoughtfully, "I could think of some new interest to introduce into their lives; some way of broadening their outlook; anything to bring more happiness into their commonplace daily toil; something good and helpful for them to think about." All at once Mary, who was not usually demonstrative, clapped her hands, laughed gleefully and said: "I have it, Elizabeth. The very thing! Suppose we start a 'girls' campfire,' right here in the country? I don't think we shall have any trouble to organize." "And you, because you understand all about it, will be the Guardian," said Elizabeth. At first Mary demurred, but, overcome by Elizabeth's pleading, finally gave a reluctant consent. They then made out a list of the girls they thought might be willing to join, Mary promising to write at once for a handbook. They separated, Elizabeth to call to see the girls, and Mary to interview their parents. Their efforts were rewarded with surprisingly gratifying results, for many of the girls had read about the "Campfire Girls" and were anxious to become members. * * * * * One afternoon, several weeks later, had you gone into the old apple orchard, at the farm, you would have seen thirteen eager young girls, ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen, listening intently to Mary, who was telling them about the "Campfire Girls." What she told them was something like this: "Now girls, we are going to have a good time. Some of our good times will be play and some work. When you join, you will become a 'Wood Gatherer,' and after three months' successful work, if you have met certain qualifications, you will be promoted to the rank of 'Fire Maker.' Later on, when you come to realize what it means to be a 'Torch Bearer,' you will be put in that rank. The first law which you learn to follow is one which you must apply to your daily life. It is: Seek beauty, give service, pursue knowledge, be trustworthy, hold on to health, glorify work, be happy. 'The Camp Fire' has meant so much to girls I have known, for their betterment, and has been so helpful in many ways, you surely will never regret becoming a member of the organization, or be anything but happy if you keep their laws. There will be no dues, except what is collected for good times, and no expense except the cost of your ceremonial costume, epaulettes and honor beads. The latter are quite inexpensive. The honors are divided into several classes, and for each honor a bead is given as a symbol of your work. A special colored bead is given for each class. We shall meet about once every week. The monthly meeting is called the 'Council Fire.' I will tell you later about the 'Wohelo' ceremony. By the way, girls, 'Wohelo' stands for work, health and love. You see, the word is composed of the first two letters of each word." The girls appeared to be greatly interested, and Mary felt very much encouraged. Some of the girls left to talk it over with the homefolks, while others, wishing to learn more of the organisation, plied Mary with numerous questions. Finally, in desperation, she said: "Girls, I will read you the following from the 'Camp Fire Girls' Handbook, which I received this morning:" 'The purpose of this organization is to show that the common things of daily life are the chief means of beauty, romance and adventure; to aid in the forming of habits making for health and vigor, the out-of-door habit and the out-of-door spirit; to devise ways of measuring and creating standards to woman's work, and to give girls the opportunity to learn how to "keep step," to learn team work, through doing it; to help girls and women serve the community, the larger home, in the same way they have always served the individual home; to give status and social recognition to the knowledge of the mother, and thus restore the intimate relationship of mothers and daughters to each other.' "Well, girls," said Mary, as she laid aside the book, "I think you all understand what a benefit this will be to you, and I will do all in my power to help you girls, while I am at the farm this summer. It is too late to tell you any more today. The information I have given you will suffice for the present. Three cheers for our Camp Fire! which will be under way in two months, I trust." * * * * * The members of "Shawnee" Camp Fire held their first Council Fire, or Ceremonial Meeting, the second week in July. The girls, all deeply interested, worked hard to secure honors which were awarded for engaging in domestic duties well known to the home, for studying and observing the rules of hygiene and sanitation, and for learning and achievements in various ways. They held weekly meetings and studied diligently to win the rank of Fire Maker. A girl, when she joins, becomes a Wood Gatherer; she then receives a silver ring. The weeks pass swiftly by, and it is time for another Camp Fire. The girls selected as their meeting place for this occasion farmer Druckenmuller's peach orchard, to which they walked, a distance of about three miles from the home of Elizabeth Schmidt. They left about two o'clock in the afternoon, intending to return home before nightfall, a good time being anticipated, as they took with them lunch and materials for a corn-roast. The peach orchard in question, covering many acres, was situated at the foot of a low hill. Between the two flowed an enchanting, fairy-like stream, the cultivated peach orchard on one side, and on the opposite side the forest-like hill, covered with an abundance of wild flowers. When the afternoon set for the Council Fire arrived, had you happened to meet the fifteen merry, chattering girls, accompanied by two older girls, Mary and Lucy Robbins (the country school teacher), as chaperones, wending their way to the orchard, you, without a doubt, would have smiled and a question might naturally have arisen regarding their sanity. They certainly possessed intelligent faces, but why those queer-shaped Indian dresses? And such an awkward length for a young girl's dress! And why was their hair all worn hanging in one braid over each shoulder, with a band over the forehead? Why so many strings of gaudy beads around their necks? These questions may all be answered in one single sentence: The girls are dressed in Ceremonial Costume. [Illustration: ELIZABETH SCHMIDT "LAUGHING WATER"] A great many delays along the way were caused by girls asking the names of the different wild flowers and weeds they noticed in passing. One of the girls stopped to examine a prickly-looking plant about two feet high, with little, blue flowers growing along the stem, and asked if any one knew the name of it. They were about to look it up in a small "Flower Guide" owned by one of the girls, when some one said: "Why, that is a weed called 'Vipers Bougloss,'" They also found cardinal flower, thorn apple, monkey flower and jewel-weed in abundance, wild sunflower, ginseng, early golden rod, "Joe-pie-weed," marshallow, black cohosh and purple loose-trifle. The girls also noticed various birds. On a tall tree one of the girls espied a rose-breasted Grosbeak, rare in this part of Bucks County. They all stopped and watched for a short time a white-bellied Nut-hatch. The girls were startled as a Scarlet Tanger flew past to join his mate, and they at last reached their rendezvous, the orchard. By half-past three they were all seated in a circle waiting for the ceremonies to begin. Mary Midleton, their Guardian, stepped to the front, saying: "Sunflower, light the fire." Sunflower, through several months of daily attainment, had become a Fire-maker and was very proud of the Fire-maker's bracelet she was entitled to wear. Sunflower was given that name because she always looked on the bright side of everything; she looked like a sunflower, too, with her tanned face and light, curly hair. All the girls had symbolical names given them. "Lark" was so named because of her sweet voice and because she loved to sing; "Sweet Tooth," on account of her love for candy; "Quick Silver," because she was quick, bright and witty; "Great Buffalo," a girl who was very strong; Elizabeth Schmidt, "Laughing Water," so named because she laughed and giggled at everybody and everything; "Babbling Brook," because it seemed an utter impossibility for her to stop talking; "Burr," because she sticks to ideas and friends; "Faith," quiet and reserved; "Comet," comes suddenly and brings a lot of light; "Black Hawk," always eager at first, but inclined to let her eagerness wear off: "Pocahontas," because she never can hurry; "Ginger Foot," a fiery temper, "Gypsy," so named on account of her black hair; "Bright Eyes," for her bright, blue eyes; "Rainbow," for her many ways, and because she is pretty. As "Sunflower" took the matches and knelt by the pile of wood and lighted the fire, she recited the Ode to the Fire: "Oh, Fire! Long years ago, when our fathers fought with great beasts, you were their protector. From the cruel cold of winter you saved. When they needed food, you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. Through all ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol of the Great Spirit to them. Tonight we light this fire in remembrance of the Great Spirit Who gave you to us." Then the girls sang the chant or chanted: Wohelo for aye, Wohelo for aye, Wohelo for aye, Wohelo for work, Wohelo for health, Wohelo, Wohelo for love. Then they recited the Wood-gatherer's Desire: "It is my desire to be a Campfire Girl and keep the law of the Camp Fire, which is 'To Seek Beauty, Give Service, Pursue Knowledge, Be Trustworthy, Hold onto Health, Glorify Work, Be Happy,'" None had yet attained the highest rank, that of Torch Bearer, won by still greater achievement, the Camp having been organized so recently. Their motto was "The light which has been given to me, I desire to pass undimmed to others." "Gypsy," the secretary, then read the "Count" for the last meeting and called the roll, and the girls handed in the list of honors they had won in the last month. Some amused themselves playing games, while others gathered more wood. At five o'clock the corn and white and sweet potatoes were in the fire roasting. A jolly circle of girls around the fire were busily engaged toasting "Weiners" for the feast, which was finally pronounced ready to be partaken of. The hungry girls "fell to" and everything eatable disappeared as if by magic; and last, but not least, was the toasting of marshmallows, speared on the points of long, two-pronged sticks (broken from near-by trees), which were held over the fire until the marshmallows turned a delicate color. When everything had been eaten, with the exception of several cardboard boxes, corn cobs and husks, the girls quickly cleared up. Then, seated around the fire, told what they knew of Indian legends and folklore. Noticing the sun slowly sinking in the West, they quickly gathered together their belongings and started homeward singing, "My Country, 'tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty." Thus broke up the second Council Fire, and in the heart of each girl was the thought of how much the Campfire was helping them to love God and His works. CHAPTER XIV. MARY MAKES "VIOLET" AND "ROSE LEAF" BEADS. "Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Mary one day, "you promised to tell me exactly how you made those 'Rose Beads' you have." "Yes, my dear, and you must make the beads before the June roses are gone. The process is very simple. If you would have them very sweet, get the petals of the most fragrant roses. I used petals of the old-fashioned, pink 'hundred leaf' and 'blush roses.' Gather a quantity, for you will need them all. Grind them to a pulp in the food chopper, repeat several times and place the pulp and juice into an _iron_ kettle or pan. This turns the pulp black, which nothing but an iron kettle will do; cook, and when the consistency of dough it is ready to mold into beads. Take a bit of the dough, again as large as the size you wish your beads to be when finished, as they shrink in size when dried, and make them of uniform size, or larger ones for the centre of the necklace, as you prefer. Roll in the palms of your hands, until perfectly round, stick a pin through each bead, then stick the pins into a bake board. Be careful the bead does not touch the board, as that would spoil its shape. Allow the beads to remain until perfectly dry. If they are to have a dull finish, leave as they are. If you wish to polish them, take a tiny piece of vaseline on the palm of the hand and rub them between the palms until the vaseline is absorbed. Then string them on a linen thread. Keep in a closed box to preserve their fragrance. Those I showed you, Mary, I made many years ago, and the scent of the roses clings 'round them still.'" "Did you know, Mary, that beads may be made from the petals of the common wild blue violet in exactly the same manner as they are made from rose leaves?" "No, indeed, but I don't think the making of beads from the petals of roses and violets as wonderful as the beads which you raise in the garden. Those shiny, pearl-like seeds or beads of silvery-gray, called 'Job's Tears,' which grow on a stalk resembling growing corn; and to think Professor Schmidt raised those which Elizabeth strung on linen thread, alternately with beads, for a portiere in their sitting-room." "Yes, my dear, the beads must be pierced before they become hard; later they should be polished. Did you ever see them grow, Mary? The beads or 'tears' grow on a stalk about fifteen inches high and from the bead or 'tear' grows a tiny, green spear resembling oats. They are odd and with very little care may he grown in a small garden." "They certainly are a curiosity," said Mary. CHAPTER XV. MARY AND ELIZABETH VISIT SADIE SINGMASTER. Farmer Landis, happening to mention at the breakfast table his intention of driving over to the "Ax Handle Factory" to obtain wood ashes to use as a fertilizer, his wife remarked, "Why not take Mary with you, John? She can stop at Singmaster's with a basket of carpet rags for Sadie. I've been wanting to send them over for some time." Turning to Mary, she said: "Poor little, crippled Sadie! On account of a fall, which injured her spine, when a small child, she has been unable to walk for years. She cuts and sews carpet rags, given her by friends and neighbors, and from their sale to a carpet weaver in a near-by town, helps her widowed mother eke out her small income." "I'd love to go see her," said Mary. Elizabeth Schmidt also expressed her willingness to go, when asked, saying: "I am positive mother will add her contribution to the carpet rags for Sadie, I do pity her so very much." "Yes," said Mary's Aunt, "she is poor and proud. She will not accept charity, so we persuade her to take carpet rags, as we have more than we can possibly use." On reaching the Singmaster cottage, the girls alighted with their well-filled baskets, Mary's Uncle driving on to the "Ax Handle Factory," promising to call for the girls on his return. The sad, brown eyes of Sadie, too large for her pinched, sallow face, shone with pleasure at sight of the two young girls so near her own age, and she smiled her delight on examining the numerous bright-colored patches brought by them. Thinking the pleasure she so plainly showed might appear childish to the two girls, she explained: "I do get so dreadfully tired sewing together so many dull homely rags. I shall enjoy making balls of these pretty, bright colors." "Sadie," Mary inquired, "will you think me inquisitive should I ask what the carpet weaver pays you for the rags when you have sewed and wound them into balls?" "Certainly not," replied Sadie. "Four cents a pound is what he pays me. It takes two of these balls to make a pound," and she held up a ball she had just finished winding. "Is _that all_ you get?" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Have you ever made rag rugs?" inquired Mary. "No, I have never even seen one. Are they anything like braided mats?" "Yes, they are somewhat similar to them, but I crochet mine and think them prettier. I have made several, with Aunt Sarah's assistance. I'll come over and teach you to make them one of these days, should you care to learn, and I'm positive you will find ready sale for them. In fact, I've several friends in the city who have admired the ones I have, and would like to buy rugs for the Colonial rooms they are furnishing. Sadie, can you crochet?" "Oh, yes. I can do the plain stitch very well." "That is all that will be necessary. You will become very much interested in inventing new designs, it is very fascinating work, and it will be more remunerative than sewing carpet rags. Aunt Sarah will send you more carpet rags if you require them, and should you wish dull colors of blue or pink, a small package of dye will transform white or light-colored rags into any desired shade, to match the furnishings of different rooms. I think the crocheted rugs much prettier than the braided ones, which are so popular in the 'Nutting' pictures, and the same pretty shades may be used when rugs are crocheted." When Farmer Landis came for the girls, he found them too busily engaged talking to hear his knock at the door. During the drive home Mary could think and talk of nothing but Sadie Singmaster, and the rugs she had promised to teach her to make at an early day. Elizabeth, scarcely less enthusiastic, said: "I've a lot of old things I'll give her to cut up for carpet rags." Reaching home, Mary could scarcely wait an opportunity to tell Aunt Sarah all her plans for Sadie's betterment. When she finally did tell her Aunt, she smiled and said: "Mary, I'm not surprised. You are always planning to do a kind act for some one. You remind me of the lines, 'If I Can Live,' by Helen Hunt Jackson." And she repeated the following for Mary: IF I CAN LIVE. If I can live To make some pale face brighter and to give A second luster to some tear-dimmed eye, Or e'en impart One throb of comfort to an aching heart, Or cheer some wayworn soul in passing by; If I can lend A strong hand to the fallen, or defend The right against a single envious strain, My life, though bare, Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fair To us of earth, will not have been in vain. The purest joy, Most near to heaven, far from earth's alloy, Is bidding cloud give way to sun and shine; And 'twill be well If on that day of days the angels tell Of me, she did her best for one of Thine. CHAPTER XVI. OLD PARLOR MADE BEAUTIFUL (MODERNIZED). When John Landis came into possession of "Clear Spring" Farm, where his mother had lived during her lifetime, she having inherited it from her father, the rooms of the old farm house were filled with quaint, old-fashioned furniture of every description. "Aunt Sarah," on coming to the farm to live, had given a personal touch and cheery, homelike look to every room in the house, with one exception, the large, gloomy, old-fashioned parlor, which was cold, cheerless and damp. She confessed to Mary she always felt as if John's dead-and-gone ancestors' ghostly presences inhabited the silent room. The windows were seldom opened to allow a ray of sunlight to penetrate the dusk with which the room was always enveloped, except when the regular weekly sweeping day arrived; when, after being carefully swept and dusted, it was promptly closed. A room every one avoided, Aunt Sarah was very particular about always having fresh air and sunlight in every other part of the house but his one room. The old fireplace had been boarded up many years before Aunt Sarah's advent to the farm, so it could not be used. One day Mary noticed, while dusting the room (after it had been given a thorough sweeping by Sibylla, Aunt Sarah's one maid servant), that the small, many-paned windows facing the East, at one end of the parlor, when opened, let in a flood of sunshine; and in the evening those at the opposite end of the long room gave one a lovely view of the setting sun--a finer picture than any painted by the hand of a master. Mary easily persuaded her Aunt to make some changes in the unlivable room. She suggested that they consult her Uncle about repapering and painting the room and surprise him with the result when finished. Aunt Sarah, who never did things by halves, said: "Mary, I have long intended 'doing over' this room, but thought it such a great undertaking. Now, with your assistance, I shall make a sweep of these old, antiquated heirlooms of a past generation. This green carpet, with its gorgeous bouquets of roses, we shall have combined with one of brown and tan in the attic. Your Uncle shall take them with him when he drives to town and have them woven into pretty, serviceable rugs for the floor." "And, oh! Aunt Sarah," cried Mary, "do let's have an open fireplace. It makes a room so cheery and 'comfy' when the weather gets colder, on long winter evenings, to have a fire in the grate. I saw some lovely, old brass andirons and fender in the attic, and some brass candlesticks there also, which will do nicely for the mantel shelf over the fireplace. I'll shine 'em up, and instead of this hideously-ugly old wall paper with gay-colored scrawley figures, Aunt Sarah, suppose we get an inexpensive, plain, tan felt paper for drop ceiling and separate it from the paper on the side wall, which should be a warm, yellow-brown, with a narrow chestnut wood molding. Then this dull, dark, gray-blue painted woodwork; could any one imagine anything more hideously ugly? It gives me the 'blues' simply to look at it. Could we not have it painted to imitate chestnut wood? And don't you think we might paint the floor around the edges of the rug to imitate the woodwork? Just think of those centre panels of the door painted a contrasting shade of pale pink. The painter who did this work certainly was an artist. A friend of mine in the city, wishing to use rugs instead of carpets on her floors, and not caring to go to the expense of laying hardwood floors, gave the old floors a couple of coats of light lemon, or straw-colored paint, then stained and grained them a perfect imitation of chestnut, at small expense. The floors were greatly admired when finished, and having been allowed to dry thoroughly after being varnished, proved quite durable. I will write to my friend at once and ask her exactly how her floors were treated." "Now, Mary, about this old-style furniture. The old grandfather clock standing in the corner, at the upper end of the room, I should like to have remain. It is one hundred and fifty years old and belonged to my folks, and, although old-fashioned, is highly valued by me." "Of course," said Mary, "we'll certainly leave that in the room." "Also," said Aunt Sarah, "allow the old cottage organ and large, old-fashioned bookcase belonging to your Uncle to remain. He has frequently spoken of moving his bookcase into the next room, when he was obliged to come in here for books, of which he has quite a valuable collection." [Illustration: A-24 Seed Wreath A-25 Wax Fruit A-26 Old Parlor Mantel A-27 Old Clock A-28 Boquet of Hair Flowers ] "Oh," said Mary, "no need of that. We will move Uncle John in here, near the bookcase, when we get our room fixed up. Aunt Sarah, we will leave that old-fashioned table, also, with one leaf up against the wall, and this quaint, little, rush-bottomed rocker, which I just dote on." "Why, dear," exclaimed Aunt Sarah, "there are several chairs to match it in the attic, which you may have when you start housekeeping for your very own. And," laughingly, said her Aunt, "there is another old, oval, marble-topped table in the attic, containing a large glass case covering a basket of wax fruit, which you may have." "No, Aunt Sarah," said Mary, "I don't believe I want the fruit, but I will accept your offer of the table. Well, Aunt Sarah, I know you won't have this old, black what-not standing in the corner of the room. I do believe it is made of spools, strung on wire, as supports for the shelves; then all painted black, imitation of ebony, I suppose. It must have been made in the Black Age, at the same time the old corner cupboard was painted, as Uncle John told me he scraped off three different layers of paint before doing it over, and one was black. It was originally made of cherry. It certainly looks fine now, with those new brass hinges and pretty, old-fashioned glass knobs." "Yes, Mary," replied her Aunt, "and there is an old corner cupboard in the attic which belonged to my father, that you may have, and, with a very little labor and expense, Ralph can make it look as well as mine. It has only one door and mine possesses two." "Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Mary, "you are a dear! How will I ever repay you for all your kindness to me?" "By passing it on to some one else when you find some one needing help," said Aunt Sarah. "Such a collection of odd things, Aunt Sarah, as are on this what-not I never saw. Old ambrotypes and daguerreotypes of gone and forgotten members of the 'freinshoft,' as you sometimes say. I don't believe you know any of them." "Yes, the red plush frame on the mantel shelf contains a picture of John's Uncle, a fine-looking man, but he possessed 'Wanderlust' and has lived in California for many years. "Oh, you mean the picture on the mantel standing near those twin gilded china vases, gay with red and blue paint?" "Yes; and that small china and gilt stand with little bowl and pitcher was given me when a small child." "Suppose I bring a basket and we will fill it with articles from the mantel and what-not," said Mary, "and carry them all to the attic, until you have a rummage sale some day. We'll burn these 'everlasting' and 'straw' flowers, and pampas grass, and this large apple stuck full of cloves. Here is a small china dog and a little china basket with a plaited china handle decorated with gilt, and tiny, pink-tinted china roses. And these large, glass marbles containing little silver eagles inside; also this small, spun-glass ship and blue-and-pink-striped glass pipe. Aunt Sarah, some of your ancestors must have attended a glass blowers' exhibition in years past." "This branch of white coral, these large snail shells (when a child I remember holding them to my ear to hear a noise resembling the roar of the ocean), and this small basket, fashioned of twigs and tendrils of grape vine, then dipped in red sealing wax, certainly is a good imitation of coral, and this plate, containing a miniature ship composed of green postage stamps, we will place in your corner cupboard." "And, Aunt Sarah, I suppose this deep, glass-covered picture frame containing a bouquet of hair flowers, most wonderfully and fearfully made, was considered a work of art in days past and gone, as was also the crescent in a frame on the opposite side of the room, composed of flowers made of various seeds of grain and garden vegetables. Those daisies, made of cucumber seeds with grains of red corn for centres, and those made of tiny grains of popcorn with a watermelon seed in centre, are cute. The latter look like breastpins with a circle of pearls around the edge. And this glass case on the table, containing a white cross, covered with wax tube roses, ivy leaves and fuchsias drooping from the arms of the cross, sparkling with diamond dust! The band of green chenille around its base matches the mat underneath, composed of green zephyr of different shades, knitted, then raveled to imitate moss, I suppose; and, no doubt, this marble-topped table has stood here for fifty years, in this same spot, for the express purpose of holding this beautiful (?) work of art." "The hair flowers and the seed wreath were made by John's sister," replied Aunt Sarah. "Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Mary, "I've an original idea. This oval, marble-topped table has such strong, solid legs of black walnut, suppose we remove the marble slab and have a large, circular top made of wood at the planing mill? Wait; I'll get my tape measure. About thirty-two inches in diameter will do. The new top we shall stain to match the walnut frame, and it could be easily fastened to the table with a couple of screws; and, after the marble top has been well scoured, we'll use it in the kitchen as a bake board on which to roll out pie crust." Her Aunt as usual acquiesced to all Mary's suggestions. "You're a dear, Aunt Sarah!" exclaimed Mary, as she gave her a hug, "and I'll embroider big, yellow daisies with brown centres of French knots on gray linen for a new table cover. Won't they look just sweet?" "Yes, Mary, and I'll buy a large, new lamp with a pretty shade, as I feel sure your Uncle will like to sit here evenings to read his papers and farm journals." "And don't forget the Shriners' little magazine, _The Crescent_, which amuses him so greatly. Aunt Sarah, I do wish those stiff, starchy-looking, blue-white Nottingham lace curtains at the windows had grown yellow with age. They would be ever so much prettier and softer looking, and they are such a pretty, neat design, too." "Oh!" replied her Aunt, "that may be easily remedied. I'll just dip them into a little weak liquid coffee and that will give them a creamy tint, and take out the stiffness." "Now," said Mary, "what shall we do with these stiff, ugly, haircloth-covered chairs and sofa?" "Why," replied Aunt Sarah, "we shall buy cretonne or art cloth, in pretty shades of brown and tan or green, to harmonize with the wall paper, and make slip covers for them all. We could never think of dispensing with the sofa. It is a very important article of furniture in German households. The hostess usually gives the person of greatest distinction among her guests the place of honor beside her on the sofa." "These chairs have such strong, well-made, mahogany frames it would be a pity not to use them. Now," continued Mary, "about the pictures on the wall. Can't we consign them all to the attic? We might use some of the frames. I'll contribute unframed copies of 'The Angelus' and 'The Gleaners,' by Millet; and I think they would fit into these plain mahogany frames which contain the very old-fashioned set of pictures named respectively 'The Lovers,' 'The Declaration,' 'The Lovers' Quarrel' and 'The Marriage.' They constitute a regular art gallery. I'll use a couple of the frames for some small Colonial and apple blossom pictures I have, that I just love, by Wallace Nutting. Mine are all unframed; 'Maiden Reveries,' 'A Canopied Roof' and a 'Ton of Bloom,' I think are sweet. Those branches of apple trees, covered with a mass of natural-looking pink blossoms, are exquisite." "Yes," remarked Aunt Sarah, "they look exactly like our old Baldwin, Winesap and Cider apple trees in the old, south meadow in the Spring. And, Mary, we'll discard those two chromos, popular a half century ago, of two beautiful cherubs called respectively, 'Wide Awake' and 'Fast Asleep,' given as premiums to a popular magazine. I don't remember if the magazine was 'Godey's,' 'Peterson's' or 'Home Queen'; they have good, plain, mahogany frames which we can use." "And, Aunt Sarah," said Mary, "we can cut out the partition in this large, black-walnut frame, containing lithograph pictures of General George Washington, 'the Father of his Country' (we are informed in small letters at the bottom of the picture), and of General Andrew Jackson, 'the hero of New Orleans.' Both men are pictured on horseback, on gayly-caparisoned, prancing white steeds, with scarlet saddle cloth, edged with gold bullion fringe. The Generals are pictured clad in blue velvet coats with white facings of cloth or satin vest and tight-fitting knee breeches, also white and long boots reaching to the knee. Gold epaulettes are on their shoulders, and both are in the act of lifting their old-fashioned Continental hats, the advancing army showing faintly in the background. How gorgeously they are arrayed! We will use this frame for the excellent, large copy you have of 'The Doctor' and the pictured faces of the German composers--Beethoven, Wagner, Mendelssohn, Haydn, Schubert and Mozart, which I have on a card with a shaded brown background, will exactly fit into this plain frame of narrow molding, from which I have just removed the old cardboard motto, 'No place like home,' done with green-shaded zephyr in cross-stitch." [Illustration: A-29 An Old Sampler A-30 Old Woven Basket A-31 Wax Cross A-32 Old Spinning Wheel] "Now, Mary, with the couple of comfortable rockers which I intend purchasing, I think we have about finished planning our room." "If you are willing, Aunt Sarah, I should like to make some pretty green and brown cretonne slips to cover those square sofa pillows in place of the ones made of small pieces of puffed silk and the one of colored pieces of cashmere in log cabin design, I do admire big, fat, plain, comfortable pillows, for use instead of show. And we must have a waste paper basket near the table beside Uncle John's chair. I shall contribute green satin ribbon for an immense bow on the side of the basket. Oh! Aunt Sarah! You've forgotten all about this odd, woven basket, beside the what-not, filled with sea shells. I don't care for the shells, but the basket would make a lovely sewing basket." "You may have the basket, Mary, if you like it. It came from Panama, or perhaps it was bought at Aspinwall by John's Uncle, many years ago, when he came home on a visit from California, by way of the Isthmus, to visit old friends and relatives. John's Mother always kept it standing on the floor in one corner of the room beside the what-not." "Aunt Sarah, why was straw ever put under this carpet?" "The straw was put there, my dear, to save the carpet, should the boards on the floor be uneven. My Mother was always particular about having _cut rye straw_, because it was softer and finer than any other. It was always used in those days instead of the carpet linings we now have. I remember sometimes, when the carpet had been newly laid, in our home, immediately after house cleaning time, the surface of the floor looked very odd; full of bumps and raised places in spots, until frequent walking over it flattened down the straw. This room happens to have a particularly good, even floor, as this part of the house was built many years later than the original, old farm house, else it would not do to have it painted." "Aunt Sarah, may I have the old spinning wheel in the attic? I'd love to furnish an old Colonial bedroom when I have a home of my very own. I'll use the rag carpet you made me for the floor, the old-fashioned, high-post bed Uncle John said I might have, and the 'New Colonial' rugs you taught me to make. "Yes, my dear, and there is another old grandfather's clock in the attic which you may have; and a high-boy also, for which I have no particular use." "Aunt Sarah, we shall not put away this really beautiful old sampler worked in silk by Uncle John's grandmother when a girl of nine years. It is beautifully done, and is wonderful, I think. And what is this small frame containing a yellowed piece of paper cut in intricate designs, presumably with scissors?" "Look on the back of the picture and see what is written there, my dear," said her Aunt. Mary slowly read: "'This is the only picture I owned before my marriage. I earned the money to buy it by gathering wheat heads.'" "It belonged to my grandmother," said Aunt Sarah. "In old times, after the reapers had left the field, the children were allowed to gather up the wheat remaining, and, I suppose, grandmother bought this picture with the money she earned herself, and considered it quite a work of art in her day. It is over one hundred years old." CHAPTER XVII. AN OLD SONG EVENING. Aunt Sarah and Mary spent few idle moments while carrying out their plans for "doing over" the old parlor. Finally, 'twas finished. Mary breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the last picture was hung on the wall. She turned to her Aunt, saying, "Don't you think the room looks bright, cheery and livable?" "Yes," replied her Aunt, "and what is more essential, homey, I have read somewhere, 'A woman's house should be as personal a matter as a spider's web or a snail's shell; and all the thought, toil and love she puts into it should be preserved a part of its comeliness and homelikeness forever, and be her monument to the generations.'" "Well, Aunt Sarah," replied Mary, "I guess we've earned our monument. The air that blows over the fields, wafted in from the open window, is sweet with the scent of grain and clover, and certainly is refreshing. I'm dreadfully tired, but so delighted with the result of our labors. Now we will go and 'make ready,' as Sibylla says, before the arrival of Ralph from the city. I do hope the ice cream will be frozen hard. The Sunshine Sponge Cake, which I baked from a recipe the Professor's wife gave me, is light as a feather. 'Tis Ralph's favorite cake. Let's see; besides Ralph there are coming all the Schmidts, Lucy Robbins, the school teacher, and Sibylla entertains her Jake in the kitchen. I promised to treat him to ice cream; Sibylla was so good about helping me crack the ice to use for freezing the cream. We shall have an 'Old Song Evening' that will amuse every one." Quite early, as is the custom in the country, the guests for the evening arrived; and both Mary and Aunt Sarah felt fully repaid for their hard work of the past weeks by the pleasure John Landis evinced at the changed appearance of the room. The Professor's wife said, "It scarcely seems possible to have changed the old room so completely." Aunt Sarah replied, "Paint and paper do wonders when combined with good taste, furnished by Mary." During the evening one might have been forgiven for thinking Professor Schmidt disloyal to the Mother Country (he having been born and educated in Heidelberg) had you overheard him speaking to Ralph on his favorite subject, the "Pennsylvania German." During a lull in the general conversation in the room Mary heard the Professor remark to Ralph: "The Pennsylvania Germans are a thrifty, honest and industrious class of people, many of whom have held high offices. The first Germans to come to America as colonists in Pennsylvania were, as a rule, well to do. Experts, when examining old documents of Colonial days, after counting thousands of signatures, found the New York 'Dutch' and the Pennsylvania 'Germans' were above the average in education in those days. Their dialect, the so-called 'Pennsylvania German' or 'Dutch,' as it is erroneously called by many, is a dialect which we find from the Tauber Grund to Frankfurt, A.M. As the German language preponderated among the early settlers, the language of different elements, becoming amalgamated, formed a class of people frequently called 'Pennsylvania Dutch'." Professor Harbaugh, D.D., has written some beautiful poems in Pennsylvania German which an eminent authority, Professor Kluge, a member of the Freiburg University, Germany, has thought worthy to be included among the classics. They are almost identical with the poems written by Nadler in Heidelberger Mundart, or dialect. Mary, who had been listening intently to the Professor, said, when he finished talking to Ralph: "Oh, please, do repeat one of Professor Harbaugh's poems for us." He replied, "I think I can recall several stanzas of 'Das Alt Schulhaus an der Krick.' Another of Professor Harbaugh's poems, and I think one of the sweetest I have ever read, is 'Heemweeh.' Both poems are published in his book entitled 'Harbaugh's Harfe,' in Pennsylvania German dialect, and possess additional interest from the fact that the translations of these poems, in the latter part of the same book, were made by the author himself." "Oh, do repeat all that you remember of both the poems," begged Mary. The Professor consented, saying: "As neither you nor Mr. Jackson understand the Pennsylvania German dialect, I shall translate them for you, after repeating what I remember. 'Heemweeh' means Homesickness, but first I shall give you 'Das Alt Schulhaus an der Krick'." [A]DAS ALT SCHULHAUS AN DER KRICK. Heit is 's 'xactly zwansig Johr, Dass ich bin owwe naus; Nau bin ich widder lewig z'rick Un schteh am Schulhaus an d'r Krick, Juscht neekscht an's Dady's Haus. Ich bin in hunnert Heiser g'west, Vun Marbelstee' un Brick, Un alles was sie hen, die Leit, Dhet ich verschwappe eenig Zeit For's Schulhaus an der Krick. * * * * * Der Weisseech schteht noch an der Dhier-- Macht Schatte iwwer's Dach: Die Drauwerank is ah noch grie'-- Un's Amschel-Nescht--guk juscht mol hi'-- O was is dess en Sach! * * * * * Do bin ich gange in die Schul, Wo ich noch war gans klee'; Dort war der Meeschter in seim Schtuhl, Dort war sei' Wip, un dort sei' Ruhl,-- Ich kann's noch Alles sch'. Die lange Desks rings an der Wand-- Die grose Schieler drum; Uf eener Seit die grose Mad, Un dort die Buwe net so bleed-- Guk, wie sie piepe rum! * * * * * Oh horcht, ihr Leit, wu nooch mir lebt, Ich schreib eich noch des Schtick: Ich warn eich, droll eich, gebt doch Acht, Un memmt uf immer gut enacht, Des Schulhaus an der Krick! [Footnote A: From "Harbaugh's Harfe." Published by the Publication and Sunday School Board of the Reformed Church, Philadelphia, Pa. Used by permission.] THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE AT THE CREEK. Today it is just twenty years, Since I began to roam; Now, safely back, I stand once more, Before the quaint old school-house door, Close by my father's home. I've been in many houses since, Of marble built, and brick; Though grander far, their aim they miss, To lure heart's old love from this Old school-house at the creek. * * * * * The white-oak stands before the door, And shades the roof at noon; The grape-vine, too, is fresh and green; The robin's nest!--Ah, hark!--I ween That is the same old tune! * * * * * 'Twas here I first attended school, When I was very small; There was the Master on his stool, There was his whip and there his rule-- I seem to see it all. The long desks ranged along the walls, With books and inkstands crowned; Here on this side the large girls sat, And there the tricky boys on that-- See! how they peep around! * * * * * Ye, who shall live when I am dead-- Write down my wishes quick-- Protect it, love it, let it stand, A way-mark in this changing land-- That school-house at the creek. HEEMWEH. Ich wees net was die Ursach is-- Wees net, warum ich's dhu: 'N jedes Johr mach ich der Weg Der alte Heemet zu; Hab weiter nix zu suche dort-- Kee' Erbschaft un kee' Geld; Un doch treibt mich des Heemgefiehl So schtark wie alle Welt; Nor'd schtart ich ewe ab un geh, Wie owe schun gemeldt. Wie nacher dass ich kumm zum Ziel, Wie schtarker will ich geh, For eppes in mei'm Herz werd letz Un dhut m'r kreislich weh. Der letschte Hiwel schpring ich nuf; Un ep ich drowe bin, Schtreck ich mich uf so hoch ich kann Un guk mit Luschte hin; Ich seh's alt Schtee'haus dorch die Beem, Un wott ich war schunm drin. * * * * * Wie gleich ich selle Babble Beem, Sie schtehn wie Brieder dar; Un uf'm Gippel--g'wiss ich leb! Hockt alleweil 'n Schtaar! 'S Gippel biegt sich--guk, wie's gaunscht-- 'R hebt sich awer fescht; Ich seh sei' rothe Fliegle plehn, Wann er sei' Feddere wescht; Will wette, dass sei' Fraale hot Uf sellem Baam 'n Nescht! * * * * * Guk! werklich, ich bin schier am Haus!-- Wie schnell geht doch die Zeit! Wann m'r so in Gedanke geht. So wees m'r net wie weit. Dort is d'r Schhap, die Walschkornkrip, Die Seiderpress dort draus; Dort is die Scheier, un dort die Schpring-- Frisch quellt des Wasser raus; Un guk! die sehm alt Klapbord-Fens, Un's Dheerle vor'm Haus. * * * * * Zwee Blatz sin do uf dare Bortsch, Die halt ich hoch in Acht, Bis meines Lebens Sonn versinkt In schtiller Dodtes-Nacht! Wo ich vum alte Vaterhaus 'S erscht mol bin gange fort. Schtand mei' Mammi weinend da, An sellem Rigel dort: Un nix is mir so heilig nau Als grade seller Ort. * * * * * Was macht's dass ich so dort hi' guk, An sell End vun der Bank! Weescht du's? Mei' Herz is noch net dodt, Ich wees es, Got sei Dank! Wie manchmal sass mai Dady dort, Am Summer-Nochmiddag, Die Hande uf der Schoos gekreizt, Sei Schtock bei Seite lag. Was hot er dort im Schtille g'denkt? Wer mecht es wisse--sag? HOME-SICK NESS. I know not what the reason is: Where'er I dwell or roam, I make a pilgrimage each year, To my old childhood home. Have nothing there to give or get-- No legacy, no gold-- Yet by some home-attracting power I'm evermore controlled; This is the way the homesick do, I often have been told. * * * * * As nearer to the spot I come More sweetly am I drawn; And something in my heart begins To urge me faster on. Ere quite I've reached the last hilltop-- You'll smile at me, I ween!-- I stretch myself high as I can, To catch the view serene-- The dear old stone house through the trees With shutters painted green! * * * * * How do I love those poplar trees; What tall and stalely things! See! on the top of one just now A starling sits and sings. He'll fall!--the twig bends with his weight! He likes that danger best. I see the red upon his wings,-- Dark shining is the rest. I ween his little wife has built On that same tree her nest. * * * * * See! really I am near the house; How short the distance seems! There is no sense of time when one Goes musing in his dreams. There is the shop--the corn-crib, too-- The cider-press--just see! The barn--the spring with drinking cup Hung up against the tree. The yard-fence--and the little gate Just where it used to be. * * * * * Two spots on this old friendly porch I love, nor can forget, Till dimly in the night of death My life's last sun shall set! When first I left my father's house, One summer morning bright, My mother at that railing wept Till I was out of sight! Now like a holy star that spot Shines in this world's dull night. * * * * * What draws my eye to yonder spot-- That bench against the wall? What holy mem'ries cluster there, My heart still knows them all! How often sat my father there On summer afternoon; Hands meekly crossed upon his lap, He looked so lost and lone, As if he saw an empty world, And hoped to leave it soon. At the conclusion of his recital, Mary heartily thanked the Professor, and, at his request, obediently seated herself at the old, but still sweet-toned cottage organ, and expressed her willingness to play any old-time songs or hymns requested, and saying, "I know Aunt Sarah's favorite," commenced playing, "My Latest Sun is Sinking Fast," followed by "This Old-Time Religion," "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," "One of the Sweet Old Chapters," "Silver Threads Among the Gold" and the sweet old hymn, "In the Summer Land of Song," by Fanny Crosby. At John Landis' request, she played and sang "Auld Lang Syne." "When You and I Were Young, Maggie," "Old Folks at Home" and "Old Black Joe." Lucy Robbins, when asked for her favorites, replied; "In the Gloaming," "The Old, Old Home'" "The Lost Chord" and "Better Bide a Wee." The Professor then asked his daughter Elizabeth to give them the music of a song from German Volkslied, or Folk Song, with the words of which all except Mary and Ralph were familiar. Professor Schmidt sang in his high, cracked voice to Elizabeth's accompaniment the words of the German song, beginning: Du, Du liegest mir in Herzen Du, Du liegst mir in Sinn Du, Du machst mir viel Schmerzen Weist nicht wie gut ich Dir binn Ja, ja, ja, ja, Du weist nicht wie gut ich Dir bin. The young folks all joined in the chorus. Fritz Schmidt asked Elizabeth to play "Polly Wolly Doodle" for little Pollykins, which Frit sang with gusto. Fritz then sang the rollicking German song, "Lauderbach," to an accompaniment played by Mary, and followed by singing "Johnny Schmoker," with appropriate gestures in the chorus commencing "My Pilly, Willy Wink, das is mein fifa," etc., ending with "My fal, lal, lal, my whach, whach, das ist mein doodle soch," which he emphasised by shrugging his shoulders, to the no small enjoyment of the young folks, who thought the silly, old German song no end of fun. This was followed by a favorite college song, "Mandalay," by Fritz. Then Elizabeth Schmidt played and sang a pretty little German song called "Meuhlen Rad," meaning The Mill Wheel, taught her by her mother. MEUHLEN RAD. In einen kuhlen grunde Da steht ein meuhlen rad; Mein libste ist versch wunden, Die dort gewhoned hat; Sie sat mir treu versprochen, Gab ihr ein ring dabei; Sie hat die treu gebrochen, Das ringlein sprang entzwei. She translated it for the benefit of Ralph and Mary: "In a cool, pleasant spot, stands a mill. My loved one, who lived there, has disappeared. She promised to be true to me, and I gave her a ring. She broke her promise and the ring broke in two." Fritz then caught his little sister Pauline around the waist and waltzed her to one end of the long room, saying: "Mary, play the piece, 'Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet,' and Pollykins and I will do the cakewalk for you." Polly, who had become quite a proficient little dancer under her sister's teaching, was very willing to do her share in the evening's entertainment, and it was pronounced a decided success. Mary then said, "I'll play my favorite schottische, composed by our old friend, the Professor. I have not yet procured a copy of his latest piece of music, 'The Passing of the Dahlias.' I think it is still with the publishers." Mary, after playing "Rock of Ages," left the room to see about serving refreshments, when Elizabeth Schmidt took her place at the instrument. After playing "The Rosary," she turned to Ralph, who had been greatly amused by the German songs on the program, all of which were quite new to him, and said: "What shall I play for you?" He replied, "'My Little Irish Rose'--no, I mean 'The River Shannon.'" "Don't you mean 'That Grand Old Name Called Mary?'" mischievously inquired Fritz Schmidt, who could not refrain from teasing Ralph, which caused a laugh at his expense, as all present were aware of his love for Mary. Elizabeth, to cover Ralph's confusion, quickly replied: "I'll play my favorite, 'The End of a Perfect Day.'" The party was pronounced a success, and broke up at a late hour for country folks. Before leaving, Mary's Uncle said: "Now, let's sing 'Home, Sweet Home,' and then all join in singing that grand old hymn, 'My Country, 'Tis of Thee,' to the new tune by our friend, the Bucks County Editor." [Illustration: PALASADES OR NARROWS OF NOCKAMIXON] CHAPTER XVIII. A VISIT TO THE "PENNSYLVANIA PALISADES," AS THE "NARROWS" OF THE DELAWARE RIVER ARE CALLED. All hailed with delight Aunt Sarah's proposal that the Schmidt and Landis families, on the Fourth of July, drive over to the Narrows, visit Aunt Sarah's old home at Nockamixon, and see the "Ringing Rocks" and "High Falls," situated a short distance from the rocks, near which place picnics were frequently held. John Landis readily agreed to the proposed plan, saying, "The meadow hay and clover are cut, and I'll not cut the wheat until the fifth day of July." The third of July was a busy day at both farm houses, preparing savory food of every description with which to fill hampers for the next day's outing. Small Polly Schmidt was so perfectly happy, at the thought of a proposed picnic, she could scarcely contain herself, and as her sister Elizabeth said, "did nothing but get in every one's way." Little Polly, being easily offended, trudged over to the Landis farm to see Mary, with whom she knew she was a great favorite. The morning of the Fourth dawned bright and clear. Quite early, while the earth was still enveloped in a silvery mist, and on the lattice work of filmy cobwebs, spun over weeds and grass, dewdrops, like tiny diamonds, sparkled and glistened, until dissolved by the sun's warm rays, the gay party left home, for the "Palisades" were quite a distance from the farm, to drive being the only way of reaching the place, unless one boarded the gasoline motorcar, called the "Cornfield Express" by farmers living in the vicinity of Schuggenhaus Township. There is something indescribably exhilarating about starting for an early drive in the country before sunrise on a bright, clear morning in midsummer, when "the earth is awaking, the sky and the ocean, the river and forest, the mountain and plain." Who has not felt the sweet freshness of early morning before "the sunshine is all on the wing" or the birds awaken and begin to chatter and to sing? There is a hush over everything; later is heard the lowing of cattle, the twitter of birds and hum of insect life, proclaiming the birth of the new day. Passing an uncultivated field, overgrown with burdock, wild carrots, mullein, thistle and milk weed, Mary alighted and gathered some of the pods of the latter, inclosing imitation of softest down, which she used later for filling sofa pillows. "Look at those pretty wild canaries!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah, "yellow as gold, swinging on the stem of a tall weed." "Professor Schmidt, can you tell me the name of that weed?" questioned Mary. "I have always admired the plant, with its large leaves and long, drooping racemes of crimson seeds. "That," replied the Professor, "is a foreign plant, a weed called Equisetum from 'Equi,' a horse, and 'Setum'--tail. The country folk hereabout call it 'Horsetail.' It belongs to the Crptogamous or flowerless plants. There are only four specimens of this plant in America. I, too, have always greatly admired the plant." The Professor was quite a noted botanist. There were few flowers, plants or weeds of which he was ignorant of the name or medicinal value. Another bird lazily picked seeds from the thistle blossoms. "See," exclaimed Aunt Sarah, "one bird has a spear of grass in its mouth!" "Yellow star grass," said the Professor, "with which to make a nest. They never mate until the last of June, or first part of July. The tiny, little robbers ate up nearly all my sunflower seeds in the garden last summer." "Well," replied Mary, "you know, Professor, the birds must have food. They are the farmer's best friend. I hope you don't begrudge them a few sunflower seeds, I love birds. I particularly admire the 'Baltimore Oriole,' with their brilliant, orange-colored plumage; they usually make their appearance simultaneously with the blossoms in the orchard in the south meadow; or so Aunt Sarah tells me. I love to watch them lazily swinging on the high branches of tall trees. On the limb of a pear tree in the orchard one day, I saw firmly fastened, a long, pouch-like nest, woven with rare skill. Securely fastened to the nest by various colored pieces of twine and thread was one of smaller size, like a lean-to added to a house, as if the original nest had been found too small to accommodate the family of young birds when hatched. The oriole possesses a peculiar, sweet, high-whistled trill, similar to this--'La-la-la-la,' which always ends with the rising inflection." Fritz Schmidt, who had been listening intently to Mary, gravely remarked, "An oriole built a nest on a tall tree outside my bedroom window, and early every morning, before the family arise, I hear it sing over and over again what sounds exactly like 'Lais Die Beevil!' which translated means 'Read your Bible'." "Even the birds are 'Dutch,' I believe, in Bucks County," said Fritz. "I think these must be German Mennonites, there being quite a settlement of these honest, God-fearing people living on farms at no great distance from our place." [Illustration: THE CANAL AT THE NARROWS] As they drove along the country road, parallel with the Delaware River, just before reaching the Narrows. Mary was greatly attracted by the large quantities of yellow-white "sweet clover," a weed-like plant found along the Delaware River, growing luxuriantly, with tall, waving stems two to four feet high. The clover-like flowers, in long, loose racemes, terminating the branches, were so fragrant that, like the yellow evening primrose, the scent was noticeable long before one perceived the flowers. And, strange to tell, sweet clover was never known to grow in this locality until the seed was washed up on the bank of the river some ten or twelve years previous to the date of my story, when the Delaware River was higher than it was ever before known to be. "The first place we shall visit," said Aunt Sarah, "will be my grandmother's old home, or rather, the ruins of the old home. It passed out of our family many years ago; doors and windows are missing and walls ready to tumble down. You see that old locust tree against one side the ruined wall of the house?" and with difficulty she broke a branch from the tree saying, "Look, see the sharp, needle-shaped thorns growing on the branch! They were used by me when a child to pin my dolls' dresses together. In those days, pins were too costly to use; and look at that large, flat rock not far distant from the house! At the foot of that rock, when a child of ten, I buried the 'Schild Krote Family' dolls, made from punk (when told I was too big a girl to play with dolls). I shed bitter tears, I remember. Alas! The sorrows of childhood are sometimes deeper than we of maturer years realize." "Why did you give your family of dolls such an odd name, Aunt Sarah?" questioned Mary. "I do not remember," replied her Aunt. "Schild Krote is the German name for turtle. I presume the name pleased my childish fancy." "Suppose we visit my great-great-grandfather's grave in the near-by woods. I think I can locate it, although so many years have passed since I last visited it." Passing through fields overgrown with high grass, wild flowers and clover, they came to the woods. Surprising to say, scarcely any underbrush was seen, but trees everywhere--stately Lebanon cedars, spruce and spreading hemlock, pin oaks, juniper trees which later would be covered with spicy, aromatic berries; also beech trees. Witch hazel and hazel nut bushes grew in profusion. John Landis cut a large branch from a sassafras tree to make a new spindle on which to wind flax, for Aunt Sarah's old spinning wheel (hers having been broken), remarking as he did so, "My mother always used a branch of sassafras wood, having five, prong-like branches for this purpose, when I was a boy, and she always placed a piece of sassafras root with her dried fruit." The Professor's wife gathered an armful of yarrow, saying, "This is an excellent tonic and should always be gathered before the flowers bloom. I wonder if there is any boneset growing anywhere around here." Boneset, a white, flowering, bitter herb, dearly beloved and used by the Professor's wife as one of the commonest home remedies in case of sickness, and equally detested by both Fritz and Pauline. [Illustration: THE NARROWS OR PENNSYLVANIA PALISADES] Mary gathered a bouquet of wild carrot, or "Queen Anne's Lace," with its exquisitely fine, lace-like flowers with pale green-tinted centres. Mary's Uncle could not agree with her in praise of the dainty wild blossoms. He said: "Mary, I consider it the most detested weed with which I am obliged to contend on the farm." [Illustration: TOP ROCK] After quite a long, tiresome walk in the hot sun, they discovered the lonely grave, covered with a slab of granite surrounded by a small iron railing and read the almost illegible date--"Seventeen Hundred and Forty." Ralph said, "If he ever sighed for a home in some vast wilderness, his wish is granted." It certainly was a lonely grave in the deep woods, and gave all the members of the party a sad and eerie feeling as they wended their way out into the sunlight again, to the waiting carriages, and were soon driving swiftly along the Narrows, as they have been called from time immemorial by the inhabitants, although I prefer the name of Pennsylvania Palisades, as they are sometimes called. Said Professor Schmidt: "Numerous tourists visit the Narrows every year. The Narrows are said to resemble somewhat the Palisades on the Hudson. I have seen, the latter and think these greatly resemble them and are quite as interesting and picturesque." "The name Narrows is derived from the fact that at this place the Delaware River has forced itself through the rocky barrier," continued the Professor, "hedged in on one side by cliffs of perpendicular rock, three hundred feet high, extending some distance along the river, leaving scarcely room at some places for the river and the canal. Some quite rare plants grow here, said to be found in few other localities in the United States. You see the highest flat rock along the Narrows? It is called 'Top Rock' and rises to a height of more than three hundred feet. We shall drive around within a short distance of it; then, after passing a small house, we are obliged to walk across a field of ploughed ground; follow the well-beaten path between trees and undergrowth, and 'Top Rock' is before us. Stepping upon the high ledge of rock projecting out over the road beneath, we discover it may also be reached by following a precipitous path and clinging to bushes and trees, but none of the party venture. Recently the body of a man who had been searching for rare birds' eggs on the side of this self-same rock was found dead on the path below the rocks. What caused his fall is not known. No wonder Aunt Sarah says it makes her dizzy when you boys skip stones across the river while standing on the rock." The beautiful view of the Delaware River and the scenery on the opposite side was something long to be remembered. While the party were going into raptures over the beautiful sight, Professor Schmidt turned to Mary and remarked: "In those rocks which rise in perpendicular bluffs, several hundred feet above the level of the river, are evidence that prehistoric man may have inhabited the caves in these same walls of rock along the Delaware. From implements and weapons found, it does not require any great effort of imagination to believe the 'Cave Man' dwelt here many centuries ago." Fritz Schmidt was much interred in his father's conversation, and from that time on called Ralph Jackson Mary's "Cave Man." Leaving Top Rock, the party wended their way back to the waiting carriages in the road, and drove to the "Ringing or Musical Rocks." They had been informed that their nearest approach to the rocks was to drive into the woods to reach them. Passing a small shanty at the roadside, where a sign informed the passerby that soft drinks were to be obtained, the party dismounted and found, to their surprise, a small pavilion had been erected with bench, table and numerous seats composed of boards laid across logs, where camp meetings had formerly been held. As the large trees furnished shade, and a spring of fresh water was near by, they decided to "strike" camp and have lunch before going farther into the woods. Aunt Sarah and the Professor's wife spread a snowy cloth over the rough wooden table, quickly unpacked the hampers, and both were soon busily engaged preparing sandwiches of bread, thinly sliced, pink cold ham and ground peanuts, fried chicken and beef omelette; opening jars of home-made pickles, raspberry jam and orange marmalade. "Oh!" said Pauline, "I'm so hungry for a piece of chocolate cake. Let me help shell the eggs, so we can soon have dinner." "Here's your fresh spring water," called Fritz, as he joined the party, a tin pail in his hand, "We had such an early breakfast, I'm as hungry as a bear." The party certainly did full justice to the good things provided with a lavish hand by Frau Schmidt and Aunt Sarah. All were in high spirits. The Professor quoted from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam-- Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough. A flask of wine, a book of verse and thou, Beside me singing in the wilderness, And wilderness is Paradise enow. Ralph cast a look at Marry, unnoticed by any one else, as much as to say, "The old tentmaker voiced my sentiments." [Illustration: RINGING ROCKS OF BRIDGTON TOWNSHIP BUCKS COUNTY. PA.] [Illustration: HIGH FALLS] After the hampers had been repacked and stowed away in the carriages, they with the horses were left in the shade while the party walked to "High Falls," at no great distance from the camp. "High Falls," a beautiful waterfall about thirty feet high and fifty feet wide, is situated several hundred feet east of the Ringing Rocks. The water, before dashing below, passes over a large, solid, level floor of rock. After gazing at the Falls and picturesque surroundings, they searched through the woods for the Ringing Rocks, a peculiar formation of rocks of irregular shape and size, branching out from a common centre in four directions. The rocks vary in size from a few pounds to several tons in weight. Arriving there, Aunt Sarah said: "Ralph, you will now find use for the hammer which I asked you to bring." Ralph struck different rocks with the hammer, and Fritz Schmidt struck rocks with other pieces of rock, and all gave a peculiar metallic sound, the tones of each being different. The rocks are piled upon each other to an unknown depth, not a particle of earth being found between them, and not a bush or spear of grass to be seen. They occupy a space of about four and a half acres and are a natural curiosity well worth seeing. The young folks scrambled over the rocks for a time, and, having made them ring to their hearts' content, were satisfied to return to camp and supper. [Illustration: BIG ROCK AT ROCKY DALE] "Not far distant from High Falls," said John Landis, when all were comfortably seated near the table, with a sandwich in hand, "is a place called Roaring Rocks, also a freak of nature. I remember, when a boy, I always went there in the fall of the year, after the first hard frost, to pick persimmons. The water could he distinctly heard running underneath the rocks at a considerable depth." Ralph Jackson remarked to Aunt Sarah: "I never imagined there were so many interesting, natural features right here in Bucks County." "Oh, yes," exclaimed the impressible Fritz Schmidt, "we have a few things besides pigs and potatoes." "Yes, Ralph," said the Professor, "there are still several places of interest you will like to see. 'Stony Garden' is another very interesting freak of nature. It is about two and a half miles from the small town of 'Snitzbachsville,' as Fritz calls the hamlet, and 'tis a wild spot. About an acre is covered with trap rock. The stones are of odd shapes and sizes and appear as if thrown into the forest in the wildest confusion. No earth or vegetation is found about them. 'Tis said the rocks are similar to those found at Fingal's Cave, Ireland, and also at the Palisades on the Hudson, and are not found anywhere else in this section of the country." "And Ralph," said Fritz, "I want to show you 'Big Rock,' at Avondale, where a party of us boys camped one summer for two weeks. Oh! but I remember the good pies given us by a farmer's wife who sold us milk and eggs, and who lived just across the fields from our camp." "I think," said John Landis, "it is time we began hitching up our horses and starting for home. We have a long drive before us, and, therefore, must make an early start. Sarah, get the rest of the party together and pack up your traps." At that moment the Professor came in sight with an armful of ferns, the rich loam adhering to their roots, and said: "I'm sure these will grow." Later he planted them on a shady side of the old farm house at "Five Oaks," where they are growing today. Professor Schmidt, after a diligent search, had found clinging to a rock a fine specimen of "Seedum Rhodiola," which he explained had never been found growing in any locality in the United States except Maine. Little Pauline, with a handful of flowers and weeds, came trotting after Mary, who carried an armful of creeping evergreen called partridge berry, which bears numerous small, bright, scarlet berries later in the season. Ralph walked by her side with a basket filled to overflowing with quantities of small ferns and rock moss, with which to border the edge of the waiter on which Mary intended planting ferns; tree moss or lichens, hepaticas, wild violets, pipsissewa or false wintergreen, with dark green, waxy leaves veined with a lighter shade of green; and wild pink geraniums, the foliage of which is prettier than the pink blossoms seen later, and they grow readily when transplanted. Aunt Sarah had taught Mary how to make a beautiful little home-made fernery. By planting these all on a large waiter, banking moss around the edges to keep them moist and by planting them early, they would be growing finely when taken by her to the city in the fall of the year--a pleasant reminder of her trip to the "Narrows" of the Delaware River. Frau Schmidt brought up the rear, carrying huge bunches of mint, pennyroyal and the useful herb called "Quaker Bonnet." [Illustration: THE OLD TOWPATH AT THE NARROWS] Driving home at the close of the day, the twinkling lights in farm house windows they swiftly passed, were hailed with delight by the tired but happy party, knowing that each one brought them nearer home than the one before. To enliven the drowsy members of the party, Fritz Schmidt sang the following to the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," improvising as he sang: The moon shines bright on our "old Bucks County home," The meadows with daisies are gay, The song of the whipporwill is borne on the breeze, With the scent of the new mown hay. Oh! the Narrows are great with their high granite peaks, And Ringing Rocks for ages the same; But when daylight fades and we're tired and cold, There's no place like "hame, clear alt hame." The last lingering rays of the sun idealized the surrounding fields and woods with that wonderful afterglow seen only at the close of day. The saffron moon appeared to rise slowly from behind the distant tree-tops, and rolled on parallel with them, and then ahead, as if to guide them on their way, and the stars twinkled one by one from out the mantle of darkness which slowly enveloped the earth. The trees they swiftly passed, when the moonbeams touched them, assumed gigantic, grotesque shapes in the darkness. Mary quoted from a favorite poem, "The Huskers," by Whittier: 'Till broad and red as when he rose, the sun Sank down at last, And, like a merry guest's farewell, the day In brightness passed. And lo! as through the western pines, On meadow, stream and pond, Flamed the red radiance of a sky, Set all afire beyond. Slowly o'er the eastern sea bluffs, A milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moon-rise Were mingled into one! As thus into the quiet night, The twilight lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon The tranquil shadows lay. From many a brown, old farm house And hamlet without name, Their milking and their home tasks done, The merry huskers came. "You mean 'The Merry Picknickers Came,'" said Fritz Schmidt, as Mary finished, "and here we are at home. Good night, all." CHAPTER XIX. MARY IS TAUGHT TO MAKE PASTRY, PATTIES AND "ROSEN KUCHEN." Mary's Aunt taught her to make light, flaky pastry and pies of every description. In this part of Bucks County a young girl's education was considered incomplete without a knowledge of pie-making. Some of the commonest varieties of pies made at the farm were "Rivel Kuchen," a pie crust covered with a mixture of sugar, butter and flour crumbled together; "Snitz Pie," composed of either stewed dried apples or peaches, finely mashed through a colander, sweetened, spread over a crust and this covered with a lattice-work of narrow strips of pastry laid diamond-wise over the top of the pie; "Crumb" pies, very popular when served for breakfast, made with the addition of molasses or without it; Cheese pies, made of "Smier Kase;" Egg Custard, Pumpkin and Molasses pie. Pies were made of all the different fruits and berries which grew on the farm. When fresh fruits were not obtainable, dried fruits and berries were used. Pie made from dried, sour cherries was an especial favorite of Farmer Landis, and raisin or "Rosina" pie, as it was usually called at the farm, also known as "Funeral" pie, was a standby at all seasons of the year, as it was invariably served at funerals, where, in old times, sumptuous feasts were provided for relatives and friends, a regular custom for years among the "Pennsylvania Germans," and I have heard Aunt Sarah say, "In old times, the wives of the grave-diggers were always expected to assist with the extra baking at the house where a funeral was to be held." It would seem as if Bucks County German housewives did not like a dessert without a crust surrounding it. The Pennsylvania German farmers' wives, with few exceptions, serve the greatest variety of pies at a meal of any class of people I know; not alone as a dessert at twelve o'clock dinner, but frequently serve several different varieties of pie at breakfast and at each meal during the day. No ill effects following the frequent eating of pie I attribute to their active life, the greater part of which, during the day, was usually spent in the open air, and some credit may he due the housewife for having acquired the knack of making _good_ pie crust, which was neither very rich nor indigestible, if such a thing be possible. The combination of fruit and pastry called pie is thought to be of American invention. Material for pies at a trifling cost were furnished the early settlers in Bucks County by the large supply of fruit and vegetables which their fertile farms produced, and these were utilized by the thrifty German housewives, noted for their wise management and economy. The Professor's wife taught Mary to make superior pastry, so flaky and tender as to fairly melt in one's mouth; but Mary never could learn from her the knack of making a dainty, crimped edge to her pies with thumb and forefinger, although it looked so very simple when she watched "Frau Schmidt" deftly roll over a tiny edge as a finish to the pie. Mary laughingly told the Professor's wife (when speaking of pies) of the brilliant remark she made about lard, on first coming to the farm. Her Aunt Sarah, when baking pies one day, said to her, "Look, Mary, see this can of snowy lard, rendered from pork, obtained from our fat pigs last winter!" "Why, Aunt Sarah!" exclaimed Mary, "is lard made from pork fat? I always thought lard was made from milk and butter was made from cream." The Professor's wife possessed, besides a liking for pies, the German's fondness for anything pertaining to fritters. She used a set of "wafer and cup irons" for making "Rosen Kuchen," as she called the flat, saucer-like wafer; and the cup used for serving creamed vegetables, salads, etc., was similar to pattie cases. "The 'Wafer and Cup Irons,'" said Frau Schmidt, "were invented by a friend of mine, also a teacher and an excellent cook, besides; she gave me several of her original recipes, all to be served on wafers or in patties. You shall have a set of the irons when you start housekeeping. Mary. You will be surprised at the many uses you will find for them. They are somewhat similar to Rosette Irons, but I think them an improvement. They are pieces of fluted steel fastened to a long handle and one is cup-shaped. This latter is particularly fine for making patties. Then the cup may be filled and served on saucer-like wafers, which I call 'Rosen Kuchen,' or the 'Rosen Kuchen' may be simply dusted with a mixture consisting of one cup of sugar, one teaspoonful of cinnamon and a quarter teaspoonful of powdered cardamon seed, and served on a plate, as dainty cakes or wafers." Aunt Sarah, when cooking fritters, always used two-thirds lard and one-third suet for deep frying, but "Frau Schmidt" taught Mary to use a good brand of oil for this purpose, as she thought food fried in oil more digestible and wholesome than when fried in lard. The patties or wafers were easily made. "Frau Schmidt" placed the long-handled iron in hot fat, the right temperature for frying fritters. When the iron was heated she quickly and carefully wiped off any surplus fat, then at once dipped the hot wafer iron into a bowl containing the batter she had prepared (the recipe for which she gave Mary), then dipped the iron into the hot fat; when the batter had lightly browned she gently dropped it from the iron onto brown paper, to absorb any fat which might remain. These are quickly and easily prepared and, after a few trials, one acquires proficiency. Pattie cases or cup-shapes are made in a similar manner. They are not expensive and may be kept several weeks in a cool, dry place. When wanted for table use, place in a hot oven a few minutes to reheat. They make a dainty addition to a luncheon by simply dusting the "Rosen Kuchen" with pulverised sugar. Creamed vegetables of any variety may be served on them by placing a spoon of cream dressing on top of each, over which grate yolk of hard boiled egg; or use as a foundation on which to serve salads; or serve fruit on them with whipped cream. The patties or cups may be used to serve creamed chicken, oysters, or sweetbreads if no sugar be used in the batter. These pattie cases are exactly like those sold at delicatessen counters, in city stores, and are considered quite an addition to a dainty luncheon. They are rather expensive to buy, and we country housewives cannot always procure them when wanted, and they may be made at home with a small amount of labor and less expense. "The Germans make fritters of almost everything imaginable," continued the Professor's wife. "One day in early Spring I saw a German neighbor gathering elderberry blossoms, of which she said she intended making fritters. I asked her how they were made, being curious, I will confess. She sent me a plate of the fritters and they were delicious. I will give you her recipe should you care for it. Mary, have you ever eaten a small, sweet wafer called 'Zimmet Waffle?' My mother made them at Christmas time, in Germany. Should I be able to procure a small 'waffle,' or I should call it wafer, iron, in the city, I will teach you how they are made. I think them excellent. My mother made a cake dough similar to that of pound cake. To one portion she added cinnamon, to the other chocolate, and the last portion was flavored with vanilla. A piece of dough the size of a small marble was placed in the wafer iron, which was then pressed together and held over the fire in the range, by a long handle, until the wafer was crisp and brown. They are delicious and will keep indefinitely." The Professor's wife finished speaking to Mary, and turned to her daughter Elizabeth, saying, "It is time I mix the dough if we are to have 'Boova Shenkel' for dinner today. I see the potatoes have steamed tender." "Oh, goody!" said Pauline, "I just love 'Boova Shenkel!'" "Then," said her Mother, "run down into the cellar and get me three eggs for them, and Mary, I'll write off the recipe for you, if you wish it, as I feel sure you'll like them as well as Pauline. And Elizabeth, dust powdered sugar over this plate of 'Rosen Kuchen,' and you, Mary and Pauline, leave this hot kitchen and have lunch out in the 'Espalier,' as your Father calls it." "I think," said Mary to Elizabeth, after they were seated in the shade, prepared to enjoy the "Rosen Kuchen," "this little, natural, home-grown summer-house is the oddest and prettiest little place I've ever seen." "Yes," assented Elizabeth, "Father said he made it as nearly like as possible to a large one at Weisbaden, no great distance from his old home in Germany. He says the 'Frauer Esche,' meaning Weeping Ash, at Weisbaden, had tables and benches placed beneath spreading branches of the tree, and picnics were frequently held there. This one was made by the larger branches of the Weeping Ash, turning downward, fastened by pieces of leather to a framework nailed to the top of posts in the ground, about two yards apart, surrounding the tree. The posts, you notice, are just a little higher than an ordinary man, and when the leaves thickly cover the tops and sides, protecting one from the sun's rays, it is an ideal Summer-house. We frequently sit here evenings and afternoons; Mother brings her sewing and Pauline her doll family, which, you know, is quite numerous." "I never saw a Summer-house at all like it," said Mary. The Professor's wife not only taught Mary the making of superior pastry and the cooking of German dishes, but what was of still greater importance, taught her the value of different foods; that cereals of every description, flour and potatoes, are starchy foods; that cream, butter, oil, etc., are fat foods; that all fruits and vegetables contain mineral matter; and that lean meat, eggs, beans, peas and milk are muscle-forming foods. These are things every young housekeeper should have a knowledge of to be able to plan nourishing, wholesome, well-balanced meals for her family. And not to serve at one time a dish of rice, cheese and macaroni, baked beans and potatoes. Serve instead with one of these dishes fruit, a vegetable or salad. She said, "beans have a large percentage of nutriment and should be more commonly used." She also said graham and corn bread are much more nutritious than bread made from fine white flour, which lacks the nutritious elements. Indian corn is said to contain the largest amount of fat of any cereal. It is one of our most important cereal foods and should be more commonly used by housewives; especially should it be used by working men whose occupation requires a great amount of physical exercise. Particularly in cold weather should it be frequently served, being both cheap and wholesome. The Professor's wife laughingly remarked to Mary, "When I fry fritters or 'Fast Nacht' cakes, Fritz and Pauline usually assist such a large number of them in disappearing before I have finished baking, I am reminded of 'Doughnutting Time,' by J.W. Foley. Have you never read the poem? I sometimes feel that it must have been written by me." [A]"DOUGHNUTTING TIME." Wunst w'en our girl wuz makin' pies an' doughnuts--'ist a Lot-- We stood around with great, big eyes, 'cuz we boys like 'em hot; And w'en she dropped 'em in the lard, they sizzled 'ist like fun, And w'en she takes 'em out, it's hard to keep from takin' one. And 'en she says: "You boys'll get all spattered up with grease." And by-um-by she says she'll let us have 'ist one apiece; So I took one for me, and one for little James McBride, The widow's only orfunt son, 'ats waitin' there outside. An' Henry, he took one 'ist for himself an' Nellie Flynn, 'At's waitin' at the kitchen door and dassent to come in, Becuz her Mother told her not; and Johnny, he took two, 'Cus Amey Brennan likes 'em hot, 'ist like we chinnern do. 'En Henry happened 'ist to think he didn't get a one For little Ebenezer Brink, the carpet beater's son, Who never gets 'em home, becuz he says, he ain't quite sure, But thinks perhaps the reason wuz, his folkeses are too poor. An 'en I give my own away to little Willie Biggs 'At fell down his stairs one day, an' give him crooked legs, 'Cuz Willie always seems to know w'en our girl's goin' to bake. He wouldn't ast for none. Oh, no! But, my! he's fond of cake. So I went back an' 'en I got another one for me, Right out the kittle smokin' hot, an' brown as it could be; An' John he got one, too, becuz he give his own to Clare, An' w'en our girl she looked, there wuz 'ist two small doughnuts there. My! she wuz angry w'en she looked an' saw 'ist them two there, An' says she knew 'at she had cooked a crock full an' to spare; She says it's awful 'scouragin' to bake and fret an' fuss, An' w'en she thinks she's got 'em in the crock, they're all in us. [Footnote A: The poem "Doughnutting Time," from "Boys and Girls," published by E.P. Dutton, by permission of the author, James W. Foley.] * * * * * * * The Professor's wife gave Mary what she called her most useful recipe. She said, "Mary, this recipe was almost invaluable to me when I was a young housekeeper and the strictest economy was necessary. Sift into a bowl, one cup of flour, one even teaspoonful of baking powder (I use other baking powders occasionally, but prefer 'Royal'), then cut through the flour either one tablespoonful of butter or lard, add a pinch of salt, and mix into a soft dough with about one-half cup of sweet milk. Mix dough quickly and lightly, handling as little as possible. Drop large spoonfuls of the batter in muffin pans and bake in a quick oven for tea biscuits; or, sift flour thickly over the bread board, turn out the dough, roll several times in the flour, give one quick turn with the rolling-pin to flatten out dough, and cut out with small cake cutter, (I prefer using a small, empty tin, 1/2 pound baking powder can, to cut out cakes.) Place close together in an agate pan and bake, or bake in one cake in a pie tin and for shortcake; or place spoonfuls of the dough over veal or beef stew and potatoes or stewed chicken, and cook, closely covered, about fifteen minutes. Of course, you will have sufficient water in the stew pan to prevent its boiling away before the pot-pie dumplings are cooked, and, of course, you know, Mary, the meat and potatoes must be almost ready to serve when this dough is added. Then I frequently add one teaspoonful of sugar to the batter and place spoonfuls over either freshly stewed or canned sour cherries, plums, rhubarb or apples. In fact, any tart fruit may be used, and steam, closely covered, or place large tablespoonful of any fruit, either canned or stewed, in small custard cups, place tablespoonfuls of batter on top and steam or bake, and serve with either some of the stewed fruit and fruit juice, sugar and cream, or any sauce preferred." "The varieties of puddings which may be evolved from this one formula," continued the Professor's wife, "are endless, and, Mary, I should advise you to make a note of it. This quantity of flour will make enough to serve two at a meal, and the proportions may be easily doubled if you wish to serve a large family." "Then, Mary, I have a recipe taken from the 'Farmers' Bulletin' for dumplings, which I think fine. You must try it some time. Your Aunt Sarah thinks them 'dreadfully extravagant.' They call for four teaspoonfuls of baking powder to two cups of flour, but they are perfect puff balls, and this is such a fast age, why not use more baking powder if an advantage? I am always ready to try anything new I hear about." "Yes," replied Mary, "I just love to try new recipes, I will experiment with the dumplings one of these days. Aunt Sarah says I will never use half the recipes I have; but so many of them have been given me by excellent and reliable old Bucks County cooks, I intend to copy them all in a book, and keep for reference after I leave the farm." CHAPTER XX. OLD POTTERIES AND DECORATED DISHES. One day, looking through the old corner cupboard, Mary exclaimed, "Aunt Sarah, you certainly possess the finest collection of quaint old china dishes I have ever seen. I just love those small saucers and cups without handles; yes, and you have plates to match decorated with pinkish, lavender peacock feathers, and those dear little cups and saucers, decorated inside with pink and outside with green flowers, are certainly odd; and this queerly-shaped cream jug, sugar bowl and teapot, with pale green figures, and those homely plates, with dabs of bright red and green, they surely must be very old!" [Illustration: Old Earthenware Dish] "Yes, dear, they all belonged to either John's mother or mine. All except this one large, blue plate, which is greatly valued by me, as it was given me many years ago by a dear old friend, Mary Butler, a descendant of one of the oldest families in Wyoming Valley, whose, forefathers date back to the time of the 'Wyoming Massacre,' about which so much has been written in song and story. "The very oddest plates in your collection are those two large earthenware dishes, especially that large circular dish, with sloping sides and flat base, decorated with tulips." [Illustration: SGRAFFITO PLATE Manufactured by One of the Oldest Pennsylvania German Potterers in 1786] "Yes, Mary, and it is the one I value most highly. It is called sgraffito ware. A tulip decoration surrounds a large red star in the centre of the plate. This belonged to my mother, who said it came from the Headman pottery at Rockhill Township, about the year 1808. I know of only two others in existence at the present time; one is in a museum in the city of Philadelphia and the other one is in the Bucks County Historical Society at Doylestown, Pa. The other earthenware plate you admire, containing marginal inscription in German which when translated is 'This plate is made of earth, when it breaks the potter laughs,' is the very oldest in my collection, the date on it, you see, is 1786. Those curved, shallow earthenware pie plates, or 'Poi Schissel,' as they are frequently called in this part of Bucks County, I value, even if they are quite plain and without decoration, as they were always used by my mother when baking pies, and I never thought pies baked in any other shaped dish tasted equally as good as hers. These pie plates were manufactured at one of the old potteries near her home. All the old potters have passed away, and the buildings have crumbled to the ground. Years ago, your mother and I, when visiting the old farm where the earlier years of our childhood were passed, stopped with one of our old-time friends, who lived directly opposite the old Herstine pottery, which was then in a very dilapidated condition; it had formerly been operated by Cornelius Herstine (we always called him 'Neal' Herstine)." [Illustration: OLD PLATES FOUND IN AUNT SARAH'S CORNER CUPBOARD] "Together we crossed the road, forced our way through tangled vines and underbrush, and, peering through windows guiltless of glass, we saw partly-finished work of the old potters crumbling on the ground. The sight was a sad one. We realized the hand of time had crumbled to dust both the potter and his clay. Still nearer my old home was the McEntee pottery. From earliest childhood our families were friends. We all attended the 'Crossroads' School, where years later a more modern brick structure was built, under the hill; not far distant from 'The Narrows' and the 'Ringing Rocks.' Yes, Mary, my memory goes back to the time when the McEntee pottery was a flourishing industry, operated by three brothers, John, Patrick and Michael. When last I visited them but few landmarks remained." "Was there a pottery on your father's farm, Aunt Sarah?" inquired Mary. "No. The nearest one was the McEntee pottery, but the grandson of the old man who purchased our old farm at my father's death had a limekiln for the purpose of burning lime, and several miles distant, at the home of my uncle, was found clay suitable for the manufacture of bricks. Only a few years ago this plant was still in operation. My father's farm was situated in the upper part of Bucks County, in what was then known as the Nockamixon Swamp, and at one time there were in that neighborhood no less than seven potteries within two miles of each other." "Why," exclaimed Mary, "were there so many potteries in that locality?" "'Twas due, no doubt, to the large deposits of clay found there, well suited to the manufacture of earthenware. The soil is a clayey loam, underlaid with potter's clay. The old German potters, on coming to this country, settled mostly in Eastern Pennsylvania, in the counties of Bucks and Montgomery. The numerous small potteries erected by the early settlers were for the manufacture of earthenware dishes, also pots of graded sizes. These were called nests, and were used principally on the farm for holding milk, cream and apple-butter. Jugs and pie plates were also manufactured. The plates were visually quite plain, but they produced occasionally plates decorated with conventionalized tulips, and some, more elaborate, contained besides figures of animals, birds and flowers. Marginal inscriptions in English and German decorate many of the old plates, from which may be learned many interesting facts concerning the life and habits of the early settlers. I think, judging from the inscriptions I have seen on some old plates, it must have taxed the ingenuity of the old German potters to think up odd, original inscriptions for their plates." "Aunt Sarah, how was sgraffito ware made? Is it the same as slip-decorated pottery?" "No, my dear, the two are quite different. The large plate you so greatly admired is called sgraffito or scratched work, sometimes called slip engraving. It usually consists of dark designs on a cream-colored ground. After the plates had been shaped over the mold by the potter, the upper surface was covered by a coating of white slip, and designs were cut through this slip to show the earthenware underneath. This decoration was more commonly used by the old potters than slip decorating, which consisted in mixing white clay and water until the consistency of cream. The liquid clay was then allowed to run slowly through a quill attached to a small cup, over the earthenware (before burning it in a kiln) to produce different designs. The process is similar to that used when icing a cake, when you allow the icing to run slowly from a pastry tube to form fanciful designs. I have watched the old potters at their work many a time when a child. The process employed in the manufacture of earthenware is almost the same today as it was a century ago, but the appliances of the present day workmen are not so primitive as were those of the old German potters. Mary, a new pottery works has been started quite lately in the exact locality where, over one hundred years ago, were situated the Dichl and Headman potteries, where my highly-prized, old sgraffito plate was manufactured. I hear the new pottery has improved machinery for the manufacture of vases, flower pots, tiles, etc. They intend manufacturing principally 'Spanish tiles' from the many acres of fine clay found at that place. The clay, it is said, burns a beautiful dark, creamy red. As you are so much interested in this subject, Mary, we shall visit this new pottery some day in the near future, in company with your Uncle John. It is no great distance from the farm. Quite an interesting story I have heard in connection with a pottery owned by a very worthy Quaker in a near-by town may interest you, as your father was a Philadelphia Quaker and Ralph's parents were Quakers also." [Illustration: A-38 Schmutz Amschel] [Illustration: A-39 Antiquated Tin Lantern] [Illustration: A-40 Schmutz Amschel] [Illustration: A-41 Fluid Lamp] [Illustration: A-42 Candle Mould] "Yes, indeed, Aunt Sarah! I'd love to hear the story." "This Quaker sympathized with the colored race, or negroes, in the South. This was, of course, before slavery was abolished. You don't remember that time, Mary, You are too young. It is only history to you, but I lived it, and when the slaves ran away from their owners and came North to Philadelphia they were sent from there, by sympathizers, to this Quaker, who kept an underground station. The slaves were then placed, under his direction, in a high 'pot wagon,' covered with layers or nests of earthenware pots of graduated sizes. I heard the driver of one of these pot wagons remark one time that when going down a steep hill, he put on the brake and always held his breath until the bottom of the hill was reached, fearing the pots might all be broken. The wagon-load containing earthenware and slaves was driven to Stroudsburg, where the pots were delivered to a wholesale customer. Here the runaways were released from their cramped quarters and turned over to sympathizing friends, who assisted them in reaching Canada and safety. I have frequently met the fine-looking, courtly old gentleman who owned the pottery, and old Zacariah Mast, the skilled German potter whom he employed. They were for many years familiar figures in the little Quaker town, not many miles distant. Both passed away many years ago." Mary, who still continued her explorations of the corner cupboard, exclaimed: "Oh! Aunt Sarah! Here is another odd, old plate, way back on the lop shelf, out of sight." "Yes, dear, that belonged to your Uncle John's mother. It has never been used and was manufactured over one hundred years ago at an old pottery in Bedminister Township, Bucks County. Some of those other quaint, old-fashioned plates also belonged to John's mother. Your Uncle loves old dishes and especially old furniture; he was so anxious to possess his grandfather's old 'Solliday' clock. In the centre of the face of the clock a hand indicated the day of the month and pictures of two large, round moons on the upper part of the clock's face (resembling nothing so much as large, ripe peaches) represented the different phases of the moon. If new moon, or the first or last quarter, it appeared, then disappeared from sight. It was valued highly, being the last clock made by the old clockmaker; but John never came into possession of it, as it was claimed by an elder sister. I value the old clock which stands in the parlor because 'twas my mother's, although it is very plain. This old cherry, corner cupboard was made for my grandmother by her father, a cabinetmaker, as a wedding gift, and was given me by my mother. Did you notice the strong, substantial manner in which it is made? It resembles mission furniture." "Do tell me, Aunt, what this small iron boat, on the top shelf, was ever used for? It must be of value, else 'twould not occupy a place in the cupboard with all your pretty dishes." "Yes, dearie, 'twas my grandmother's lamp, called in old times a 'Schmutz Amschel' which, translated, means a grease robin, or bird. I have two of them. I remember seeing my grandmother many a time, when the 'Amschel' was partly filled with melted lard or liquid fat, light a piece of lamp wick hanging over the little pointed end or snout of the lamp. The lamp was usually suspended from a chain fastened to either side. A spike on the chain was stuck into the wall, which was composed of logs. This light, by the way, was not particularly brilliant, even when one sat close beside it, and could not be compared with the gas and electric lights of our present day and generation. That was a very primitive manner of illumination used by our forefathers. "Mary, did you notice the gayly-decorated, old-fashioned coffee pot and tea caddy in the corner cupboard? They belonged to my grandmother; also that old-fashioned fluid lamp, used before coal-oil or kerosene came into use; and that old, perforated tin lantern also is very ancient. "Mary, have you ever read the poem, The Potter and the Clay?' No? Then read it to me, dear, I like it well; 'tis a particular favorite of mine, I do not remember by whom it was written." THE POTTER AND THE CLAY. (Jeremiah xviii 2-6.) The potter wrought a work in clay, upon his wheel; He moulded it and fashioned it, and made it feel, In every part, his forming hand, his magic skill, Until it grew in beauty fair beneath his will. When lo! through some defect, 'twas marred and broken lay, Its fair proportions spoiled, and it but crumbling clay; Oh, wondrous patience, care and love, what did he do? He stooped and gathered up the parts and formed anew. He might have chosen then a lump of other clay On which to show his skill and care another day, But no; he formed it o'er again, as seemed him good; And who has yet his purpose scanned, his will withstood? Learn thou from this a parable of God's great grace Toward the house of Israel, His chosen race; He formed them for His praise; they fell and grieved Him sore, But He will yet restore and bless them evermore. And what He'll do for Israel, He'll do for thee; Oh soul, so marred and spoiled by sin, thou yet shall see That He has power to restore, He will receive, And thou shall know His saving grace, only believe. Despair not, He will form anew thy scattered life, And gather up the broken parts, make peace from strife; Only submit thou to His will of perfect love, And thou shall see His fair design in Heaven above. CHAPTER XXI. THE VALUE OF WHOLESOME, NUTRITIOUS FOOD. "Yes, my dear," said Frau Schmidt (continuing a conversation which had occurred several days previously between herself and Mary), "we will have more healthful living when the young housewife of the present day possesses a knowledge of different food values (those food products from which a well-balanced meal may be prepared) for the different members of her household. She should endeavor to buy foods which are most nourishing and wholesome; these need not necessarily consist of the more expensive food products. Cheaper food, if properly cooked, may have as fine a flavor and be equally as nutritious as that of higher price. "And, Mary, when you marry and have a house to manage, if possible, do your own marketing, and do not make the mistake common to so many young, inexperienced housewives, of buying more expensive food than, your income will allow. Some think economy in purchasing food detrimental to their dignity and to the well-being of their families; often the ones most extravagant in this respect are those least able to afford it. Frequently the cause of this is a lack of knowledge of the value of different foods. The housewife with a large family and limited means should purchase cheaper cuts of meat, which become tender and palatable by long simmering. Combine them with different vegetables, cooked in the broth, and serve as the principal dish at a meal, or occasionally serve dumplings composed of a mixture of flour and milk, cooked in the broth, to extend the meat flavor. Frequently serve a dish of rice, hominy, cornmeal and oatmeal, dried beans and peas. These are all nutritious, nourishing foods when properly cooked and attractively served. And remember, Mary, to always serve food well seasoned. Many a well-cooked meal owes its failure to please to a lack of proper seasoning. This is a lesson a young cook must learn. Neither go to the other extreme and salt food too liberally. Speaking of salt, my dear, have you read the poem, 'The King's Daughters,' by Margaret Vandegrift? If not, read it, and then copy it in your book of recipes." "THE KING'S DAUGHTERS." The King's three little daughters, 'neath the palace window straying, Had fallen into earnest talk that put an end to playing; And the weary King smiled once again to hear what they were saying; "It is I who love our father best," the eldest daughter said; "I am the oldest princess," and her pretty face grew red; "What is there none can do without? I love him more than bread." Then said the second princess, with her bright blue eyes aflame; "Than bread, a common thing like bread! Thou hast not any shame! Glad am I, it is I, not thou, called by our mother's name; I love him with a better love than one so tame as thine, More than--Oh! what then shall I say that is both bright and fine? And is not common? Yes, I know. I love him more than wine." Then the little youngest daughter, whose speech would sometimes halt, For her dreamy way of thinking, said, "Nay, you are both in fault. 'Tis I who love our father best, I love him more than salt." Shrill little shrieks of laughter greeted her latest word, As the two joined hands exclaiming. "But this is most absurd!" And the King, no longer smiling, was grieved that he had heard, For the little youngest daughter, with her eyes of steadfast grey, Could always move his tenderness, and charm his care away; "She grows more like her mother dead," he whispered day by day, "But she is very little and I will find no fault, That while her sisters strive to see who most shall me exalt, She holds me nothing dearer than a common thing like salt." The portly cook was standing in the courtyard by the spring, He winked and nodded to himself, "That little quiet thing Knows more than both the others, as I will show the King." That afternoon, at dinner, there was nothing fit to eat. The King turned angrily away from soup and fish and meat, And he found a cloying sweetness in the dishes that were sweet; "And yet," he muttered, musing, "I cannot find the fault; Not a thing has tasted like itself but this honest cup of malt." Said the youngest princess, shyly: "Dear father, they want salt." A sudden look of tenderness shone on the King's dark face, As he sat his little daughter in the dead queen's vacant place, And he thought: "She has her mother's heart; Ay, and her mother's grace; Great love through channels will find its surest way. It waits not state occasions, which may not come or may; It comforts and it blesses, hour by hour, and day by day." CHAPTER XXII. A VARIETY OF CAKES EVOLVED FROM ONE "Aunt Sarah," questioned Mary one day, "will you tell me how it is possible to evolve a number of cakes from one recipe?" "Certainly I will, my dear," said her Aunt. "For instance, take the simple recipe from which I have for years baked layer cake. You may have other recipes given you, equally as good, but I feel positive none better. The cake made from this recipe is not rich enough to be unwholesome, but a good, reliable, inexpensive, easily-made cake, with which I have never had a failure. "The recipe, as you know, consists of 1-1/4 cups of granulated sugar, 1/2 cup of a mixture of butter and sweet lard (or use all butter), 1/2 cup sweet milk, 2 cups flour and 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. 3 eggs. "The simplest manner of baking this cake is in two square cake pans. When baked, take from pans and ice each cake with a boiled chocolate icing and put together as a layer cake, or ice each cake with a plain, boiled white icing and, when this is cold, you may spread over top of each cake unsweetened chocolate, which has been melted over steam after being grated. When cake is to be served, cut in diamonds or squares. Or add to the batter 1 cup of chopped hickory nut meats, bake in 2 layers and cut in squares. "For a chocolate loaf cake, add two generous tablespoonfuls of unsweetened melted chocolate to the batter just before baking. If you wish a chocolate layer cake, use the same batter as for the chocolate loaf cake, bake in two layer pans and put together with white boiled icing. "Or, add to this same batter one scant teaspoonful of cinnamon, ginger, 1/2 teaspoonful of grated nutmeg and cloves, a cup of raisins or dried currants, and you have a small fruit cake. "Or, add a small quantity of thinly-shaved citron to the original recipe, flavor with lemon, bake in a loaf and spread a white icing flavored with lemon extract over top of cake, and you have a lemon cake. "Or, add chocolate and spices to one-half the batter (about one-half as much chocolate and spices as were used in batter for fruit cake) and place spoonfuls of the light and dark batter alternately in a cake pan, until all batter has been used, and you will have a cheap, old-fashioned Marble cake. "Or, bake cake over original recipe, in two-layer pans, placing between layers either tart jelly, a creamy cornstarch filling, grated cocoanut, apple cream filling, or you might even use half the recipe given for the delicious icing or filling for Lady Baltimore cake. "Lastly, bake small cakes from this same recipe. Mary, you should have small pans for baking these delicious little cakes, similar to those I possess, which I ordered made at the tinsmith's. I took for a pattern one Frau Schmidt loaned me. They are the exact size of one-quarter pound boxes of Royal baking powder. Cut the box in three pieces of equal height, and your cakes will be equally as large in diameter as the baking powder box, but only one-third as high. I think I improved on Frau Schmidt's cake tins, as hers were all separate, I ordered twelve tins, similar to hers, to be fastened to a piece of sheet iron. I had two of these iron sheets made, containing twenty-four little pans. I place a generous tablespoonful of the batter in each of the twenty-four small pans, and cakes rise to the top of pans. Usually I have batter remaining after these are filled. Ice all the cake except the top with a white boiled icing or chocolate icing. These small cakes keep exceedingly well, and are always liked by young folks and are particularly nice for children's parties". "Speaking of cakes, Aunt Sarah," said Mary, "have you ever used Swansdown cake flour? I have a friend in the city who uses it for making the most delicious Angel cake, and she gave me a piece of Gold cake made over a recipe in 'Cake Secrets,' which comes with the flour, and it was fine. I'll get a package of the flour for you the first time I go to the city. The flour resembles a mixture of ordinary flour and cornstarch. It is not a prepared flour, to be used without baking powder, and you use it principally for baking cakes. I have the recipe for both the Gold and Angel cakes, with the instructions for baking same. They are as follows:" ANGEL CAKE. "For the Angel cake, use one even cupful of the whites of egg (whites of either eight large or nine small eggs); a pinch of salt, if added when beating eggs, hastens the work. One and one-quarter cups granulated sugar, 1 cup of Iglehart's Swansdown cake flour. Sift flour once, then measure and sift three times. Beat whites of eggs about half, add 1/2 teaspoonful of cream of tartar then beat whites of eggs until they will stand of their own weight. Add sugar, then flour, not by stirring, but by folding over and over, until thoroughly mixed. Flavor with 1/2 teaspoonful of vanilla or a few drops of almond extract. As much care should be taken in baking an Angel Food cake as in mixing. Bake in an ungreased patent pan. Place the cake in an oven that is just warm enough to know there is a fire inside the range. Let the oven stay just warm through until the batter has raised to the top of the cake pan, then increase the heat gradually until the cake is well browned over. If by pressing the top of the cake with the finger it will spring back without leaving the impression of the finger, the cake is done through. Great care should be taken that the oven is not too hot to begin with, as the cake will rise too fast and settle or fall in the baking. It should bake in from 35 to 40 minutes' time. When done, invert the pan and let stand until cold before removing it. Should you see cake browning before it rises to top of pan, throw your oven door open and let cold air rush in and cool your oven instantly. Be not afraid. The cold air will not hurt the cake. Two minutes will cool any oven. Watch cake closely. Don't be afraid to open oven door every three or four minutes. This is the only way to properly bake this cake. When cake has raised above top of pan, increase your heat and finish baking rapidly. Baking too long dries out the moisture, makes it tough and dry. When cake is done it begins to shrink. Let it shrink back to level of pan. Watch carefully at this stage and take out of oven and invert immediately. Rest on centre tube of pan. Let hang until perfectly cold, then take cake carefully from pan. When baking Angel cake always be sure the oven bakes good brown under bottom of cake. If cake does not crust under bottom it will fall out when inverted and shrink in the fall." "I never invert my pans of Angel cake on taking them from oven," said Mary's Aunt, "as the cakes are liable to fall out even if the pan is not greased. I think it safer to allow the pans containing the cakes to stand on a rack and cool without inverting the pan. "Suppose, Mary, we bake a Gold cake over the recipe from 'Cake Secrets,' as eggs are plentiful; but we haven't any Swansdown flour. I think we will wait until we get it from the city." GOLD CAKE. Yolks of 8 eggs; 1-1/4 cups granulated sugar, 3/4 cup of butter, 3/4 cup water, 2-1/2 cups of Swansdown cake flour, 2 heaping teaspoonfuls of baking powder, 1/2 teaspoonful lemon extract. Sift flour once, then measure. Add baking powder and sift three times. Cream butter and sugar thoroughly; beat yolks to a stiff froth; add this to creamed butter and sugar, and stir thoroughly through. Add flavor, add water, then flour. Stir very hard. Place in a slow oven at once. Will bake in from 30 to 40 minutes. Invert pan immediately it is taken from oven. Mary, this batter may also be baked in layers with any kind of filling desired. The Angel cake receipt is very similar to an original recipe Frau Schmidt gave me; she uses cornstarch instead of Swansdown flour and she measures the eggs in a cup instead of taking a certain number; she thinks it more exact. "Aunt Sarah, did you know Frau Schmidt, instead of using flour alone when baking cakes, frequently uses a mixture of flour and cornstarch? She sifts together, several times, six cups of flour and one cup of cornstarch, and uses this instead of using flour alone. "I dearly love the Professor's wife--she's been so very good to me," exclaimed Mary. "Yes," replied her Aunt, "she has very many lovable qualities." Mary's liking for bright, energetic Frau Schmidt was not greater than the affection bestowed on Mary by the Professor's wife, who frequently entertained Mary with tales of her life when a girl in Germany, to all of which Mary never tired listening. One Aunt, a most estimable woman, held the position of valued and respected housekeeper and cook for the Lord Mayor of the city wherein she resided. Another relative, known as "Schone Anna," for many years kept an inn named "The Four Seasons," noted for the excellent fare served by the fair chatelaine to her patrons. The inn was made famous by members of the King's household stopping there while in the town during the Summer months, which was certainly a compliment to her good cooking. One of the things in which she particularly excelled was potato cakes raised with yeast. Frau Schmidt had been given a number of these valuable recipes by her mother, all of which she offered to Mary. One recipe she particularly liked was "Fast Nacht Cakes," which the Professor's wife baked always without fail on Shrove Tuesday (or "Fast Nacht" day), the day before the beginning of Lent. This rule was as "unchangeable as the law of Medes and Persians," and it would have been a very important event, indeed, which would have prevented the baking of these toothsome delicacies on that day. CHAPTER XXIII. THE OLD "TAUFSCHIEN." [Illustration: BIRTH AND CHRISTENING CERTIFICATE OLD TAUFSCHIEN] Aunt Sarah had long promised to show Mary her Grandmother's "Taufschien," and she reverently handled the large old family Bible, which contained between its sacred pages the yellowed paper, being the birth and christening certificate of her grandmother, whom we read was born in 1785, in Nockamixon Township, was confirmed in 1802, and was married in 1805 to the man who was later Aunt Sarah's grandfather. The old certificate was signed by a German Reformed minister named Wack, who history tells us was the first young man of that denomination to be ordained to the ministry in America. Folded with this "Taufschien" is another which has never been filled out. This is printed in German. Pictures of women, perhaps they are intended to represent angels, with golden wings, clothed in loose-flowing crimson drapery and holding harps in their hands; birds with gayly-colored plumage of bluish green, crimson and yellow, perched on branches of what presumably represent cherry trees, also decorate the page. Religious hymns printed on the "Taufschiens," encircled with gay stripes of light blue and yellow, dotted with green, further embellish them. On one we read: "Infinite joy or endless woe, Attend on every breath; And yet, how unconcerned we go Upon the brink of death." "Mary, this old 'Taufschien' of my grandmother's is one of my most cherished possessions. Would you like to see your Uncle's old deed, which he came into possession of when he inherited the farm from his father?" Carefully unfolding the stiff old parchment or pigskin deed, yellowed and brown spotted with age, Mary could faintly decipher the writing wherein, beautifully written, old-fashioned penmanship of two hundred years ago stated that a certain piece of land in Bucks County, Beginning at a Chestnut Oak, North to a post; then East to a large rock, and on the South unsettled land, which in later years was conveyed to John Landis. "This deed," said Mary's Aunt, "was given in 1738, nearly two hundred years ago, by John, Thomas and Richard Penn, sons of William Penn by his second marriage, which occurred in America. His eldest son, John Penn, you have no doubt heard, was called 'The American,' he having been born in this country before William Penn's return to Europe, where he remained fifteen years, as you've no doubt heard." At the bottom of the deed a blue ribbon has been slipped through cuts in the parchment, forming a diamond which incloses what is supposed to be the signature of Thomas Penn. "Aunt Sarah, I am not surprised that you value this old deed of the farm and these 'Taufschiens' of your grandmother I should frame them, so they may be preserved by future generations." CHAPTER XXIV. THE OLD STORE ON THE RIDGE ROAD. Aunt Sarah found in Mary a willing listener when talking of the time in years past when her grandfather kept a small "Country Store" on the Ridge Road in Bucks County. She also remembered, when a child of ten, accompanying her grandfather on one of his trips when he drove to Philadelphia to purchase goods for his store. "They had no trolley cars in those days?" asked Mary. "No, my dear, neither did they have steam cars between the different towns and cities as we have now." "At grandfather's store could be bought both groceries and dry goods. The surrounding farmers' wives brought to the store weekly fresh print butter, eggs, pot cheese and hand-case, crocks of apple-butter, dried sweet corn, beans, cherries, peach and apple 'Snitz,' taking in exchange sugar, starch, coffee, molasses, etc. My father tapped his sugar maples and mother cooked down the syrup until thick, and we used that in place of molasses. They also took in exchange shaker flannel, nankeen, indigo blue and 'Simpson' gray calico, which mother considered superior to any other, both for its washing and wearing qualities. The farmers who came occasionally to the store to shop for different members of the family frequently bought whole pieces of calico of one pattern, and," affirmed Aunt Sarah, "I knew of one farmer who bought several whole pieces of one pattern with rather large figures on a dark wine ground, resembling somewhat the gay figures on an old paisley shawl. He said 'twas a good, serviceable color, and more economical to buy it all alike, and remarked: 'What's the difference, anyway? Calico is calico.' From the same piece of calico his wife made dresses, aprons and sunbonnets for herself and daughters, shirts for the farmer and his sons (the boys were young, fortunately), and patchwork quilts and comfortables from the remainder." "Rather monotonous, I should think," said Mary. "I am surprised his wife did not make him wear coat and trousers made from the same piece of calico." [Illustration: THE OLD STORE ON RIDGE ROAD] "The dry goods," continued Aunt Sarah, "retained the scent of coffee, cheese and dried fruits some time after being purchased but no one minded that in those days. I still remember how perfectly wonderful to me when a child appeared the large, wide-mouthed glass jars containing candy. There were red and white striped mint sticks, striped yellow and white lemon sticks and hoarhound and clear, wine-colored sticks striped with lines of white, flavored with anise-seed. One jar contained clear lemon-colored 'Sour Balls,' preferred by us children on account of their lasting qualities, as also were the jujubees, which resembled nothing so much as gutta percha, and possessed equally as fine flavor; also pink and yellow sugar-frosted gumdrops. In a case at one end of the counter were squares of thick white paper covered with rows of small pink, also white, 'peppermint buttons,' small sticks, two inches in length, of chewing gum in waxed paper, a white, tasteless, crystalline substance resembling paraffine. What longing eyes I frequently cast at the small scalloped cakes of maple sugar, prohibitive as regards cost. They sold for a nickel, am I was always inordinately fond of maple sugar, but the price was prohibitive. I seldom possessed more than a penny to spend in those days, and not always that. Father raised a large family, money was never plentiful, and we relished the plain, cheap candies usually sold in those days more than many children of the present day do the finest and most expensive cream chocolates, to many of whom in this extravagant age a dollar is not valued more highly than was a penny by us in years gone by. And 'Candy Secrets!' I don't believe you know what they are like. I've not seen any for years. They were small, square pieces of taffy-like candy, wrapped in squares of gilt or silver paper, inclosing a small strip of paper containing a couple of sentimental lines or jingle. Later came 'French Secrets.' They consisted of a small oblong piece of candy about an inch in length, wrapped in tissue paper of different colors, having fringed ends, twisted together at either end. These also inclosed a tiny strip of paper containing a line or two. Small, white candy hearts contained the words in pink letters, 'Little Sweetheart,' 'I Love You,' 'Name the Day,' etc. These were invariably distributed among the young folks at small parties and created no end of merriment." "Mary, old as I am, I still remember the delight I experienced when a little, rosy-cheeked urchin surreptitiously passed me around the corner of my desk at the old 'Cross Roads School' a 'Secret,' with the words, 'Do you love me?' My grandmother always kept a supply of hoarhound and peppermint lozenges in her knitting basket to give us children should we complain of hoarseness. My, but 'twas astonishing to hear us all cough until grandmother's supply of mints was exhausted. I think. Mary, I must have had a 'sweet tooth' when a child, as my recollections seem to be principally about the candy kept in my grandfather's store. I suppose in those early days of my childhood candy appealed to me more than anything else, as never having had a surfeit of sweets, candy to me was a rare treat. I remember, Mary, when a little child, my thrifty mother, wishing to encourage me to learn to knit my own stockings, she, when winding the skein of German yarn into a ball, occasionally wound a penny in with the yarn. I was allowed to spend the penny only after I had knitted the yarn and the penny had fallen from the ball. What untold wealth that penny represented! And planning how to spend it was greater pleasure still. Many a pair of long old-fashioned, dark blue and red-striped stockings, were finished more quickly than otherwise would have been done without the promised reward. I became proficient in knitting at an early age," continued Aunt Sarah; "a truly feminine occupation, and as I one time heard a wise old physician remark, 'Soothing to the nerves,' which I know to be true, having knitted many a worry into the heel of a sock. I learned at an early age the value of money, and once having acquired the saving habit, it is not possible to be wasteful in later life." CHAPTER XXV. AN ELBADRITCHEL HUNT. Fritz Schmidt, like many another Bucks County boy, had frequently heard the rural tale of a mythical bird called the "Elbadritchel," supposed to be abroad, particularly on cold, dark, stormy nights, when the wind whistled and blew perfect gales around exposed corners of houses and barns. 'Twas a common saying among "Pennsylvania Germans," at such times, "'Tis a fine night to catch 'Elbadritchels.'" [Illustration: CATCHING ELBADRITCHELS] For the information of those who may not even have heard of this remarkable creature, it is described as being a cross between a swallow, a goose and a lyre bird. Have you ever seen an "Elbadritchel?" No one has to my certain knowledge, so I cannot vouch for the truth of this description of it. Fritz Schmidt had never taught to question the truth of the tale. So, when one cold, stormy night several boys from neighboring farms drove up to the Schmidt homestead and asked Fritz to join them in a hunt for "Elbadritchels," he unhesitatingly agreed to make one of the number, unaware that he had been selected as the victim of a practical joke, and, as usual, was one of the jolliest of the crowd. They drove through a blinding downpour of rain and dismounted on reaching a lonely hill about three miles distant. They gave Fritz a bag to hold. It was fashioned of burlap and barrel hoops, inside of which they placed a lighted candle, and Fritz was instructed how to hold it in order to attract the "Elbadritchel." They also gave him a club with which to strike the bird when it should appear. The boys scampered off in different directions, ostensibly to chase up the birds, but in reality they clambered into the waiting wagon and were rapidly driven home, leaving Fritz alone awaiting the coming of the "Elbadritchel." When Fritz realized the trick played on him, his feelings may be better imagined than described. He trudged home, cold and tired, vowing vengeance on the boys, fully resolved to get even with them. CHAPTER XXVI THE OLD SHANGHAI ROOSTER. Much of Aunt Sarah's spare time was devoted to her chickens, which fully repaid her for the care given them. She was not particular about fancy stock, but had quite a variety--White Leghorns, Brown Leghorns, big, fat, motherly old Brahma hens that had raised a brood of as many as thirty-five little chicks at one time, a few snow-white, large Plymouth Rocks and some gray Barred one. The _latter_ she _liked_ particularly because she said they were much, more talkative than any of the others; they certainly did appear to chatter to her when she fed them. She gave them clean, comfortable quarters, warm bran mash on cold winter mornings, alternating with cracked corn and "scratch feed" composed of a mixture of cracked corn, wheat and buckwheat, scattered over a litter of dried leaves on the floor of the chicken house, so they were obliged to work hard for their food. [Illustration: Old Egg Basket] A plentiful supply of fresh water was always at hand, as well as cracked oyster shell. She also fed the chickens all scraps from the table, cutting all meat scraps fine with an old pair of scissors hung conveniently in the kitchen. She was very successful with the little chicks hatched out when she "set" a hen and the yield of eggs from her hens was usually greater and the eggs larger in size than those of any of her neighbors. This I attribute to her excellent care of them, generous diet, but principally to the fact of the elimination of all the roosters among the flock during the season between the "first of May and December first," with one exception. "Brigham," an immensely large, old, red Shanghai rooster, a most pompous and dignified old chap. A special pet of Aunt Sarah's, she having raised him from a valuable "setting" of eggs given her, and as the egg from which "Brigham," as he was called, emerged, was the only one of the lot which proved fertile, he was valued accordingly and given a longer lease of life than the other roosters, and was usually either confined or allowed to roam outside the chicken yard during the summer months; in the winter, being a swift runner, he usually gobbled up two shares of food before the hens arrived. That accounted for his great size. The old rooster was also noted for his loud crowing. One day in early Spring, John Landis came into the house hurriedly, saying, "Sarah, your old Shanghai rooster is sick." "Yes," answered his wife, "I missed hearing him crow this morning; he is usually as regular as an alarm clock." She hurried to the barnyard, picked up poor Brigham, wrapped him carefully in a piece of blanket and laid him in a small shed. The next morning she was awakened by the lusty crowing of Brigham, who was apparently as well as ever. The next day the same thing happened. Aunt Sarah found him, as she supposed, in a dying condition, and the following morning he was fully recovered. It was quite puzzling until one day John Landis came into the kitchen laughing heartily and said, "Sarah, I am sorry to inform you of the intemperate habits of your pet, Brigham. He is a most disreputable old fellow, and has a liking for liquor. He has been eating some of the brandied cherries which were thrown into the barnyard when the jug containing them was accidentally broken at house cleaning time. "Well, Sarah, old Brigham was not sick at all--only 'ingloriously' drunk." In the fall of the same year Aunt Sarah spied Brigham one day on top of one of the cider barrels in the shed busily engaged eating the pummace which issued from the bung-hole of the barrel. John Landis, on hearing of Brigham's last escapade, decided, as the rooster was large as an ordinary-turkey, to serve him roasted at Mary's wedding. Fritz Schmidt remarked one day in the presence of Sibylla: "Chickens must possess some little intelligence; they know enough to go to bed early. Yes, and without an 'alarm clock,' too, Sibylla, eh?" She walked away without a word to Fritz. The alarm clock was a sore subject with her, and one about which she had nothing to say. Sibylla had never quite forgiven Fritz for the prank played on her. He, happening to hear John Landis tell Sibylla a certain hour he thought a proper time for Jake Crouthamel to take his departure Sunday evenings, Fritz conceived the brilliant (?) idea of setting the alarm clock to "go off" quite early in the evening. He placed the clock at the head of the stairs, and in the midst of an interesting conversation between the lovers the alarm sounded with a loud, whizzing noise, which naturally made quick-tempered Sibylla very angry. She said on seeing Fritz the next morning: "It was not necessary to set the 'waker' to go off, as I know enough to send 'Chake' home when it's time." Fritz, happening to tell the story to the editor of a small German Mennonite paper, edited in a near-by town, it was printed in that paper in German, which caused Sibylla, on hearing it, to be still more angry at the Professor's son. CHAPTER XXVII. "A POTATO PRETZEL." In the early part of September Mary's Aunt suggested she try to win the prize offered at the Farmers' Picnic in a near-by town for the best "Raised Potato Cake." Aunt Sarah's rye bread invariably captured first prize, and she proposed sending both bread and cake with Sibylla and Jake, who never missed picnic or fair within a radius of one hundred miles. [Illustration: "POTATO PRETZEL"] Mary set a sponge the evening of the day preceding that of the picnic, using recipe for "Perfection Potato Cake," which Aunt Sarah considered her best recipe for raised cakes, as 'twas one used by her mother for many years. On the day of the picnic, Mary arose at five o'clock, and while her Aunt was busily engaged setting sponge for her loaf of rye bread, Mary kneaded down the "potato cake" sponge, set to rise the previous evening, now rounded over top of bowl and light as a feather. She filled a couple of pans with buns, molded from the dough, and set them to rise. She then, under her Aunt's direction, fashioned the "Pretzel" as follows: She placed a piece of the raised dough on a large, well-floured bake board, rolled it over and over with both hands until a long, narrow roll or strip was formed about the width of two fingers in thickness and placed this strip carefully on the baking sheet, which was similar to the one on which Aunt Sarah baked rye bread; shaped the dough to form a figure eight (8) or pretzel, allowing about two inches of space on either side of baking sheet to allow for raising. She then cut a piece of dough into three portions, rolled each as thick as a finger, braided or plaited the three strips together and placed carefully on top of the figure eight, or pretzel, not meeting by a space of about two inches. This braided piece on the top should not be quite as thick as bottom or first piece of the pretzel. She then rolled three small pieces of dough into tiny strips or rolls the size of small lead pencils, wound them round and round and round into small scrolls, moistened the lower side with water to cause them to adhere, and placed them on the dividing line between the two halves of the figure eight. She placed an old china coffee cup without a handle, buttered on outside, in centre of each half of the figure eight, which kept the pretzel from spreading over the pan. With a small, new paint brush she brushed over the top of Pretzel and Buns, a mixture, consisting of one yolk of egg, an equal quantity of cream or milk (which should be lukewarm so as not to chill the raised dough) and one tablespoon of sugar. This causes the cakes, etc., to be a rich brown when baked, a result to be obtained in no other manner. When the pretzel was raised and had doubled in size 'twas baked in a moderately hot oven. Mary's surprise and delight may easily be imagined when Sibylla, on her return from the picnic, handed her the prize she had won, a two-pound box of chocolates, remarking, "Mary, you and Aunt Sarah both got a prize--her's is in the box what Jake's got." The box on being opened by Aunt Sarah contained a very pretty, silver-plated soup ladle, the prize offered for the best loaf of rye bread. "Aunt Sarah," inquired Mary one day, "do you think it pays a housekeeper to bake her own bread?" [Illustration: THE OLD STORE ON RIDGE ROAD] "Certainly, it pays, my dear. From a barrel of flour may be baked three hundred or more one-pound loaves of bread; should you pay five cents a loaf, the bread which may be made from one barrel of flour if bought from a bake shop would cost you fifteen dollars. Now, you add to the cost of a barrel of flour a couple of dollars for yeast, salt, etc., which altogether would not possibly be more than ten dollars, and you see the housewife has saved five dollars. It is true it is extra work for the housewife, but good, wholesome bread is such an important item, especially in a large family, I should advise the thrifty housekeeper to bake her own bread and bake less pie and cake, or eliminate less important duties, to be able to find time to bake bread. From the bread sponge may be made such a number of good, plain cakes by the addition of currants or raisins, which are more wholesome and cheaper than richer cakes." "I think what you say is true, Aunt Sarah," said Mary. "Frau Schmidt always bakes her own bread, and she tells me she sets a sponge or batter for white bread, and by the addition of Graham flour, cornmeal or oatmeal, always has a variety on her table with a small expenditure of time and money." [Illustration: A "BROD CORVEL" OR BREAD BASKET] CHAPTER XXVIII. FAITHFUL SERVICE. The home-making instinct was so strongly developed in Mary that her share in the labor of cooking and baking became a pleasure. Occasionally she had failures--what inexperienced cook has not?--yet they served only to spur her on to fresh efforts. She had several small scars on her wrist caused by her arm coming in contact with the hot oven when baking. She laughingly explained: "One bar on my arm represents that delicious 'Brod Torte' which Frau Schmidt taught me to bake; the other one I acquired when removing the sponge cake from the oven which Uncle John said 'equaled Aunt Sarah's' (which I consider highest praise), and the third bar I received when taking from the oven the 'Lemon Meringue,' Ralph's favorite pie, which he pronounced 'fine, almost too good to eat.'" Mary was as proud of her scars as a young, non-commissioned officer of the chevron on his sleeve, won by deeds of valor. The lessons Mary learned that summer on the farm while filling her hope chest and preparing her mind for wifehood were of inestimable value to her in later years. She learned not only to bake, brew and keep house, but from constant association with her Aunt she acquired a self-poise, a calm, serene manner, the value of which is beyond price in this swift, restless age. One day, while having a little heart-to-heart talk with Mary, her Aunt said: "My dear, never allow an opportunity to pass for doing a kind act. If ever so small, it may cheer some sad, lonely heart. Don't wait to do _big things_. The time may never come. If only a kind word, speak it at once. Kind words cost so little, and we should all be more prodigal with them; and to a tired, sad, discouraged soul, a kind word or act means so very much; and who is there that has not at some time in life known sorrow and felt the need of sympathy? Were our lives all sunshine we could not feel in touch with sorrowing friends. How natural it is for our hearts to go out in sympathy to the one who says 'I have suffered.' Give to your friend the warm hand-clasp and cheery greeting' which cost us nothing in the giving. 'Tis the little lifts which help us over stones in our pathway through life. We think our cross the heaviest when, did we but know the weight of others, we'd not willingly exchange; and remember Mary, 'there are no crown-bearers in Heaven that were not cross-bearers below.' Have you ever read the poem, 'The Changed Cross?' No? Well, I will give it to you to copy in your book of recipes. Should you ever, in future years, feel your cross too heavy to bear, read the poem. How many brave, cheery little women greet us with a smile as they pass. But little do we or any one realize that instead of a song in their hearts the smiles on their lips conceal troubles the world does not suspect, seeking to forget their own sorrows while doing kindly acts for others. They are the real heroes whom the world does not reward with medals for bravery, 'To stand with a smile upon your face against a stake from which you cannot get away, that, no doubt, is heroic; but the true glory is not resignation to the inevitable. To stand unchained, with perfect liberty to go away, held only by the higher claims of duty, and let the fire creep up to the heart, that is heroism.' Ah! how many good women have lived faithful to duty when 'twould have been far easier to have died!" "FAITHFUL OVER A FEW THINGS." Matt. xxv: 23. It may seem to you but a trifle, which you have been called to do; Just some humble household labor, away from the public view, But the question is, are you faithful, and striving to do your best, As in sight of the Blessed Master, while leaving to Him the rest? It may be but a little corner, which you have been asked to fill; What matters it, if you are in it, doing the Master's will? Doing it well and faithfully, and doing it with your might; Not for the praise it may bring you, but because the thing is right. In the sight of man you may never win anything like success; And the laurel crown of the victor may never your temples press; If only you have God's approval, 'twill not matter what else you miss, His blessing is Heaven beginning, His reward will be perfect bliss. Be faithful in every service, obedient to every call; Ever ready to do His bidding, whether in great things or small; You may seem to accomplish little, you may win the praise of none; But be sure you will win His favor, and the Master's great "Well Done." And when at His blessed coming, you stand at His judgment seat; He'll remember your faithful service and His smile will be Oh! so sweet! He will bid you a loving welcome, He'll make you to reign for aye, Over great things and o'er many, with Him, through eternal day. "THE CHANGED CROSS." It was a time of sadness, and my heart, Although it knew and loved the better part, Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, And all the needful discipline of life. And while I thought on these as given to me, My trial tests of faith and love to be, It seemed as if I never could be sure That faithful to the end I should endure. And thus, no longer trusting to His might, Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight"; Doubting and almost yielding to despair, The thought arose--My cross I cannot bear. Far heavier its weight must surely be Than those of others which I daily see; Oh! if I might another burden choose, Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. A solemn silence reigned on all around, E'en nature's voices uttered not a sound; The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. A moment's pause and then a heavenly light Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, And angels' music filled the balmy air. Then One more fair than all the rest to see-- One to whom all the others bowed the knee-- Came gently to me as I trembling lay, And, "Follow Me!" He said, "I am the Way." Then speaking thus, He led me far above, And there, beneath a canopy of love, Crosses of divers shapes and sizes were seen, Larger and smaller than my own had been. And one there was, most beauteous to behold, A little one, with jewels set in gold; Ah! this methought, I can with comfort wear, For it will be an easy one to bear. And so, the little cross I quickly took, But all at once, my frame beneath it shook; The sparkling jewels fair were they to see, But far too heavy was their weight for me. "This may not be," I cried, and looked again To see if there was any here could ease my pain; But one by one I passed them slowly by, Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, And grace and beauty seemed in it combined; Wondering, I gazed and still I wondered more, To think so many should have passed it o'er. But Oh! that form so beautiful to see, Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; Sorrowing, I said. "This cross I may not bear." And so it was with each and all around, Not one to suit my need could there be found; Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, As my guide gently said: "No cross, no crown." At length to him I raised my saddened heart, He knew its sorrows, bid its doubts depart; "Be not afraid," He said, "but trust in Me, My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." And then with lightened eyes and willing feet, Again I turned my earthly cross to meet; With forward footsteps, turning not aside For fear some hidden evil might betide. And there, in the prepared, appointed way, Listening to hear, and ready to obey, A cross I quickly found of plainest form, With only words of love inscribed thereon. With thankfulness, I raised it from the rest, And joyfully acknowledged it the best; The only one of all the many there That I could feel was good for me to bear. And while I thus my chosen one confessed, I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; And as I bent my burden to sustain, I recognized my own old cross again. But, oh! how different did it seem to be! Now I had learned its preciousness to see; No longer could I unbelievingly say: "Perhaps another is a better way." Oh, no! henceforth my own desire shall be That He who knows me best should choose for me, And so whate'er His love sees good to send, I'll trust its best, because He knows the end. And when that happy time shall come Of endless peace and rest, We shall look back upon our path And say: "It was the best." CHAPTER XXIX. MARY, RALPH, JAKE AND SIBYLLA VISIT THE ALLENTOWN FAIR. Late in September Jake and Sibylla drove to the Allentown Fair. It was "Big Thursday" of Fair week. They started quite early, long before Ralph Jackson, who had come from the city the day previous, to take Mary to the Fair, had arisen. [Illustration: SECOND CHURCH BUILDING Sheltered Liberty Bell, 1777-78. Photographed from the print of an old wood cut used in a German newspaper in the year 1840] Mary, while appreciating Sibylla's good qualities, never failed to be amused at her broad "Pennsylvania German" dialect. The morning of the "Fair," Mary arose earlier than usual to allow Sibylla and Jake to get an early start, as it was quite a distance from the farm to the Fair grounds. As they were about to drive away, Sibylla, alighting from the carriage, said, "I forgot my 'Schnupftuch.'" Returning with it in her hand, she called, as she climbed into Jake's buggy, "Gut-by, Mary, it looks fer rain." "Yes" said Jake, "I think it gives rain before we get back yet. The cornfodder in the barn this morning was damp like it had water on it." And said Mary, "The fragrance of the flowers was particularly noticeable early this morning." Jake, as it happened, was no false prophet. It did rain before evening. Later in the day, Mary and Ralph drove to a near-by town, leaving horse and carriage at the hotel until their return in the evening, and boarded a train for Allentown. On arriving there, they decided to walk up Hamilton Street, and later take a car out to the Fair grounds. As they sauntered slowly up the main street, Mary noticed a small church built between two large department stores and stopped to read a tablet on the church, which informed the passerby that "this is to commemorate the concealment of the Liberty Bell during the Revolutionary War. This tablet was erected by the Liberty Bell Chapter of the Daughters of the Revolution." The First Zion's Reformed Church was founded in 1762. In front of the Church a rough block of granite, erected to the memory of John Jacob Mickley, contained the following inscription: "In commemoration of the saving of the Liberty Bell from the British in 1777. Under cover of darkness and with his farm team, he, John Mickley, hauled the Liberty Bell from Independence Hall, Philadelphia, through the British lines, to Bethlehem, where the wagon broke down. The Bell was transferred to another wagon, brought to Allentown, placed beneath the floor of the _Second_ Church building of Zion's Reformed Church, where it remained secreted nearly a year. This _tablet_ was placed by the order of the Assembly of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, June 2nd, 1907, under the auspices of the Pennsylvania Daughters of the Revolution." This was all very interesting to a girl who had been born and reared in Philadelphia; one who in earliest childhood had been taught to love and venerate the "old Bell." Ralph was quite as interested in reading about the old Bell as was Mary, and said; "Did you know that the City of Philadelphia purchased the State House property, which included the Bell, in 1818, in consideration of the sum of seventy thousand dollars? No building is ever to be erected on the ground inside the wall on the south side of the State House, but it is to remain a public green and walk forever?" [Illustration] "No," replied Mary, "I did not know that. I don't think we will see anything of greater interest than this at the Fair." "I understand," said Ralph, "this is the third church building built on this site, where the original church stood in which the Bell was secreted." Mary, possessing a fair share of the curiosity usually attributed to the "female of the species," on noticing the church door standing ajar, asked Ralph to step inside with her, thinking to find the caretaker within; but no one was visible. A deep silence reigned in the cool, dim interior of the House of God. One could almost feel the silence, 'twas so impressive. Slowly they walked up the wide church aisle and stood before the quaint baptismal font. A stray sunbeam glancing through one of the beautiful, variously-colored memorial windows, lighted up the pictured saint-like faces over the chancel, making them appear as if imbued with life. Mary softly whispered to Ralph, as if loath to profane the sacredness of the place by loud talking, "I seem to hear a voice saying, 'The Lord is in His holy temple.'" Quietly retracing their steps, they, without meeting any one, emerged into the bright sunlight and were soon in the midst of the turmoil and traffic incident to the principal business street of a city. The young folks boarded a trolley and in a short time reached the Fair grounds, which offered many attractions to Ralph as well as Mary. The latter was interested in the fine display of needlework, fruits, flowers and vegetables of unusual size. Aunt Sarah's bread won a prize. A blue ribbon attached to Frau Schmidt's highly-prized, old-fashioned, patchwork quilt, showed it to be a winner. Ralph, being interested in the pens of fancy chickens, prize cattle, etc., Mary reluctantly left the woman's department of fancy work, and other interesting things, and accompanied him. On their way to the outlying cattle sheds they noticed two lovers sitting on a bench. Upon a second glance they were convinced that it was Jake and Sibylla. Jake, beaming with happiness, said, "Sibylla vos side by me yet?" They were busily engaged eating a lunch consisting of rolls with hot "weiners" between the two halves, or, as Jake called them, "Doggies," munching pretzels and peanuts between sips of strong coffee, both supremely happy. A yearly visit to the Allentown Fair on "Big Thursday," was _the event_ in their dull, prosaic lives. [Illustration: DURHAM CAVE] CHAPTER XXX. FRITZ SCHMIDT EXPLORES DURHAM CAVE. It appeared to be nothing new for Fritz Schmidt to get into trouble; rather the contrary. One day in early Fall, after the first frost, he, in company with a number of boys, drove to Durham, not many miles distant from his home, in search of persimmons, the crop of which, on account of the severity of the preceding winter, old farmers had predicted would be exceedingly heavy. Fritz did not tell the boys of his intention to explore a cave which he had been told was in the neighborhood, thinking it would be a good joke to explore the cave first, then tell the boys later of his adventure. The old gentleman from whom Fritz gained his information relative to the cave aroused the boy's curiosity by saying, "Very many years ago, a skeleton was found in Durham cave and one of the bones, on examination, proved to be the thigh bone of a human being. How he came there, or the manner of his death, was never known." A large room in the cave is known as "Queen Esther's Drawing Room," where, tradition has it "Queen Esther," or Catharine Montour, which was her rightful name, at one time inhabited this cave with some of her Indian followers. Fritz accidentally stumbled upon the mouth of the cave. None of the other boys being in sight, Fritz quickly descended into the cave, which was dark as night. By lighting a second match as quickly as one was burned, he explored quite a distance, when, accidentally dropping his box of matches, the burning match in his hand, at the same moment, flickered faintly, then went out, leaving Fritz in darkness. Imagine the feelings of the boy, as he groped unsuccessfully on the floor of the cavern for the lost match box. Finally, he gave up in despair. Fritz was not a cowardly boy, but while searching for the matches, he, without thinking, had turned around several times, lost his bearings and knew not in which direction to go to reach the opening of the cave. He heard strange noises which he imagined were bats flopping their wings. There appeared to be something uncanny about the place, and Fritz devoutly wished himself out in the sunshine, when a quotation he had frequently heard his father use came into his mind: "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of." So Fritz knelt down and prayed as he had been taught to pray at his mother's knee, but more earnestly than he had ever prayed before in his life, that God would help him find his way out of the cave, believing that his prayer would be answered. And who shall say it was not answered? For, stumbling onward in the darkness, not knowing if he were coming toward the cave's entrance or going in the opposite direction, he eventually hailed with joy a faint streak of light which he followed, and it soon brought him to the mouth of the cave. He was surprised on joining his companions to find they had not been alarmed at his absence. He had been in the cave only thirty minutes, but to him it had seemed hours. Fritz says to this day he has a horror of Durham Cave or "The Devil's Hole," as it was formerly called. [Illustration: THE WOODLAND STREAM] CHAPTER XXXI. MARY'S MARRIAGE. His vacation ended, after a busy season at the farm, Ralph Jackson returned to his work in the city, strong and robust. He had acquired the coat of tan which Mary's Uncle had predicted. Physically strong as the "Cave Man" of old, he felt capable of moving mountains, and as was natural, he being only a human man, longed for the mate he felt God had intended should one day be his, as men have done since our first gardener, Adam, and will continue to do until the end of time. When visiting the farm, an event which occurred about every two weeks, Ralph constantly importuned Mary to name an early day for their marriage. Mary, with a young girl's impulsiveness, had given her heart unreservedly into the keeping of Ralph Jackson, her first sweetheart. Mary was not naturally cold or unresponsive, neither was she lacking in passion. She had had a healthy girlhood, and a wholesome home life. She had been taught the conventional ideals of the marriage relations that have kept the race strong throughout the centuries. Mary possessed great strength of character and fine moral courage. Frequently, not wishing to show her real feeling for the young man; too well poised to be carried off into the wrong channel, defended and excused by many over-sentimental and light-headed novelists of the day, she sometimes appeared almost indifferent to the impetuous youth with warm, red blood leaping in his veins, who desired so ardently to possess her. Mary's Aunt had taught her the sanctity of parenthood, also that women are not always the weaker sex. There are times when they must show their superiority to "mere man" in being the stronger of the two, mentally if not physically, and Ralph Jackson knew when he called Mary "wife" she would endow him with all the wealth of her pure womanhood, sacredly kept for the clean-souled young man, whose devotion she finally rewarded by promising to marry him the second week in October. Sibylla Linsabigler, a good but ignorant girl, accustomed to hearing her elder brothers speak slightingly regarding the sanctity of love and marriage, was greatly attached to Mary, whom she admired exceedingly, and looked up to almost as a superior being. She unconsciously imitated many of Mary's ways and mannerisms, and sought to adopt her higher ideals of life and standard of morals. One Sunday, as Jake Crouthamel was spending the evening with Sibylla, as was his usual custom, he attempted some slight familiarity, which annoyed Sibylla greatly. Jake, noticing the young girl's displeasure at his action, remarked, "I think me Sibylla, you are stuck up yet" (a grave fault in the Bucks County farm hand's opinion). "No, Chake," Sibylla replied, "I ain't, but Mary, she say a man gives a girl more respect what keeps herself to herself before she is married, and I lofe you Chake and want that you respect me if we marry." Fritz and Elizabeth Schmidt, on hearing the news of Mary's approaching marriage, promptly begged the privilege of decorating the old farm house parlor for the expected ceremony. They scoured the surrounding woods and countryside for decorations; along old stone fences and among shrubbery by the roadside they gathered large branches of Bitter Sweet. Its racemes of orange-colored fruit, which later in the season becomes beautiful, when the orange gives place to a brilliant red, the outer covering of the berry turns back upon the stems, forming one of the prettiest pictures imaginable in late Autumn. They also gathered branches of feathery wild clematis, which, after the petals had fallen, resembled nothing so much as a cluster of apple seeds, each seed tipped with what appeared like a tiny osprey feather. From the woods near the farm they gathered quantities of trailing ground pine and rainbow-tinted leaves from the numerous brilliant scarlet and yellow maples, which appeared brighter in contrast to the sober-hued trees of shellbark, oak and chestnut. [Illustration: POLLY SCHMIDT.] The wedding gifts sent to Mary were odd, useful and numerous. The Campfire Girls, to whom she became endeared, gave her a "Kitchen Shower," consisting of a clothes basket (woven by an old basketmaker from the willows growing not far distant), filled to overflowing with everything imaginable that could possibly be useful to a young housekeeper, from the half dozen neatly-hemmed linen, blue ribbon tied, dish clothes, to really handsome embroidered articles from the girls to whom she had given instructions in embroidery during the past summer. Sibylla's wedding present to Mary was the work of her own strong, willing hands, and was as odd and original as useful. 'Twas a "door mat" made from corn husks, braided into a rope, then sewed round and round and formed into an oval mat. Mary laughingly told Sibylla she thought when 'twas placed on her kitchen doorstep she'd ask every one to please step over it, as it was too pretty to be trod on, which greatly pleased the young girl, who had spent many hours of loving thought and labor on the simple, inexpensive gift. Mary received from Professor Schmidt a small but excellent copy of one of the world's most famous pictures, "The Night Watch," painted by Rembrandt, in 1642. "My dear," said the old Professor, "I saw what _was said to be_ the original of this painting, the property of Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, at the St. Louis Exposition in 1904. It was in a small, separate building. The size of the picture was fifteen feet by twenty feet. It is the largest and best known of Rembrandt's works. It acquired the wrong title of 'Night Watch' in a period when, owing to the numerous coats of varnish and the effect of smoke and dust, it had gotten so dark in appearance that only the most lucid parts could be discerned. Nowadays, nobody doubts that the light falling from the left on the boisterous company is that of the sun. The musketeers are remarching out of the high archway of their hall, crossing the street in front of it, and going up a bridge. The architecture of the building is a product of Rembrandt's imagination. The steps, also, which we see the men descending, were put there simply to make those at the back show out above those in the front ranks. The march out was to be above all a portrait group. Sixteen persons had each paid their contributions, a hundred guilders on the average, to have their likenesses transmitted to posterity, and every one of them was therefore to be fully visible." "It is certainly a wonderful picture," said Mary, "and while I have seen few pictures painted by old masters, I think, even with my limited knowledge of art, I cannot fail to appreciate this excellent copy, and I thank you heartily. Professor, and shall always be reminded of you when I look at this copy of a great work." Mary would not go empty-handed to Ralph at her marriage. Her "hope chest" in the attic was full to overflowing, and quite unique in itself, as it consisted of an old, in fact ancient, wooden dough-tray used in times past by Aunt Sarah's grandmother. Beside it stood a sewing table, consisting of three discarded broom handles supporting a cheese-box cover, with wooden cheese-box underneath for holding Mary's sewing; stained brown and cretonne lined. Mary valued it as the result of the combined labor of herself and Ralph Jackson. A roll of new, home-made rag carpet, patchwork quilts and "New Colonial" rugs, jars of fruit, dried sweet corn, home-made soap, crocks of apple butter, jellies, jams and canned vegetables all bore evidence of Mary's busy Summer at the farm. The day of Mary's marriage, the twelfth of October, dawned clear and bright, sunshine warm as a day in June. In the centre of the gayly-decorated old farm house parlor, wearing a simple, little, inexpensive dress of soft, creamy muslin, we find Mary standing beside Ralph, who is looking supremely satisfied and happy, although a trifle pale and nervous, listening to the solemn words of the minister. Ralph's "I will" sounded clearly and distinctly through the long room. Mary, with a sweet, serious, faraway look in her blue eyes, repeated slowly after the minister, "I promise to love, honor and"--then a long pause. She glanced shyly up at the young man by her side as if to make sure he was worth it, then in a low, clear tone, added, "obey." Ralph Jackson certainly deserved the appellation "Cave Man" given him by Fritz Schmidt. He was considerably more than six feet in height, with broad, square shoulders, good features, a clear brain and a sound body. He had never used intoxicants of any description. He sometimes appeared quite boyish in his ways, for on account of his matured look and great size he was frequently judged to be older than he really was. Aunt Sarah had provided a bounteous repast for the few friends assembled, and while looking after the comfort of her guests tears dimmed the kindly, gray eyes at the thought of parting from Mary. Small Polly Schmidt, as flower girl at the wedding, was so excited she scarcely knew if she should laugh or cry, and finally compromised by giving Mary what she called a "bear hug," much to Mary's amusement. Fritz gravely said: "Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Jackson," and turning to Mary, "I wish you a beautiful and happy life, Mrs. Jackson." Mary blushed becomingly on hearing her new name for the first time. Bidding farewell to friends, Mary and Ralph, accompanied by her Uncle, were driven by "Chake" to the depot in a near-by town, where they boarded the train for the little, newly-furnished home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, the deed of which was Mary's wedding gift from her Uncle, in appreciation of her faithful service on the farm during the summer and for the brightness she had brought into his life and the lives of those with whom she had come in contact, as every one at the farm had felt the captivating charm and winning sweetness of the young girl. As the train came in sight, the old gentleman, in a voice husky with emotion, bade the young couple, just starting the journey of life together, an affectionate farewell, and repeated solemnly, almost as a benediction, "Es Salamu Aleikum." [Illustration] MARY'S COLLECTION OF RECIPES SMALL ECONOMIES, "LEFT-OVERS" OR "IVERICH BLEIBST" AS AUNT SARAH CALLED THEM. "The young housewife," said Aunt Sarah to Mary, in a little talk on small economies in the household, "should never throw away pieces of hard cheese. Grate them and keep in a cool, dry place until wanted, then spread lightly over the top of a dish of macaroni, before baking; or sprinkle over small pieces of dough remaining after baking pies, roll thin, cut in narrow strips like straws, and bake light brown in a hot oven, as 'Cheese Straws.'" Wash and dry celery tips in oven, and when not wished for soup they may be used later for seasoning. The undesirable outer leaves of a head of lettuce, if fresh and green, may be used if cut fine with scissors, and a German salad dressing added. The heart of lettuce should, after washing carefully, be placed in a piece of damp cheese cloth and put on ice until wanted, then served at table "au natural," with olive oil and vinegar or mayonnaise dressing to suit individual taste. Should you have a large quantity of celery, trim and carefully wash the roots, cut them fine and add to soup as flavoring. Almost all vegetables may be, when well cooked, finely mashed, strained, and when added to stock, form a nourishing soup by the addition of previously-cooked rice or barley. Add small pieces of meat, well-washed bones cut from steaks or roasts, to the stock pot. Small pieces of ham or bacon (left-overs), also bacon or ham _gravy_ not thickened with flour may be used occasionally, when making German salad dressing for dandelion, endive, lettuce or water cress, instead of frying fresh pieces of bacon. [Illustration: AN OLD FASHIONED BUCKS COUNTY BAKE OVEN] It is a great convenience, also economical, to keep a good salad dressing on hand, and when the white of an egg is used, the yolk remaining may he added at once to the salad dressing (previously prepared). Mix thoroughly, cook a minute and stand away in a cool place. Young housekeepers will be surprised at the many vegetables, frequently left-overs, from which appetizing salads may be made by the addition of a couple tablespoonfuls of mayonnaise, besides nut meats, lettuce, watercress, celery and fruit, all of which may be used to advantage. A good potato salad is one of the cheapest and most easily prepared salads. A German dressing for dandelions, lettuce or potatoes may be prepared in a few minutes by adding a couple of tablespoonfuls of salad dressing (which the forehanded housewife will always keep on hand) to a little hot ham or bacon gravy. Stirring it while hot over the salad and serving at once. A cup of mashed potatoes, left over from dinner, covered and set aside in a cool place, may be used the next day, with either milk or potato water, to set a sponge for "Dutch Cake," or cinnamon buns with equally good results as if they had been freshly boiled (if the potatoes be heated luke-warm and mashed through a sieve); besides the various other ways in which cold boiled potatoes may be used. Fruit juices or a couple tablespoonfuls of tart jelly or preserved fruit may be added to mincemeat with advantage. Housewives should make an effort to give their family good, plain, nourishing, wholesome food. The health of the family depends so largely on the quality of food consumed. When not having time, strength or inclination to bake cake, pies or puddings, have instead good, sweet, home-made bread and fruit; if nothing else, serve stewed fruit or apple sauce. Omit meat occasionally from the bill of fare and serve instead a dish of macaroni and cheese and fruit instead of other dessert. Serve a large, rich, creamy rice pudding for the children's lunch. When eggs are cheap and plentiful make simple custards, old-fashioned cornmeal puddings, tapioca, bread puddings and gelatine with fruits. These are all good, wholesome, and not expensive, and in Summer may be prepared in the cool of the early morning with small outlay of time, labor or money. Plan your housework well the day before and have everything in readiness. The pudding may be placed in the oven and baked white preparing breakfast, economizing coal and the time required for other household duties. Every wife and mother who does her own housework and cooking these days (and their number is legion) knows the satisfaction one experiences, especially in hot weather, in having dinner and luncheon planned and partly prepared early in the morning before leaving the kitchen to perform other household tasks. Another small economy of Aunt Sarah's was the utilizing of cold mashed potatoes in an appetizing manner. The mashed potatoes remaining from a former meal were put through a small fruit press or ricer to make them light and flaky. To one heaped cup of mashed potatoes (measured before pressing them through fruit press) she added 3/4 cup of soft, stale bread crumbs, 1/4 cup of flour sifted with 1/4 teaspoonful of baking powder. Mix in lightly with a fork yolk of one egg, then the stiffly beaten white, seasoned with salt and a little minced onion or parsley, or both. With well-floured hands she molded the mixture into balls the size of a shelled walnut, dropped into rapidly boiling water and cooked them uncovered from 15 to 20 minutes, then skimmed them from the water and browned in a pan with a little butter and served on platter with meat, a pot roast or beef preferred. From the above quantity of potatoes was made five potato balls. THE MANY USES OF STALE BREAD Never waste stale bread, as it may be used to advantage in many ways. The young housewife will be surprised at the many good, wholesome and appetizing dishes which may be made from stale bread, with the addition of eggs and milk. Take a half dozen slices of stale bread of equal size and place in a hot oven a few minutes to become crisped on the outside so they may be quickly toasted over a hot fire, a delicate brown. Butter them and for breakfast serve with a poached egg on each slice. A plate of hot, crisp, nicely-browned and buttered toast is always a welcome addition to the breakfast table. Serve creamed asparagus tips on slices of toast for luncheon. The economical housewife carefully inspects the contents of her bread box and refrigerator every morning before planning her meals for the day, and is particular to use scraps of bread and left-over meat and vegetables as quickly as possible. Especially is this necessary in hot weather. Never use any food unless perfectly sweet and fresh. If otherwise, it is unfit for use. Loaves of bread which have become stale can be freshened if wrapped in a damp cloth for a few minutes, then remove and place in a hot oven until heated through. For a change, toast slices of stale bread quite crisp and serve a plate of hot, plain toast at table, to be eaten broken in small pieces in individual bowls of cold milk. Still another way is to put the stiffly-beaten white of an egg on the centre of a hot, buttered slice of toast, carefully drop the yolk in the centre of the beaten white and place in hot oven a few minutes to cook. Serve with a bit of butter on top, season with pepper and salt. Serve at once. Another way to use stale bread is to toast slices of bread, spread with butter, pour over 1 cup of hot milk, in which has been beaten 1 egg and a pinch of salt. Serve in a deep dish. Or a cup of hot milk may be poured over crisply-toasted slices of buttered bread, without the addition of an egg. "BROD GRUMMELLA" In a bowl containing 1 cup of soft bread crumbs pour 1 cup of sweet milk, then add the slightly-beaten yolks of three eggs, a little pepper and salt, then the stiffly-beaten whites of the three eggs. Place in a fry-pan a tablespoonful of butter and 1 of lard or drippings; when quite hot pour the omelette carefully in the pan. When it begins to "set" loosen around the edges and from the bottom with a knife. When cooked turn one side over on the other half, loosen entirely from the pan, then slide carefully on a hot platter and serve at once. Garnish with parsley. CROUTONS AND CRUMBS Still another way is to make croutons. Cut stale bread into small pieces, size of dice, brown in hot oven and serve with soup instead of serving crackers. Small pieces of bread that cannot be used otherwise should be spread over a large pan, placed in a moderate oven and dried until crisp. They may then be easily rolled fine with a rolling-pin or run through the food chopper and then sifted, put in a jar, stood in a dry place until wanted, but not in an air-tight jar. Tie a piece of cheese-cloth over the top of jar. These crumbs may be used for crumbing eggplant, oysters, veal cutlets or croquettes. All should be dipped in beaten white of eggs and then in the crumbs, seasoned with salt and pepper, then floated in a pan of hot fat composed of 2/3 lard and 1/3 suet. All except veal cutlets. They should be crumbed, not floated in deep fat, but fried slowly in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter and lard. Also fry fish in a pan of hot fat. Shad is particularly fine, prepared in this manner (when not baked). Cut in small pieces, which when breaded are floated in hot fat. If the fat is the right temperature when the fish is put in, it absorbs less fat than when fried in a small quantity of lard and butter. "ZWEIBACH" Cut wheat bread in slices not too thin. Place in a warm, not hot, oven, and allow it to remain until thoroughly dry and crisp. Place in a toaster or a wire broiler over a hot fire and toast a golden brown and allow it to remain in the oven until toasted. Keep in cool place until used. Zweibach is considered more wholesome than fresh bread. "GERMAN" EGG BREAD Cut stale bread into slices about 3/4 inch thick. Cut slices in half, and soak for a few minutes, turning frequently, in the following mixtures: 1 pint of sweet milk, 3 eggs, 1 teaspoonful flour mixed smooth with a little of the cold milk and a pinch of salt. Fry half dozen slices of thinly-sliced bacon in a pan. Put bacon, when fried, in oven to keep hot. Dip the slices of soaked bread in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry quickly in the bacon fat (to which has been added one tablespoon of butter) to a golden brown. Serve at once on the same platter with the bacon, or instead of using bacon fat, fry the crumbed bread in sweet drippings, or a tablespoonful each of lard and butter. This is an appetizing and wholesome breakfast or luncheon dish, served with a tart jelly, either currant or grape. CREAMED TOAST Partly fill a large tureen with slices of crisply-browned and buttered toast. (Slices of bread which have become dry and hard may be used for this dish.) When ready to serve, not before, pour over the toasted slices 1 quart of hot milk to which 1 teaspoonful of flour or cornstarch has been added, after being mixed smoothly with a little cold milk or water and cooked a few minutes until thick as cream. Add also a pinch of salt. If milk is not plentiful, prepare one pint of milk and dip each slice of toasted bread quickly in a bowl of hot water; place in a deep dish and quickly pour over the hot milk, to which a tablespoonful of butter has been added, and serve at once. BREAD AND ROLLS Bread, called the "Staff of Life," on account of its nutritive value, should head the list of foods for human consumption. Bread making should stand first in the "Science of Cooking," as there is no one food upon which the comfort, health and well-being of the average family so largely depends as upon good bread. There is absolutely no reason why the housewife of the present day should not have good, sweet, wholesome, home-made bread, if good yeast, good flour and common-sense are used. The milk or water used to mix with flour for making bread sponge should be lukewarm. If too hot, the loaves will be full of holes and coarse grained. If too cold the bread, chilled, will not rise as it should have done had the liquid used been the right temperature. Good bread may be made by using milk, potato water or whey (drained from thick sour milk), and good bread may be made by simply using lukewarm water. I prefer a mixture of milk and water to set sponge. Milk makes a fine-grained, white bread, but it soon dries out and becomes stale. Bread rises more slowly when milk is used. When mashed potatoes are used, the bread keeps moist a longer time. Should you wish extra fine, white, delicate bread, add one cup of sweet cream to the liquid when setting sponge. When milk is used the dough is slower in rising, but makes a creamy-looking and fine-flavored bread. When one Fleischman yeast cake is used in any recipe the ordinary half-ounce cake of compressed yeast is intended, twenty-eight cakes in a pound. These are usually kept in a large refrigerator in a temperature of 44 degrees and should not be kept longer in the home than three days in Summer or six days in Winter, and should always be kept in a cool place until used, if the cook would have success when using. Use the best hard, Spring wheat flour obtainable for baking bread, or any sponge raised with yeast, as this flour contains a greater quantity of gluten and makes bread of high nutritive value. Winter wheat maybe used for cake-making and for baking pastry with excellent results, although costing less than Spring wheat. Always sift flour before using, when setting sponge for bread. When mixing sponge use one quart liquid to about three pounds of flour. "Aunt Sarah" always cut several gashes with a sharp knife on top of loaves when ready to be placed in oven. She also made several cuts across the top of loaves with a hot knife when set to rise to allow gas to escape. If an impression made on a loaf of bread with the finger remains, the bread is light. If the dent disappears, then the loaf is not light enough to be placed in the oven; give it more time to rise. An experienced cook, noted for the excellence and size of her loaves of bread, said she always inverted a pail over the pan containing loaves of bread when set to rise, and allowed the bread to remain covered after being placed in the oven. Loaves will rise to a greater height if this is done. Remove the covering to allow loaves to brown a short time before taking them from the oven. "Aunt Sarah" frequently placed four loaves in her large roasting pan, covered the pan, when set to rise, and allowed the cover to remain until loaves were nearly baked. She brushed the top and sides of loaves with melted butter when set to rise to allow of their being broken apart easily. A more crusty loaf is secured by placing each loaf singly in medium-sized bread tins. Aunt Sarah considered Fleischman's compressed yeast the best commercial yeast in use, both quick and reliable, but thought better bread was never made than that made by her mother, as she had been taught to make it in years past, by the old-fashioned and slower "sponge method." She was invariably successful in making sweet, wholesome bread in that manner. She used home-made potato yeast or "cornmeal yeast cakes," under different names, always with good results. Good bread may be made either by the old-fashioned "sponge" method or "straight." Sponge method consists of a batter mixed from liquid yeast (usually home-made potato yeast is used) and a small part of the flour required for making the bread. This batter was usually set to rise at night and mixed up in the centre of a quantity of flour, in an old-fashioned wooden dough tray. The following morning enough flour was kneaded in to form a dough, and when well-raised and light, this dough was formed into loaves and placed in pans for the final rising. The more easily and more quickly made "straight" dough, when using Fleischman's compressed yeast, is mixed in the morning and all the ingredients necessary are added at one time. It is then set to rise and, when the dough has doubled in bulk, it is kneaded down and when risen to once and half its size, shaped into loaves, placed in pans to rise and, when risen to top of pans, bake. Better bread may be made from flour not freshly milled. Flour should be kept in a dry place; it improves with moderate age. Stand flour in a warm place to dry out several hours before using if you would have good bread. When baking bread the heat of the oven should not be _too great_ at _first_, or the outside of the bread will harden too quickly and inside the loaves will not be thoroughly baked before the crust is thick and dark. The temperature of the oven and time required for baking depend upon the size of the loaves, yet the bread should be placed in rather a quick oven, one in which the loaves should brown in about fifteen minutes, when the heat may be reduced, finishing the baking more slowly. Small biscuits and rolls can stand a much hotter oven and quicker baking than large loaves, which must be heated slowly, and baked a longer time. A one-pound loaf should bake about one hour. On being taken from the oven, bread should be placed on a sieve, so that the air can circulate about it until it is thoroughly cooled. In the _Farmers' Bulletin_, we read: "The lightness and sweetness depend as much on the way bread is made as on the materials used." The greatest care should be used in preparing and baking the dough and in cooking and keeping the finished bread. Though good housekeepers agree that light, well-raised bread can readily be made, with reasonable care and attention, heavy, badly-raised bread is unfortunately very common. Such bread is not palatable and is generally considered to be unwholesome, and probably more indigestion has been caused by it than by any other badly-cooked food. As compared with most meats and vegetables, bread has practically no waste and is very completely digested, but it is usually too poor in proteins to be fittingly used as the sole article of diet, but when eaten with due quantities of other food, it is invaluable and well deserves its title of "Staff of Life." When the housewife "sets" bread sponge to rise over night, she should mix the sponge or dough quite late, and early in the morning mold it at once into shapely-looking loaves (should the sponge have had the necessary amount of flour added the night before for making a stiff dough). Being aware of the great nutritive value of raisins and dried currants, Aunt Sarah frequently added a cup of either one or the other, well-floured, to the dough when shaping into loaves for the final rising. Aunt Sarah frequently used a mixture of butter and lard when baking on account of its being more economical, and for the reason that a lesser quantity of lard may be used; the shortening qualities being greater than that of butter. The taste of lard was never detected in her bread or cakes, they being noted for their excellence, as the lard she used was home-rendered, almost as sweet as dairy butter, free from taste or odor of pork. She always beat lard to a cream when using it for baking cakes, and salted it well before using, and I do not think the small quantity used could be objected to on hygienic principles. I have read "bread baking" is done once every three or four weeks, no oftener, in some of the farm houses of Central Europe, and yet stale bread is there unknown. Their method of keeping bread fresh is to sprinkle flour into a large sack and into this pack the loaves, taking care to have the top crusts of bread touch each other. If they have to lie bottom to bottom, sprinkle flour between them. Swing the sack in a dry place. It must swing and there must be plenty of flour between the loaves. It sounds more odd than reasonable, I confess. "BUCKS COUNTY" HEARTH-BAKED RYE BREAD (AS MADE BY AUNT SARAH) 1 quart sweet milk (scalded and cooled). 1 tablespoonful lard or butter. 2 table spoonsful sugar. 1/2 tablespoonful salt. 1 cup wheat flour. 3 quarts rye flour (this includes the one cup of wheat flour). 1 Fleischman yeast cake or 1 cup of potato yeast. [Illustration: "BUCKS COUNTY" RYE BREAD] Pour 1 quart of luke-warm milk in a bowl holding 7 quarts. Add butter, sugar and salt, 1-1/2 quarts rye flour and 1 cup of yeast, or one Fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a little lukewarm water. Beat thoroughly, cover with cloth, and set in a warm place to rise about three hours, or until it almost reaches the top of bowl. When light, stir in the remaining 1-1/2 quarts of rye flour, in which one cup of wheat is included; turn out on a well-floured bake board and knead about twenty minutes. Shape dough into one high, round loaf, sprinkle flour _liberally_ over top and sides of loaf, and place carefully into the clean bowl on top of a _well-floured_ cloth. Cover and set to rise about one hour, when it should be light and risen to top of bowl. Turn the bowl containing the loaf carefully upside down on the centre of a hot sheet iron taken from the hot oven and placed on top of range. A tablespoonful of flour should have been sifted over the sheet iron before turning the loaf out on it. Remove cloth from dough carefully after it has been turned from bowl and place the sheet iron containing loaf _immediately in the hot oven_, as it will then rise at once and not spread. Bake at least sixty minutes. Bread is seldom baked long enough to be wholesome, especially graham and rye bread. When baked and still hot, brush the top of loaf with butter and wash the bottom of loaf well with a cloth wrung out of cold water, to soften the lower, hard-baked crust. Wrap in a damp cloth and stand aside to cool where the air will circulate around it. Always set rye bread to rise early in the morning of the same day it is to be baked, as rye sponge sours more quickly than wheat sponge. The bread baked from this recipe has the taste of bread which, in olden times, was baked in the brick ovens of our grandmother's day, and that bread was unexcelled. I know of what I am speaking, having watched my grandmother bake bread in an old-fashioned brick oven, and have eaten hearth-baked rye bread, baked directly on the bottom of the oven, and know, if this recipe be closely followed, the young housewife will have sweet, wholesome bread. Some Germans use Kumel or Caraway seed in rye bread. Aunt Sarah's loaves of rye bread, baked from the above recipe, were invariably 3-1/2 inches high, 14-1/2 inches in diameter and 46 inches in circumference and always won a blue ribbon at Country Fairs and Farmers' Picnics. In the oven of Aunt Sarah's range was always to be found a piece of sheet iron 17 inches in length by 16 inches in width. The three edges of the sheet iron turned down all around to a depth of half an inch, the two opposite corners being cut off about a half inch, to allow of its being turned down. It is a great convenience for young housewives to possess two of these sheet-iron tins, or "baking sheets," when baking small cakes or cookies, as being raised slightly from the bottom of the oven, cakes are less liable to scorch and bake more evenly. One sheet may be filled while baking another sheetful of cakes. In this manner a large number of cakes may be baked in a short time. This baking sheet was turned the opposite way, upside down, when baking a loaf of rye bread on it, and when the loaf of bread was partly baked the extra baking sheet was slipped under the bottom of the one containing the loaf, in case the oven was quite hot, to prevent the bottom of the bread scorching. Wheat bread may be baked in the same manner as rye bread, substituting wheat flour for rye. These baking sheets may be made by any tinsmith, and young housewives, I know, would not part with them, once they realize how invaluable they are for baking small cakes on them easily and quickly. "FRAU SCHMIDTS" GOOD WHITE BREAD (SPONGE METHOD) To one quart of potato water, drained from potatoes which were boiled for mid-day dinner, she added about 1/2 cup of finely-mashed hot potatoes and stood aside. About four o'clock in the afternoon she placed one pint of lukewarm potato water and mashed potatoes in a bowl with 1/4 cup of granulated sugar and 1/2 a dissolved Fleischman's yeast cake, beat all well together, covered with a cloth and stood in a warm place until light and foamy. About nine o'clock in the evening she added the reserved pint of (lukewarm) potato water and 1/2 tablespoonful of salt to the yeast sponge, with enough warmed, well-dried flour to stiffen, and kneaded it until dough was fine-grained. She also cut through the dough frequently with a sharp knife. When the dough was elastic and would not adhere to molding-board or hands, she placed it in a bowl, brushed melted lard or butter over top to prevent a crust forming, covered warmly with a cloth and allowed it to stand until morning. Frau Schmidt always rose particularly early on bake day, for fear the sponge might fall or become sour, if allowed to stand too long. She molded the dough into four small loaves, placed it in pans to rise until it doubled its original bulk. When light she baked it one hour. Bread made according to these directions was fine-grained, sweet and wholesome. She always cut several gashes across top of loaf with a sharp knife when loaves were set to rise, to allow gas to escape. EXCELLENT "GRAHAM BREAD" At 6.30 A.M. place in a quart measure 1/2 cup of sweet cream and 3-1/2 cups of milk, after being scalded (1 quart all together). When lukewarm, add 1 Fleischman yeast cake, dissolved in a little of the luke warm milk, 3 tablespoonfuls sugar and 1 tablespoonful salt. Add 3 cups each of white bread flour and 3 cups of graham flour (in all 6 cups or 1-1/2 quarts of flour). Mix well together and stand in a warm place, closely covered, a couple of hours, until well-risen. Then stir sponge down and add about 2-1/2 cups each of graham and of white flour. (Sponge for graham bread should not be quite as stiff as a sponge prepared from white flour.) Set to rise again for an hour, or longer; when light, stir down sponge and turn on to a well-floured board. Knead well, divide into four portions, mold into four small, shapely loaves, brush with soft butter, place in well-greased pans, set to rise, and in about one hour they should be ready to put in a moderately-hot oven. Bake about fifty minutes. Graham bread should be particularly well-baked. Brush loaves, when baked, with butter, which makes a crisp crust with a nutty flavor. Should cream not be available, one quart of scalded milk, containing one tablespoonful of butter, may be used with good results. If cream be used with the milk, no shortening is required in the bread. Bread is considered more wholesome when no shortening is used in its preparation. GRAHAM BREAD (AN OLD RECIPE) 2 cups sour milk 2 cups sweet milk or water. 1 teaspoon soda (Salaratus) Graham flour. 1/2 cup molasses. 1 tablespoonful melted butter. Pinch of salt. Stiffen about as thick as ordinary molasses cake. Bake at once. "MARY'S" RECIPE FOR WHEAT BREAD 1 cup sweet milk (scalded). 1 cup cold water. 1 cake Fleischman's yeast (dissolved in a small quantity of luke-warm water). 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls sugar. 1 rounded teaspoonful salt. 1 tablespoonful butter. Flour, about 1-1/2 quarts. This makes good bread and, as bread is apt to chill if set over night in a cold kitchen, or sour if allowed to stand over night in summer, set this sponge early in the morning. Stiffen with flour and knead about 25 minutes; place the dough in a covered bowl in a warm place to rise about two hours and when well-risen and light, knead and stand one hour. Then mold into shapely loaves, place in pans, brush tops of loaves with melted butter, and when doubled in bulk, in about 45 minutes put in an oven which is so hot you can hold your hand in only while you count thirty, or if a little flour browns in the oven in about six minutes, it is hot enough for bread. The oven should be hot enough to brown the bread slightly five minutes after being put in. Medium-sized loaves of bread require from 3/4 of an hour to one hour to bake. When bread is sufficiently baked it can be told by turning the loaf over and rapping with the knuckles on the bottom of the loaf. If it sounds hollow, it is thoroughly baked, and should be taken from the oven. Stand loaves up on end against some object, where the air can circulate around them, and brush a little butter over the top to soften the crust. An authority on the chemistry of foods cautious housewives against cooling loaves of bread too rapidly after taking from the oven, and I should like to add a word of caution against eating fresh breads of any kind. Bread should be baked at least twelve hours before being eaten. The sponge for this bread was set at 6 o'clock in the morning; bread was baked at 10.30. From 1 pint of liquid, 1 cake of yeast and about 1-1/2 quarts of flour were made two loaves of bread. More yeast is required to raise a sponge containing sugar, eggs and shortening than is required to raise bread sponge containing only liquid, flour and yeast. "FRAU SCHMIDTS" EASILY-MADE GRAHAM BREAD Should you care to have a couple of loaves of graham bread instead of all-wheat, take a generous cup of the above sponge before it is stiffened beyond a thick batter, and add one tablespoonful of brown sugar or molasses, stiffen with graham flour (not quite as stiff as when making wheat bread), rub butter or lard on top of dough, cover and set in a warm place to rise. When light, mold into one small loaf (never make graham bread into large loaves), place in oblong pan, cover, let stand until light, about 1-1/2 hours, when it should have doubled in size; put in oven and bake thoroughly. When the loaf is taken from the oven, brush butter over the top. This keeps the crust moist. If a wholesome loaf of "Corn Bread" is wished, use fine, yellow, granulated cornmeal to stiffen the sponge instead of graham flour; do not make dough too stiff. WHOLE-WHEAT BREAD 1 pint boiling water. 1 pint sweet milk. 1/2 Fleischman's yeast cake dissolved in luke-warm water. 1/2 tablespoon salt. Flour. When the milk and water are lukewarm add the yeast cake and salt. Then add enough whole wheat flour to make a thin batter. Let stand in a warm place three or four hours. Then stir in as much wheat flour (whole wheat) as can be stirred in well with a large spoon, and pour into well-greased pans. Let rise to double its bulk; then bake from three-fourths to one hour, according to the size of the loaves. This quantity makes three loaves. NUT BREAD 3 cups graham flour. 1 cup wheat flour. 4 teaspoons baking powder. 1 cup chopped English walnuts. 1 cup sugar. 1 small teaspoon "Mapleine" flavoring (if liked). 1/2 cup milk. Pinch salt. 1/2 cup floured raisins (seeded). Put in a good-sized bread pan and bake on hour in a moderate oven. Strange as it may seem, this bread is lighter and better if allowed to stand a half hour before being placed in the oven to bake. FRAU SCHMIDTS "QUICK BREAD" The Professor's wife seldom used any liquid except water to set a sponge for bread. She seldom used any shortening. She taught Mary to make bread by the following process, which she considered superior to any other. From the directions given, housewives may think more time devoted to the making of a couple of loaves of bread than necessary; also, that too great a quantity of yeast was used; but the bread made by "Frau Schmidt" was excellent, quickly raised and baked. The whole process consumed only about four hours' time, and how could time be more profitably spent than in baking sweet, crusty loaves of bread, even in these strenuous days when the efficient housekeeper plans to conserve strength, time and labor? First, two Fleischman's compressed yeast cakes were placed in a bowl and dissolved with 4 tablespoonfuls of luke-warm water; she then added 1 cup of lukewarm water, 1/2 tablespoonful of sugar and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt and stirred all well together. The bowl containing this yeast foam was allowed to stand in a warm place, closely covered, one hour. At the end of that time the yeast mixture should be light and foamy. It was then poured into the centre of a bowl containing about 4-1/2 cups of _warmed_ flour, mixing the foamy yeast with a _portion_ of the flour to make a soft sponge, leaving a wall of flour around the inside edge of bowl, as our grandmothers used to do in olden times when they mixed a sponge for bread of liquid flour and yeast, in one end of the old-fashioned wooden "dough tray," using a wooden stick or small paddle for stirring together the mixture. The bowl containing the sponge was placed in a warm place to rise. In about 15 or 20 minutes 1/2 cup of lukewarm water was added to the sponge, stirring in all the outside wall of flour until a dough, the proper consistency for bread, was formed. The dough was turned out on the molding board and given a couple of quick, deft turns with the hands for several minutes, then placed in the bowl and again set to rise in a warm place, free from draughts, for 25 or 30 minutes. When light, with hands slightly greased with butter, she kneaded the dough a short time, until smooth and elastic, divided the dough into two portions, placed each loaf in warmed, well-greased bread pans and stood in a warm place about 1/4 hour. Then turned the contents of bread pans onto bake-board, one at a time. Cut each loaf into three portions, rolled each piece into long, narrow strips with the palms of the hands. Pinched ends of the three strips together and braided or plaited them into a braid almost the length of bread pan. Placed each braided loaf in a bread pan and set to raise as before. When well-raised, brush the top of loaves with melted butter. Bake about three-quarters of an hour in a moderately-hot oven. An old-fashioned way of testing the heat of the oven was to hold the hand in the oven while counting thirty. Should one be unable to bear the heat of oven a longer time, then the temperature was correct for baking bread. Should one be able to allow the hand to remain in the oven a longer time, the heat of the oven should be increased. As a result of carefully following these minute directions, even an inexperienced housewife should have sweet, wholesome bread. Frau Schmidt insisted that rolling portions of dough separately before combining in a loaf, as for braided loaves, caused the bread to have a finer texture than if just shaped into round loaves. AN "OATMEAL LOAF" For a loaf of oatmeal bread, place 1 cup of crushed oats, or common oatmeal, in a bowl, pour over 1/2 cup of hot milk. When luke warm, add 1 cup of sponge, or batter, reserved from that raised over night for making loaves of white bread; 1 teaspoonful butter, 1 teaspoonful sugar and 1/2 teaspoonful salt, and about 2 scant cups of white flour. Knead a few minutes, set to rise in a warm place, closely covered, about one hour or until doubled in bulk. Then knead down and form into a shapely loaf, place in a pan, brush melted butter over lop (this improves crust), and when raised, doubled in bulk (in about one hour), place in a moderately hot oven and bake from 40 to 45 minutes. Raisins may be added to this loaf, if liked. Mary preferred this oatmeal loaf to graham bread. The sponge or batter from which this oatmeal-loaf was made had been prepared in the following manner: To 1-1/2 cups of luke-warm potato water was added 1 teaspoonful of sugar, 1 cake of yeast; when dissolved, add 1-1/2 cups of white bread flour. Beat all together well, stand closely-covered in a warm place until the following morning. From one cup of this sponge was made one oatmeal loaf, and to the other cup of sponge white flour was added for a loaf of white bread or rolls. AUNT SARAH'S WHITE BREAD (SPONGE METHOD) Prepare the following "Yeast Sponge" at noon, the day preceding that on which you bake bread: Place in a bowl (after the mid-day meal) 1 quart of potato water (containing no salt), in which potatoes were boiled; also two medium-sized, finely-mashed potatoes, 1 tablespoonful of sugar and, when luke warm, add 1 cup of good home-made or baker's yeast. Mix all well together; then divide this mixture and pour each half into each of two 1-quart glass fruit jars. Place covers tightly on jars and shake each jar well, to mix yeast and potato-water thoroughly. Stand yeast in a warm place near the kitchen range over night. Jars should be _covered only_ with a napkin. The sponge should become light and foamy. In the morning use this freshly-prepared yeast to set sponge for bread. When preparing to set bread, place in a large bowl 1 pint of potato water, 1 tablespoonful of sugar, 1 pint of the yeast sponge, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, and use about 3 pounds of sifted flour, well-dried and warmed. Knead from 15 to 20 minutes, until a stiff dough is formed. The dough should be fine-grained and elastic and not stick to bake board. Place dough in the bowl to rise; this should lake about four hours. When well-risen and light knead down and set to rise again, about 1-1/2 hours. When light, mold into three large, shapely loaves; place in pans and allow to stand one hour. When loaves have doubled in bulk, are very light and show signs of cracking, invert a pan over top of loaves (if that was not done when loaves were put in pans), and place in a rather hot oven to bake. Brush melted butter over loaves of bread when set to rise, it will cause bread to have a crisp crust when baked. The old-fashioned way of testing the heat of an oven was to hold the hand in the oven, if possible, while one counted thirty. The pint of yeast remaining in jar may be kept in a cool place one week, and may be used during this time in making fresh "yeast foam." This should always be prepared the day before baking bread. Always prepare double the quantity of "yeast foam." Use half to set bread, and reserve half for next baking. Bread baked from this recipe has frequently taken first prize at County Fairs and Farmers' Picnics. When baking bread, the oven should be quite hot when bread is first placed therein, when the bread should rise about an inch; then the heat of the oven should he lessened and in a half hour a brown crust should begin forming; and during the latter part of the hour (the time required for baking an ordinary-sized loaf) the heat of the oven should be less, causing the bread to bake slowly. Should the heat of the oven not be great enough, when the loaves are placed within for baking, then poor bread would be the result. This method of making bread will insure most satisfactory results, although more troublesome than ordinary methods. RECIPE FOR "PULLED BREAD" Take a Vienna loaf of bread, twelve-hours old, cut away all the crust with a clean-cut knife, then break away gently (with your fingers only) small finger-lengths of the bread, place in a moderate oven and brown a golden brown, and it is ready to serve. 'Tis said six loaves will be required for one pound of this pulled bread. 'Tis easily prepared in the home, but quite costly, when purchased. Many people prefer "pulled bread" to fresh bread, as it is more wholesome. AUNT SARAH'S "HUTZEL BROD" 2 pounds dried pears. 2 pounds dried prunes. 2 quarts juice of fruit and water. 1 pound dried currants. 1 pound seeded raisins. 1 pound blanched and shredded almonds. 1 pound chopped English walnut meats. 1-1/2 ounces finely-shredded citron. 1-1/2 ounces orange peel. 1/2 ounce chopped figs. 1 ounce ground cinnamon. 1/4 ounce ground cloves. 2-1/2 ounces anise seed. 6 pounds flour (warmed and sifted). 2 cakes compressed yeast. 1-1/2 cups sugar. 1 large tablespoon butter. 1 tablespoon salt. 4 tablespoons brandy or sherry. The whole recipe will make 12 loaves of bread. This delicious German bread was usually made by "Aunt Sarah" one week before Christmas. It may be kept two weeks, and at the end of that time still be good. It is rather expensive as regards fruit and nuts, but as no eggs are used, and a very small quantity of butter; and as bread containing fruit is so much more wholesome than rich fruit cake. I think American housewives would do well to bake this German bread occasionally. Mary took one-fourth the quantity of everything called for in the recipe, except yeast. She used 3/4 of a cake of Fleischman's yeast and 1/4 of each of the other ingredients, and from these baked three loaves of bread. The prunes and pears should be covered with cold water at night and allowed to stand until the following morning, when, after stewing until tender, the juice should be drained from the fruit and water added to the fruit-juice to measure two quarts. Remove pits from prunes, cut pears and prunes in small pieces; stand aside. Clean currants and raisins, blanch and shred almonds, chop walnut meats, citron, orange peel and figs; add cinnamon, cloves and anise seed. Mix together flour and one quart of the fruit juice; add the compressed yeast cakes (dissolved in a little warm water), knead well, set a sponge as for ordinary bread; when raised, add the remaining quart of fruit juice, sugar, butter and salt. A small quantity of brandy or sherry may be added, but if not liked, fruit juice may be substituted. Add the remaining ingredients, and knead thoroughly. Allow dough to raise from two to three hours and when light form into loaves and allow to stand an hour, when bake. This quantity of dough should be made into twelve small loaves. Should the flour and liquid used be warmed before mixing, the dough will raise more quickly. It simplifies the work if the fruits and nuts be prepared the day before the bread is baked. AUNT SARAH'S WHITE BREAD AND ROLLS 1 quart potato water. 1 mashed potato. 1 tablespoonful butter or lard. 1 tablespoonful sugar. 1 Fleischman yeast cake, or 1 cup good yeast. 1/2 tablespoonful salt. Flour to stiffen (about three quarts). At 9 o'clock in the evening put in a large bowl the mashed potato, the quart of luke-warm potato water (water in which potatoes were boiled for dinner), butter or sweet lard, sugar, salt, and mix with flour into a batter, to which add the Fleischman's or any good yeast cake, dissolved in a little luke-warm water. Beat well and stir in flour until quite stiff, turn out on a well-floured bake-board and knead well about 25 minutes, until the dough is smooth, fine-grained and elastic, and does not stick lo the bake-board or hands. Chop a knife through the dough several times; knead and chop again. This makes the bread finer and closer-grained, or, so Aunt Sarah thought. Knead in all the flour necessary when first mixing the bread. When sufficiently kneaded, form into a large, round ball of dough, rub all over with soft lard, or butter, to prevent forming a crust on top and keep from sticking to bowl, and set to rise, closely-covered with a cloth and blanket, in a warm place until morning. In the morning the bread should be very light, doubled in quantity. Take out enough dough for an ordinary loaf, separate this into three parts, roll each piece with the hand on the bake-board into long, narrow pieces. Pinch the three pieces together at one end and braid, or plait, into a narrow loaf. Brush over top with melted butter; set to rise in a warm place in a bread pan, closely-covered, until it doubles in size--or, if preferred, mold into ordinary-shaped loaves, and let rise until doubled in size, when bake in a moderately-hot oven with steady heat. Frequently, when the "Twist" loaves of bread were quite light and ready to be placed in the oven, Aunt Sarah brushed the tops with yolk of egg, or a little milk, then strewed "Poppy Seeds" thickly over. The poppy seeds give an agreeable flavor to the crust of the bread. AUNT SARAH'S RAISED ROLLS (FROM BREAD DOUGH) A portion of the white bread dough may be made into raised rolls. These rolls are excellent without additional shortening, or, in fact, without anything else being added. Mold pieces of the bread dough into balls the size of a walnut; roll each piece flat with the rolling pin, dip in melted butter, fold and place close together in a bake pan. Let rise _very_ light, then bake about 15 minutes in a very hot oven. If a teaspoonful of flour browns in about two minutes in the oven, it is the right temperature for rolls. CLOVER-LEAF ROLLS Take pieces of the bread dough, the size of a walnut, cut into three pieces, mold with the hand into round balls the size of small marbles; dip each one in melted butter, or butter and lard, and place three of these in each Gem pan. (These pans may be bought six or twelve small pans fastened together, and are much more convenient than when each one must be handled separately when baking). Allow small rolls to become _very light_, bake in a hot oven, and you will find them excellent. Dipping the rolls in melted butter makes them crisp. Serve hot, or place in a hot oven a few minutes until heated through, if served after they have become cold. "POLISH" RYE BREAD (AS MADE IN BUCKS COUNTY) This excellent, nutritious bread, is made from the whole-ground grain. Every part of the grain is used in the flour, when ground. To bake this bread, sift together one quart of this "whole-ground" rye flour and two quarts of white-bread flour. Early in the morning of the day on which bread is to be baked, prepare a thick batter, or sponge, consisting of one quart of potato water (or the same quantity of luke-warm, scalded milk, or a mixture of the two); add one tablespoonful of a mixture of lard and butter and two boiled, mashed potatoes. Two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one-half tablespoonful of salt and one Fleischman's compressed yeast cake, dissolved in a small quantity of water; add about five cups of the mixed, sifted flour, beat the batter well, and stand in a warm place, covered, from one and a half to two hours. When well-risen and light, stir in balance of flour gradually, until all except one cup has been added; then turn onto a bake-board and knead well. This sponge should not be quite as stiff as for wheat bread. Turn the dough onto a clean, well-floured cloth in a large bowl, set to rise and bake according to directions for baking "Hearth-baked Rye Bread" or, if preferred, form into loaves, place in bread pans and, when light, bake. PERFECT BREAKFAST ROLLS One quart of scalded milk, when lukewarm, add the following: 1/2 cup of butter and lard (mixed), 1 egg, 1 tablespoonful of sugar, 1 teaspoonful of salt and 1 Fleischman's yeast cake; add flour to form a thick batter; beat all thoroughly. Mix the above at 9.30 P.M., stand in a warm place, closely-covered, over night. The following morning add more flour; dough should not be mixed quite as stiff as for bread. Allow it to raise in a warm place. When well-risen, place on bread board, roll, cut into small biscuits; dip each biscuit in melted butter, fold together, place in pans a distance apart, and when they have doubled in size, bake in a hot oven. "AN OLD RECIPE" FOR GOOD BREAD This country cook invariably baked good bread and always used potato-water in preference to any other liquid for setting sponge. She stood aside water, in which potatoes had been boiled for dinner (usually about one quart or less) and added two finely-mashed potatoes. About 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon of the day _before_ that on which she intended baking bread, she dissolved one cake of yeast (she used the small cornmeal commercial yeast cakes, sold under different names, such as National, Magic, etc.) in a half-cup of luke-warm water, added 1/2 teaspoon of salt and sufficient warmed, well-dried flour to make a thin batter. She placed all in a bowl and stood it in a warm place, closely-covered, until about 9 o'clock in the evening, when she added this sponge, which should be light and foamy, to the potato water, which should be lukewarm. She also added 1 tablespoon of salt and enough flour to make a rather thick batter. Heat thoroughly and allow this sponge to stand, well-covered, in a warm place until morning, when add 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 tablespoon butter or lard and warmed flour enough to make a stiff dough. Turn out on the bread board and knead for about twenty minutes, until the dough does not stick to the hands. Place stiffened dough into howl; allow it to rise until bulk is doubled. Mold into loaves, adding as little extra flour as possible. Cut several gashes on top of loaves, brush with melted butter, place in bread pans, and when loaves have doubled in bulk, place in moderately hot oven and bake about one hour. STEAMED BROWN BREAD Place in a bowl 3/4 cup graham flour and 1/2 cup of yellow, granulated cornmeal. Sift into this 3/4 cup of white flour, 1 teaspoonful of baking powder and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt. Mix all ingredients together to form a batter by adding 1 cup of sour milk, in which has been dissolved 3/4 teaspoonful of soda. Then add 2 tablespoonfuls of molasses. Pour into a well-greased quart can (the tin cans in which coffee is frequently sold will answer nicely), cover closely, place in a kettle of boiling water, steam about three hours; stand in oven a short time after being steamed. Cut in slices and serve as bread, or, by the addition of raisins or currants, and a little grated nutmeg or other flavoring, a very appetizing and wholesome pudding may be served hot, with sugar and cream or any pudding sauce preferred. A WHOLESOME BREAD (MADE FROM BRAN) Place in a bowl 4 cups of clean bran and 2 cups of white flour, sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder, 1 teaspoonful of salt, 1 tablespoonful of melted butter. Mix into a soft batter with 2 cups of sweet milk; add 1/2 cup of molasses. Fill two layer cake pans and bake in a hot oven about 25 minutes. This is so easily and quickly made. The young housewife may mix, when commencing to prepare lunch, and when the meal is ready to serve the bread will be baked, and it is an excellent laxative. FRAU SCHMIDT'S "HUTZEL BROD" 1 quart dried pears. 1 pint of pear juice. 1 Fleischman's yeast cake. 1 scant cup brown sugar. 2 eggs. 1/4 teaspoonful soda. 1 pound of soaked raisins. 3/4 cup of a mixture of lard and butter. 1 teaspoonful of fennel seed. Pinch of salt. 2 teaspoonfuls of ground cinnamon. Flour to stiffen, as for ordinary bread. Cover one quart of dried pears with cold water and cook slowly about 20 minutes until they have cooked tender, but not soft (the night before the day on which the bread is to be baked). Then drain the juice from stewed pears, which should measure 1 pint; when lukewarm, add 1 yeast cake, dissolved in a small quantity of lukewarm water, and about 3 cups of flour and a pinch of salt. Stand, closely-covered, in a warm place over night to raise. The following morning, add 1/4 teaspoonful of baking soda, dissolved in a little warm water, to counteract any acidity of batter. Cream together sugar, butter and lard, add eggs one at a time, men the well-floured, diced pears, also raisins, cinnamon and fennel seed, and enough flour to stiffen as for ordinary bread. Knead well, let rise; it will require some time, as the fruit retards the raising process. When light, turn onto a bake-board, cut into four portions, mold into four shapely loaves, place in pans, brush with melted butter and when quite light, place in a moderate oven and bake one hour. This bread will keep well several weeks, if kept in a tin cake box. This recipe is much simpler than Aunt Sarah's recipe for making "Hutzel Brod," but bread made from this recipe is excellent. "AUNT SARAH'S" QUICKLY-MADE BROWN BREAD 2 cups of buttermilk, or thick, sour milk. 1/2 cup of sugar. 1/4 cup of molasses. 1 tablespoonful of melted butter. 1 egg. 1 teaspoonful of soda. 3/4 teaspoonful of salt. 3-1/2 cups of graham flour. 1/2 cup of white flour, sifted with 3/4 teaspoonful of baking powder. The egg was placed in a bowl, and not beaten separately; sugar and butter were creamed together, before being added; then mix in salt and molasses, and gradually add buttermilk, in which the soda had been dissolved; then add white and graham flour, 3/4 cups of raisins may be added, if liked. Bake in a bread pan in a moderately hot oven. "STIRRED" OATMEAL BREAD Early in the morning 1 cup of oatmeal porridge, left over from that which had been cooked for breakfast, was placed in a bowl and added gradually 2 cups of scalded, luke-warm milk, 1 tablespoon of a mixture of lard and butter, 1/4 cup New Orleans molasses and one Fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a little of the milk; stir in about 3 cups of bread flour and stand in a warm place about 1-1/4 hours to rise; then add 3-1/2 cups more of bread flour and 1 teaspoonful of salt. Stir well with a spoon, and pour into three small bread tins; let rise, when well-risen, bake about 3/4 of an hour in a moderately hot oven. This is a delicious and wholesome bread and no kneading is necessary. 1-1/2 cups of the cooked oatmeal might be used, then use less white bread flour when mixing. NUT AND RAISIN BREAD 2 cups buttermilk, or sour milk. 1/2 cup brown sugar, 2 cups graham flour. 1 cup wheat flour. 1 teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in a little of the milk. 1 teaspoonful of baking powder, sifted with the wheat flour. Mix all together, add one cup of seeded raisins, 1/4 cup of ground peanuts and 1/4 cup chopped walnut meats. Bake in an ordinary bread pan. "SAFFRON" RAISIN BREAD For this old-fashioned, "country" bread, set a sponge in the evening, consisting of 1 cup of luke-warm water, 1 Fleischman's compressed yeast cake and 2 tablespoonfuls of saffron water, obtained by steeping 1/2 tablespoonful of dried saffron flowers in a small quantity of boiling water a short time. Use about 2 cups of flour to stiffen the sponge. Cover bowl containing sponge and stand in a warm place until morning, when add the following: 3/4 cup of soft A sugar, 1/4 cup lard and 1/8 cup of butter (beaten to a cream); then add one egg. Beat again and add this mixture to the well-risen sponge. Add also 3/4 cup of seeded raisins and about 1-3/4 cups of flour. The dough should be almost as stiff as ordinary bread dough. Set to rise about one hour. Then divide the dough and mold into two shapely loaves. Place in oblong bread pans. Let rise about 1-1/2 hours. Brush melted butter over top of loaves and bake in a moderately hot oven, as one would bake ordinary bread. This bread is a rich, golden yellow, with a distinctive, rather bitter, saffron flavor, well-liked by some people; saffron is not unwholesome. "Speaking of saffron bread," said John Landis, to his niece, Mary, "I am reminded of the lines I was taught when quite a small boy:" "Wer will gute kuchen haben, der muss sieben sachen haben; Eier, butter un schmalz, milch, zucker un mehl; Un saffron mach die kuchen gehl." "Of course, Mary, you do not understand what that means. I will translate it for you. 'Who would have good cakes, he must have seven things--eggs, butter and lard, milk, sugar and flour, and saffron makes the cakes yellow.'" RAISED ROLLS 2 quarts of sifted flour. 1 pint of boiled milk (lukewarm). 1 tablespoon sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed. 3/4 cake compressed yeast, or 3/4 cup yeast. 1 teaspoon salt. At 5 o'clock P.M. set sponge with half or three-fourths of the flour and all the other ingredients. About 9 o'clock in the evening, knead well, adding the balance of the flour. Cover and let stand in a warm place until morning. In the morning, roll out about 3/4 of an inch thick, cut into small rolls, place in baking pans far enough apart so they will not touch, and when raised quite light, bake. Or, take the same ingredients as above (with one exception; take one whole cake of compressed yeast), dissolved in half a cup of luke-warm water, and flour enough to make a thin batter. Do this at 8.30 in the morning and let rise until 1 o'clock; then knead enough flour in to make a soft dough, as soft as can be handled. Stand in a warm place until 4.30, roll out quite thin; cut with small, round cake-cutter and fold over like a pocketbook, putting a small piece of butter the size of a pea between the folds; set in a warm place until 5.30, or until very light; then bake a delicate brown in a hot oven. If made quite small, 70 rolls may be made from this dough. To cause rolls of any kind to have a rich, brown glaze, when baked, before placing the pan containing them in the oven, brush over the top of each roll the following mixture, composed of--yolk of 1 egg, 1 tablespoon of milk, and 1 teaspoon of sugar. "GRANDMOTHER'S" FINE RAISED BISCUITS 1 quart scalded milk (lukewarm). 3/4 cup of butter, or a mixture of butter and lard. 1/2 cup of sugar. 1 teaspoonful of salt. 2 Fleischman's yeast cakes. Whites of 2 eggs. Flour. Quite early in the morning dissolve the two yeast cakes in a little of the milk; add these, with one-half the quantity of sugar and salt in the recipe, to the remainder of the quart of milk; add also 4 cups of flour to form the yeast foam. Beat well and stand in a warm place, closely-covered, one hour, until light and foamy. Beat the sugar remaining and the butter to a cream; add to the yeast foam about 7 to 8 cups of flour, and the stiffly-beaten whites of the two eggs. Turn out on a well-floured bread board and knead about five minutes. Place in a bowl and let rise again (about one hour or longer) until double in bulk, when roll out about one inch in thickness. Cut small biscuits with a 1/2 pound Royal Baking Powder can. Brush tops of biscuits with a mixture consisting of yolk of one egg, a teaspoonful of sugar and a little milk; this causes the biscuits to have a rich brown crust when baked. Place biscuits on pans a short distance apart, let rise until doubled in bulk; bake in a rather quick oven. From this recipe was usually made 55 biscuits. One-half of this recipe would be sufficient for a small family. Mary's Aunt taught her the possibilities of what she called a "Dutch" sponge--prepared from one Fleischman's yeast cake. And the variety a capable housewife may give her family, with the expenditure of a small amount of time and thought. About 9 o'clock in the evening Mary's Aunt placed in a bowl 2 cups of potato water (drained from potatoes boiled for dinner). In this she dissolved one Fleischman's yeast cake, stirred into this about 3 cups of well-warmed flour, beat thoroughly for about ten minutes. Allowed this to stand closely covered in a warm place over night. On the following morning she added to the foamy sponge 1-1/2 cups lukewarm, scalded milk, in which had been dissolved 1 tablespoonful of a mixture of butter and lard, 2 generous tablespoonfuls of sugar and 1 teaspoonful of salt. About 6-1/4 cups of well-dried and warmed flour; she stirred in a part of the flour, then added the balance. Kneaded well a short time, then set to raise closely covered in a warm place 2-1/2 to 3 hours. When dough was light it was kneaded down in bowl and allowed to stand about one hour, and when well risen she placed 2 cups of light bread sponge in a bowl, and stood aside in warm place; this later formed the basis of a "Farmers' Pound Cake," the recipe for which may be found among recipes for "Raised Cakes." From the balance of dough, or sponge, after being cut into 3 portions, she molded from the one portion 12 small turn-over rolls, which were brushed with melted butter, folded together and placed on tins a distance apart and when _very_ light baked in a quick oven. From another portion of the sponge was made a twist or braided loaf. And to the remaining portion of dough was added 1/2 cup of currants or raisins, and this was called a "Currant" or "Raisin Loaf," which she served for dinner the following day. The rolls were placed in the oven of the range a few minutes before breakfast and served hot, broken apart and eaten with maple syrup or honey and the delicious "Farmers' Pound Cake" was served for supper. Aunt Sarah baked these on ironing day. The kitchen being unusually warm, as a result of the extra heat required in the range for heating flatirons, caused the dough to rise more quickly than otherwise would have been the case. STIRRED BREAD Frau Schmidt thought bread more easily digested and wholesome if ingredients of a loaf be stirred together instead of kneaded. This is the method she taught Mary. She poured into a bowl 3 cups of luke-warm water, added 1 cake of Fleischman's yeast, dissolved in a little of the water; sifted in gradually about 8-1/2 cups of flour, added 1 tablespoonful of sugar, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, mixed all well together with a spoon until a stiff dough was formed, which she molded into two shapely loaves, handling as little as possible; placed in bread pans, allowed to stand several hours to raise, and when light baked. Mary said, "This bread may be more wholesome than old-fashioned bread, which has been kneaded, but I prefer Aunt Sarah's bread, well-kneaded, fine-grained and sweet," but, she continued, "I will make an exception in favor of Aunt Sarah's 'Stirred Oatmeal' bread, which, I think, fine." POTATO BISCUITS At 6 o'clock in the morning place in a bowl 1 cup of finely-mashed (boiled) potatoes (the cup of left-over mashed potatoes may be used as a matter of economy). Add 1 cup of potato water (the water drained from boiled potatoes), in which 1/2 cake of Fleischman's yeast had been dissolved, add 1 cup of flour and 1 teaspoon of sugar. Stand in a warm place to raise, from 1 to 1-1/4 hours. At the expiration of that time add to the foamy sponge 1 large tablespoonful of butter or lard, 1 egg and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, beaten together before adding. Add about 2 cups of flour, beat thoroughly and allow to raise another hour; then roll out the dough about 1 inch in thickness and cut into small biscuits, dip each one in melted butter and place on pans, a short distance apart, stand about one hour to raise, when bake in a rather hot oven. These Potato Biscuits are particularly nice when freshly baked, and resemble somewhat biscuits made from baking powder. From this recipe was made two dozen biscuits. AUNT SARAH'S POTATO YEAST 9 medium-sized potatoes. 5 tablespoons sugar. 2 tablespoons salt. 1 quart water. Grate the raw potatoes quickly, so they will not discolor, pour over the grated potato the quart of boiling water, add salt and sugar, cook several minutes until the consistency of boiled starch, let cool, and when lukewarm add 1 cup of good yeast. Stir all together in a crock, cover and let stand in a warm place three or four hours, when it is foamy and rises to top of crock, stir down several times, then fill glass fruit jars, cover and stand away in a cool place until needed. This yeast will keep about ten days. Use one cup to about three pounds of flour, or one quart of liquid, when setting sponge for bread. Save one cup of this yeast to start fresh yeast with. PERFECTION POTATO CAKES 1 cup of boiled mashed potatoes. 1 cup sweet milk. 1 cup water in which 1 Fleischman yeast cake was dissolved. 2 cups soft A sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard mixed. 2 eggs. A little salt. About 7 cups of flour. Cream the sugar, butter and eggs together. Add mashed potatoes, milk and cup of water containing yeast, alternately with the flour, until about 7 cups of flour have been used, making a dough as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. Stand, covered, in a warm place by the range until morning. These should be set to rise about nine o'clock in the evening. The following morning take pieces of the dough, on a well-floured bake board; roll about one inch thick, to fit in pie tins, place in pie tins to raise; when doubled in bulk spread with melted butter and sprinkle sugar thickly over top and bake in a moderately hot oven until lightly browned on top. This quantity of dough makes six cakes. Instead of brushing the cakes with above mixture, place in a bowl 1/2 cup of soft A sugar, 1/2 cup flour, a tiny pinch of salt and baking powder each and 2 tablespoonfuls of butter (not melted), mix all together as crumbly as possible, then the crumbs were sprinkled thickly over tops of cakes, which had been brushed with a mixture of milk and sugar. Place cakes in oven when raised; bake 20 minutes. This recipe was given Mary by an old "Bucks County" cook, noted for the excellence of her raised cakes. MARY'S RECIPE FOR CINNAMON BUNS Early in the morning mix a sponge or batter consisting of 1/2 cup of potato water (water drained from boiled potatoes) and 1/2 cup of lukewarm, scalded milk, one Fleischman's compressed yeast cake, dissolved in the 1/2 cup of lukewarm potato water, 1 teaspoonful sugar, pinch of salt and about 1-1/2 cupfuls of warmed flour. Stand this sponge in a warm place, closely covered, about 3/4 of an hour, to raise. At the end of that time add to the light, well-risen sponge, the following: 3 tablespoonfuls of a mixture of lard and butter, and 1/3 cup of soft A sugar, creamed together. Add one large egg. Beat well. Lastly, add about 2 cupfuls of flour. Mix all together thoroughly, and let raise again about 1-1/2 hours. Divide the well-risen sponge into four portions. Roll each piece with rolling-pin into lengthwise pieces about 1/2 inch thick and spread with one tablespoonful of melted butter, scant 2 tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, dust over this a small quantity of cinnamon, and 1 tablespoonful of dried currants. Shape into a long, narrow roll with the hands, on a well-floured bake-board. Cut each roll into five pieces. Pinch one end of each piece together and place each bun, cut side down, a short distance apart, in an iron pan which has been well greased, having brushed a little melted butter and a sprinkling of sugar over pan. Allow these to rise in a warm place as before, about 1-1/2 hours, until quite light, as having the extra sugar, butter and currants added retards their rising as quickly as would plain biscuits. Bake 20 to 25 minutes in a moderate oven. From this quantity of material was made 20 cinnamon buns. "KLEINA KAFFE KUCHEN" (LITTLE COFFEE CAKES) Scant 1/2 cup lard and butter. 2 cups sifted flour. 2 whole eggs and the yolks of 2 more. 3 tablespoons sugar. 1/4 cup cream. 1/4 milk. 1 Fleischman's yeast cake. 1/8 teaspoon salt. The yeast cake was dissolved in the 1/4 cup lukewarm milk, a couple tablespoons of flour were added and mixed into a batter, and stood in a warm place to rise. The butter and sugar were stirred to a cream, salt was added, the eggs were beaten in, one at a time, next was added the sponge containing the yeast, the lukewarm cream, and the sifted flour. Grease slightly warmed Gem pans, sift a little flour over them, fill two-thirds full with the soft dough, set in a warm place to rise to tops of pans, and when quite light bake in a medium hot oven about 25 minutes. The oven should be hot enough to allow them to rise quickly. Put something underneath the pans in the oven to prevent bottom of cakes from burning. These may be set about 8 o'clock in the morning if cakes are wished for lunch at noon. These are not cheap, as this quantity makes only 12 cakes, but they are light as puffballs. The Professor's wife served them when she gave a "Kaffee Klatch." She doubled the recipe, baked the cakes in the morning, and placed them in the oven to heat through before serving. The cakes should be broken apart, not cut. The cakes made from this recipe are particularly fine. GROSSMUTTER'S POTATO CAKES 1 cup hot mashed potatoes. 1-1/2 cups sugar. 1 scant cup butter and lard. 1 cup home-made yeast or 1 yeast cake dissolved in 1 cup lukewarm water. 3 eggs. Flour. At 5 o'clock in the afternoon set to rise the following: One cup of sugar and one cup of hot mashed potatoes; when lukewarm add one cup of flour and one cup of yeast; beat all together, stand in a warm place to rise and at 9 o'clock in the evening cream together 1 cup of a mixture of lard and butter, 1 cup of sugar, 3 eggs and pinch of salt; add the sponge and beat well. Stir as stiff as you can stir it with a large spoon, cover, set in a warm place to rise until morning, when roll out some of the dough into cakes about one inch thick, put in pie tins to rise, and when light, make half a dozen deep impressions on top of each cake with the forefinger, spread with melted butter and strew light-brown sugar thickly over top, or mix together 1 cup sugar, butter size of an egg, 2 tablespoons flour, 2 tablespoons boiling water, beat well and spread the mixture on cakes just before placing in oven. Bake the cakes about 20 minutes in a moderate oven. This is a very old recipe used by Aunt Sarah's grandmother, and similar to the well-known German cakes called "Schwing Felders." AUNT SARAH'S "BREAD DOUGH" CAKE 1 cup bread dough. 1 egg. 1/2 cup soft A sugar. 1 tablespoon lard or butter. 1/4 teaspoon soda. When her bread dough was raised and ready to put in the pans she placed a cupful of it in a bowl and added the egg, sugar, butter, soda (dissolved in a little hot water); some dried raisins or currants, and just enough flour so it might be handled easily. Put in a small agate pan four inches deep, let rise until light, dust pulverized sugar over top and bake about 25 or 30 minutes in a moderate oven. Double the materials called for, using 2 _cups_ of well-risen bread dough or sponge, and you will have a good-sized cake. GOOD, CHEAP DUTCH CAKES To a bowl containing 1 cup of scalded milk, add 1 tablespoonful of lard and 1 cup of sugar. When lukewarm add 1 yeast cake (Fleischman's), dissolved in 1 cup of lukewarm water, and about 5 cups of good flour. Set to rise at night about nine o'clock, the next morning roll out pieces about one and a half inches thick, to fit in medium-sized pie tins. Set in a warm place to rise. When light, brush top with melted butter and strew sugar thickly over and bake from 15 to 20 minutes in a moderately hot oven. These cakes are _inexpensive_ and _good_; _no eggs_ or _butter_ being used. RECIPE FOR "LIGHT CAKES" (GIVEN MARY BY A FARMER'S WIFE) In the evening mix a sponge consisting of 1/2 cup of mashed potatoes, 1/2 cup sugar, 1 cup of yeast or 1 cake of Fleischman's yeast dissolved in a cup of lukewarm water; 1/2 cup of a mixture of butter and lard and a pinch of salt and flour to thicken until batter is quite thick. Stand in a warm place, closely covered, until morning, when add 2 eggs and 1/2 cup of sugar and flour to stiffen as thick as sponge can be stirred with a spoon. Set to rise; when light roll out one inch thick, place in pie tins, brush tops with melted butter and brown sugar, set to rise, and, when well risen, bake. BUTTER "SCHIMMEL" Place in a mixing bowl 2 cups of warm, mashed potatoes and add 3/4 of a cup of shortening (a mixture of lard and butter), (or use Aunt Sarah's substitute for butter); one cup of A sugar and 1 teaspoonful salt. Beat all to a cream. When lukewarm, add 2 eggs and either 1 yeast cake dissolved in 1 cup of lukewarm water, or 1 cup of potato yeast; use about 2 cups of flour to make a thin batter. Set to raise over night or early in the morning. When well risen add about 4 cups of flour. Make about as stiff a dough as can be stirred well with a mixing spoon. Place soft dough on a bake-board; roll out into a sheet about one-half inch thick; cut into squares about the size of a common soda cracker; bring each of the four corners together in the centre like an envelope; pinch together; place a small piece of butter (about one-eighth teaspoonful) on the top where the four corners join. Stand in a warm place to rise. When well risen and light place in the oven. When baked, take from oven, and while hot dip all sides in melted butter and dust granulated or pulverized sugar over top. These are not as much trouble to prepare as one would suppose from the directions for making. The same dough may be cut in doughnuts with a tin cutter and fried in hot fat after raising, or the dough may be molded into small, round biscuits if preferred, and baked in oven. "BUCKS COUNTY" DOUGHNUTS About nine o'clock in the evening a batter was mixed composed of the following: 1 cup milk. 1 cup hot water. 1 teaspoonful of sugar. 1 cup yeast (or one cake of Fleischman's yeast dissolved in one cup of lukewarm water). 1 pinch of salt. 3-1/2 cups of flour. Stand in a warm place until morning. Then add 1/2 cup of butter and 1-1/2 cups of soft A sugar, creamed together, and from 3 to 4 cups of flour. The dough should be as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. Set to rise in a warm place; when light and spongy, roll out on a well-floured bake-board and cut into round cakes with a hole in the centre. Let rise again, and when well risen fry a golden brown in deep fat and sift over pulverized sugar. This recipe will make 45 doughnuts. These are good and economical, as no eggs are used in this recipe. EXTRA FINE "QUAKER BONNET" BISCUITS For these quaint-looking, delicious biscuits, a sponge was prepared consisting of: 1 pink milk. 3 eggs. 1/2 cup mixture butter and lard. 1 yeast cake (Fleischman's). About 7 cups flour. Set to rise early in the morning. When well risen (in about 3 hours), roll dough into a sheet about 1/4 inch in thickness, cut with a half-pound baking powder can into small, round biscuits, brush top of each one with melted butter (use a new, clean paint brush for this purpose), place another biscuit on top of each one of these, and when raised very light and ready for oven brush top of each biscuit with a mixture consisting of half of one yolk of egg (which had been reserved from the ones used in baking), mixed with a little milk. Biscuits should have been placed on a baking sheet some distance apart, let rise about one hour until quite light, then placed in a quick but not _too hot_ an oven until baked a golden brown on top. Mary gave these the name of "Quaker Bonnet" Biscuits, as the top biscuit did not raise quite as much as the one underneath and greatly resembled the crown of a Quaker bonnet. From this quantity of dough was made three dozen biscuits. These are not cheap, but extra fine. BUCKS COUNTY CINNAMON "KUCHEN" Explicit directions for the making of these excellent raised cakes was given Mary by an old, experienced Pennsylvania German cook. They were prepared from the following recipe: Early in the morning 1 pint of milk was scalded. When lukewarm, add 3-1/2 cups of flour and 1 cake of Fleischman's compressed yeast (which had been dissolved in 1 tablespoonful of lukewarm water). Beat the mixture well. Cover and stand in a warm place to rise. When well risen, which should be in about 2 hours, add the following mixture, composed of 3/4 cup of sugar and 1/2 cup of butter, creamed together; 1/2 teaspoonful of salt; 1 egg was beaten into the mixture, and about 2 cups of flour were added, enough to make a dough as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. Dough should not be as stiff as for bread. Let stand about 1 hour. When well risen and light, divide into four portions. Roll out each piece of dough to thickness of one inch. Place cakes in medium-sized pie tins and allow them to stand about one hour. When well risen, doubled in bulk, make half dozen deep impressions on top of each cake with the forefinger. Brush top of each cake with 1/2 tablespoonful of melted butter. Sprinkle over 2 tablespoonfuls of soft A sugar and sift over a little pulverized cinnamon, if liked, just before placing cakes in oven. Bake cakes from 20 to 25 minutes in a moderately hot oven. From this dough may be made four cakes. Excellent biscuits may also be made from this same dough, by simply moulding it into small biscuits and place in a pan some distance apart. Let rise and brush tops of biscuits with a mixture composed of a part of an egg yolk, a tablespoonful of milk and 1/2 teaspoonful sugar. This causes the biscuits to have a rich, brown color when baked. The sponge from which these cakes or biscuits were made was mixed and set to rise at 6 o'clock in the morning, and the baking was finished at 11 o'clock. Sponge should be set to rise in a warm room. If these directions are carefully followed the housewife will invariably have good results. Always use hard Spring wheat for bread or biscuits, raised with yeast; and Winter wheat, which costs less, will answer for making cake and pastry. In cold weather always warm flour before baking, when yeast is used for baking raised cakes. Soft A sugar or a very light brown is to be preferred to granulated. MORAVIAN SUGAR CAKES At 5 o'clock P.M. set a sponge or batter, consisting of 1 cup of mashed potatoes, 2 cups of sugar, 1 cup of sweet milk, scalded and cooled, 1/2 cake of yeast, dissolved in 1 cup of lukewarm water, 2 eggs 3/4 cup of a mixture of lard and butter, add 3 cups of flour, beat well, stand in a warm place to raise; at 9 o'clock add about 6 cups of flour. Stand until morning in a warm place, near the range. The following morning turn out on a floured bake-board, roll out cakes one inch thick, place in pie tins, when ready for the oven; punch half a dozen small holes in the top of cakes, in which place small bits of butter. Sprinkle sugar over liberally and cinnamon if liked. Bake in a moderate oven. MARY'S POTATO CAKES 1 cup freshly-boiled mashed potatoes. 1 cup scalded sweet milk. 1 cup sugar. Flour about 6 cups. 1 cake Fleischman's yeast. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup butter and lard mixed. 1/2 cup potato water. At 7 o'clock in the morning Mary mixed a sponge consisting of a cup of mashed potatoes, 1 cup scalded milk, 1/2 cup sugar, 1-1/2 cups of flour and the cake of Fleischman's yeast, dissolved in half a cup of lukewarm potato water. This was set to rise in a warm place near the range for several hours until light. Then she creamed together 1/2 cup of sugar, 2 eggs and 1/2 cup of butter and lard, or use instead the "Substitute for Butter." Added the creamed sugar, butter and eggs to the well-risen sponge and about 4-1/2 cups of flour. Sift a couple of tablespoons of flour over top of sponge, and set to rise again about 1-1/2 hours. When light, take cut pieces of the sponge on a well-floured bread-board, knead for a minute or two, then roll out with a rolling-pin inlo pieces about one inch thick, place in well-greased small pie tins, over which a dust of flour has been sifted, set to rise about 1-1/2 hours. When light and ready for oven brush top with milk, strew crumbs over or brush with melted butter and strew sugar over top; after punching half dozen holes in top of each cake, bake in a moderately hot oven from 20 to 25 minutes until a rich brown, when cakes should be baked. Five potato cakes may be made from this sponge, or four cakes and one pan of biscuits if preferred. Use soft "A" sugar rather than granulated for these cakes, and old potatoes are superior to new. Or when these same cakes were raised, ready to be placed in the oven, Mary frequently brushed the tops of cakes with melted butter, strewing over the following: 1 cup of flour mixed with 1/2 cup of sugar and yolk of 1 egg, and a few drops of vanilla. This mixture rubbed through a coarse sieve and scattered over cakes Mary called "Streusel Kuchen." GERMAN RAISIN CAKE (RAISED WITH YEAST) Place in a bowl 1 cup of milk, scalded and cooled until lukewarm; add 1 tablespoonful of sugar and dissolve one cake of yeast in the milk. Mix in 1 cup of flour and stand in a warm place to raise 3/4 of an hour. Then cream together in a separate bowl 1/2 cup soft "A" sugar, 1/2 cup of butter or "butter substitute," add 1 egg and a pinch of salt; stir in 1-1/4 cups of flour, 1/2 cup of well-floured raisins, and 1/2 teaspoonful of vanilla flavoring. Add the yeast mixture and allow it to raise about 2 hours longer. At the expiration of that time turn the well-risen sponge out on a floured bake-board. After giving the dough several deft turns on the board with the hand, place in a well-greased fruit cake pan, which has been dusted with flour. Stand pan containing cake in a warm place, let rise until very light, probably 1-1/4 hours, when brush the top of cake with a small quantity of a mixture of milk and sugar. Sift pulverized sugar thickly over top. Place the cake in a moderately hot oven, so the cake may finish rising before commencing to brown on the top. Bake about 35 minutes. "KAFFEE KRANTZ" (COFFEE WREATH) 1 cup sugar. 3/4 cup butter and lard. 4 eggs. 1 pint milk. 1 Fleischman's yeast cake. 4 cups flour. Cream together the sugar, butter, lard and eggs, add the milk, which has been scalded and allowed to cool; flour, and yeast cake, dissolved in a half cup of lukewarm water; beat well. Set this sponge to rise in a warm place, near the range, as early as possible in the morning. This will take about 1-1/2 hours to rise. When the sponge is light add about 3 cups more of flour. The dough, when stiff as can be stirred with a spoon, will be right. Take about 2 cups of this sponge out on a well-floured bake-board, divide in three pieces, and braid and form into a wreath or "Krantz," or they may be made out into flat cakes and baked in pie tins after they have been raised and are light. Sprinkle sugar thickly over top after brushing with milk containing a little sugar, before placing in oven. These should rise in about 1-1/2 hours. Place in a moderately hot oven and bake from 20 to 25 minutes. This recipe Frau Schmidt translated from the German language for Mary's especial benefit. This coffee wreath is particularly fine if small pieces of crushed rock candy be sprinkled liberally over the top and blanched almonds stuck a couple of inches apart over the top just before placing the cake in the oven, after the cakes had been brushed with a mixture of milk and sugar. "MONDEL KRANTZ" OR ALMOND CAKE (AS MADE BY FRAU SCHMIDT) 1 pint sweet milk. 3/4 cup sugar. 3 eggs. 1 yeast cake or 1 cup yeast. 1/3 cup butter. 2 tablespoons rock candy. 1 orange. 2 tablespoons chopped almonds. Flour. Set to rise early in the morning. To the scalded milk, when lukewarm, add the yeast and flour enough to make a batter, cover, set to rise until light, near the range, which will take several hours. Then add the sugar, butter and eggs beaten to a cream, grated rind and juice of orange, a couple tablespoons finely-chopped almonds, and add enough flour to make a soft dough, as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon; set to rise again, and when light, divide the dough in two portions, from which you form two wreaths. Roll half the dough in three long strips on the floured bake-board with the hands, then braid them together. Place a large coffee cup or bowl inverted on the centre of a large, round or oval, well-greased pan, lay the wreath around the bowl. The bowl in the centre of the pan prevents the dough from running together and forming a cake. Brush the top of the wreath with a little milk, containing teaspoon of sugar, over the top of the wreath, stick blanched, well-dried almonds, and strew thickly with crushed rock candy or very coarse sugar. Let rise until light, then bake. This makes two quite large wreaths. The Professor's wife told Mary when she gave her this recipe, this almond wreath was always served at the breakfast table on Christmas morning at the home of her parents in Germany, and was always baked by her mother, who gave her this recipe, and it was found on the breakfast table of Frau Schmidt Christmas morning as regularly as was made "Fast Nacht Kuchen" by Aunt Sarah every year on "Shrove Tuesday," the day before the beginning of the Lenten season. THE PROFESSOR'S WIFE'S RECIPE FOR "DUTCH CAKES" 2 tablespoons of butter or lard. 2 eggs. 1 cup "Soft A" sugar. 1/2 yeast cake. 1 pint milk. 1/2 teaspoonful of salt. Flour. She scalded the milk, added butter and eggs, well beaten, when the milk was lukewarm, then added yeast, dissolved in a little lukewarm water, sugar, salt and flour to make a thin batter. Beat all together five minutes, stood the batter, closely covered, in a warm place, over night. In the morning, added flour to make a soft dough, kneaded lightly for ten minutes, placed in bowl and set to rise again. When light, she rolled out dough one inch in thickness, placed in pie tins, and when raised a second time spread over the cakes the following mixture before placing in oven: 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoonfuls of flour, 2 tablespoonfuls of boiling water and butter size of an egg, beaten well together. Bake 20 minutes. "FARMERS' POUND CAKE" (AS AUNT SARAH CALLED THIS) Place in a bowl 2 cups of light, well-raised bread sponge (when all flour necessary had been added and loaves were shaped ready to be placed in bread pan for final rising). Cream together 3/4 cup of a mixture of lard and butter, add 2 eggs, first yolks then stiffly beaten whites, also add 1-1/2 cups soft A sugar. Add to the 2 cups of bread sponge in bowl and beat well until fully incorporated with the dough, then add 1/2 cup of lukewarm milk, in which had been dissolved 1/2 teaspoonful of salaratus. Beat all together until mixture is smooth and creamy, then add 2 cups of bread flour and 1/2 teaspoon of lemon flavoring. Beat well and add 1-1/2 cups of either currants or raisins, dusted with flour. Pour mixture into an agate pudding dish (one holding 3 quarts, about 2-1/2 inches in depth and 30 inches in circumference). Stand in a warm place 3 to 4 hours to raise; when raised to top of pan place in a moderately hot oven and bake about 40 minutes, when, taken from oven, dust with pulverized sugar thickly over top of cake. This cake should be large as an old-fashioned fruit cake, will keep moist some time in a tin cake box, but is best when freshly baked. GERMAN "COFFEE BREAD" 1/3 cup sugar 1/3 cup butter 1 cup hot milk 1 yeast cake 2 eggs 2-1/2 cups flour. As Aunt Sarah taught Mary to bake this, it was fine. She creamed together in a bowl the sugar and butter, poured the hot milk over this, and when lukewarm, added the compressed yeast cake, dissolved in 1/4 cup of lukewarm water. She then added two small, well-beaten eggs, about 2-1/2 cups flour, or enough to make a stiff _batter_, and 1/2 teaspoonful salt. Beat thoroughly, cover and set to rise in a warm place about 1-1/2 hours or until doubled in bulk. This was set to rise quite early in the morning. When light, beat thoroughly and with a spoon spread evenly on top of well-greased, deep pie tins, which have been sprinkled with a little flour. Spread the crumbs given below over the top of cakes, cover and let rise 15 minutes and bake a rich brown in moderate oven. For the crumbs, mix together in a bowl 1 heaped cup of fine, soft, stale bread crumbs, 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls light brown sugar, 3/4 of a teaspoonful cinnamon, pinch of salt, 1/4 cup of blanched and chopped almonds, and 2 tablespoonfuls of soft butter. This sponge or dough should be unusually soft when mixed, as the crumbs sink into the dough and thicken it. Add only the quantity of flour called for in recipe. "FAST NACHT KUCHEN" (DOUGHNUTS) 3 tablespoons honey. 3/4 quart milk. 2 quarts flour. 1 yeast cake. 1/2 cup butter. 2 eggs. Without fail, every year on Shrove Tuesday, or "Fast Nacht," the day before the beginning of Lent, these cakes were made. Quite early in the morning, or the night before, the following sponge was set to rise: The lukewarm, scalded milk, mixed into a smooth batter with 1 quart of flour; add 1 Fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a very little water. Beat well together, set in a warm place to rise over night, or several hours, and when light, add the following, which has been creamed together: eggs, butter and lard, a little flour and the honey. Beat well, and then add the balance of the flour, reserving a small quantity to flour the board later. Set to rise again, and when quite light roll out on a well-floured board, cut into circles with a doughnut cutter, cut holes in the centre of cakes, let rise, and then fry in deep fat; dust with pulverised sugar and cinnamon, if liked. These are regular German doughnuts, and are never very sweet. If liked sweeter, a little sugar may be added. From this batter Mary made 18 "fried cakes," or "Fast Nacht Kuchen," as the Germans call them. She also made from the same dough one dozen cinnamon buns and two Dutch cakes. The dough not being very sweet, she sprinkled rivels composed of sugar, flour and butter, generously over the top of the "Dutch cakes." The dough for doughnuts, or fried cakes, should always have a little more flour added than dough for "Dutch cakes" or buns; baked in the oven. If _too soft_, they will absorb fat while frying. "KAFFEE KUCHEN" (COFFEE CAKE) 2 cups milk. 1 heaped cup soft A sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard. 1 egg. 1 Fleischman's yeast cake. Flour. These German Coffee Cakes should be set to rise either early in the morning or the night before being baked. Scald 2 cups sweet milk and set aside to cool. Cream together in a bowl 1 heaped cup of A sugar, 1/2 cup butter and lard and the yolk of egg. Add this to the lukewarm milk alternately with 6-1/2 cups flour and the yeast cake dissolved in 1/3 cup lukewarm water. Beat all together, and, lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. Cover and set in a warm place to rise over night, or, if set to rise in the morning, stand about 2-1/2 hours until light. Put an extra cup of flour on the bake-board, take out large spoonfuls of the dough, mix in just enough flour to roll out into flat cakes, spread on well-greased pie tins, stand in a warm place until light, about 1-1/4 hours. When the cakes are ready for the oven, brush melted butter over the top, strew thickly with brown sugar, or spread rivels over top, composed of 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup flour and 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, crumbled together. Strew these over the cakes just before placing them in the oven of range. "STREUSEL KUCHEN" For these German-raised cakes, take 1/2 cup mashed potatoes and 1/2 cup of potato water, 1/2 cup lard and butter mixed, creamed with 1/2 cup sugar. Mix with these ingredients about 3-1/2 cups of flour and 1 cup of yeast. Set this sponge to rise at night in a warm place, well covered. The next morning add to the light, well-risen sponge, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup sugar and about 1-1/2 cups flour. Let stand in a warm place until light. Then roll out pieces size of a plate, one inch thick; place on well-greased pie tins, let rise, and when light and ready for the oven brush over tops with melted butter and strew over the tops of cakes the following: Mix 1 cup of flour, 1/2 cup of sugar and yolk of 1 egg. Flavor with a few drops of vanilla (or use vanilla sugar, which is made by placing several vanilla beans in a jar of sugar a short time, which flavors sugar). Rub this mixture of flour, sugar and yolk of egg through a coarse sieve and strew over tops of cakes. Or, this same recipe may be used by taking, instead of 1 cup of yeast, one Fleischman yeast cake, dissolved in 1 cup of lukewarm water. Instead of sponge being set to rise the night before the day on which the cakes are to be baked, the sponge might be set early in the morning of the same day on which they are to be baked--exactly in the same manner as if sponge was set the night before; when light, add eggs, sugar and balance of flour to sponge, and proceed as before. MUFFINS, BISCUITS, GRIDDLE CAKES AND WAFFLES Use 1 scant cup of liquid to 1 good cup of flour, usually, for "Griddle Cake" batter. Use baking powder with sweet milk, 1 heaping teaspoonful of Royal baking powder is equivalent to 1 teaspoonful of cream of tartar and 1/2 teaspoonful of salaratus (baking soda) combined. Use either baking powder or salaratus and cream of tartar combined, when using sweet milk. Use 1 teaspoonful of baking soda to 1 pint of sour milk. Allow a larger quantity of baking powder when no eggs are used. Have all materials cold when using baking powder. When milk is only slightly sour, use a lesser quantity of soda and a small quantity of baking powder. SALLY LUNN (AS AUNT SARAH MADE IT) As "Aunt Sarah" made this, it required 1 cup of sweet milk, 2 eggs, 1 tablespoonful of butter, 3 tablespoonfuls of sugar, flour to make a stiff batter, about 2-3/4 cups (almost three cups) of flour sifted with 3 scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Served immediately when taken from the oven, this is an excellent substitute for bread for lunch. AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE FOR "JOHNNY CAKE" One and one half cups of sour milk, 1/3 cup of shortening, a mixture of lard and butter, 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of sugar, 2 cups of yellow cornmeal, 1 cup of white bread flour, 1 egg, 1 teaspoon of soda, dissolved in a little hot water, a little salt. Mix all together, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg last. Pour batter in an oblong bread tin, bake about 45 minutes in a quick oven. Granulated corn meal was used for this cake. MARY'S BREAKFAST MUFFINS 3 cups sifted flour. 1 teaspoon salt. 1 teaspoon sugar. 1 tablespoon butter and lard. 1/4 cake Fleischman's yeast. 2 eggs. 2 cups boiled milk. Place the flour, salt, sugar, butter, lard and yeast cake, dissolved in water, in a bowl and mix well; then add the eggs and milk, which should be lukewarm. Set to rise in a warm place over night. In the morning do not stir at all, but carefully place tablespoonfuls of the light dough into warm, well-greased Gem pans, let stand a short time, until quite light, then bake in a hot oven 15 to 20 minutes and serve hot for breakfast. These should be light and flakey if made according to directions. RICE MUFFINS 1 cup cold boiled rice. Yolk of egg and white beaten separately. 1 teaspoon sugar. 1/2 teaspoon salt. 1 cup sweet milk. 2 cups flour. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Put the rice, yolk of egg, sugar and salt in a bowl and beat together; then add 1 teacup sweet milk alternately with the flour, in which has been sifted the baking powder. Add the stiffly-beaten white of egg; bake in muffin pans in hot oven. This makes about fifteen muffins. INDIAN PONE Beat together, in the following order, 2 eggs, 1 tablespoonful of white sugar, 1-1/2 cups of sweet milk, 1 teaspoonful of salt; to which add 1 cup of granulated yellow corn meal and 2 cups of white flour, sifted, with 3 scant teaspoonfuls of Royal baking powder. Lastly, add 1 tablespoonful of melted (not hot) butter. Pour batter in bread pan and bake in a hot oven 25 to 30 minutes. Serve hot. Do not cut with a knife when serving, but break in pieces. When the stock of bread is low this quickly-prepared corn bread or "pone" is a very good substitute for bread, and was frequently baked by Mary at the farm. Mary's Aunt taught her to make a very appetizing pudding from the left-over pieces of corn bread, which, when crumbled, filled 1 cup heaping full; over this was poured 2 cups of sweet milk; this was allowed to stand until soft; when add 1 large egg (beaten separately), a generous tablespoonful of sugar, a couple of tablespoonfuls of raisins, a pinch of salt; mix well, pour into a small agate pudding pan, grate nutmeg over the top, and bake in a moderate oven 1 hour or a less time. Serve with sugar and cream. "PFANNKUCHEN" (PANCAKES) Four eggs, whites and yolks were beaten separately, 2 tablespoonfuls of milk, were added; 1 teaspoonful of chopped parsley; mix lightly together, add salt to season. Place 2 tablespoonfuls of butter in a fry pan. When butter has melted, pour mixture carefully into pan. When cooked, sprinkle over a small quantity of finely minced parsley. Roll like a "jelly roll." Place on a hot platter and serve at once, cut in slices. "EXTRA FINE" BAKING POWDER BISCUITS One quart of flour was measured; after being sifted, was placed in a flour sifter, with 4 heaping teaspoonfuls of Royal baking powder and 1 teaspoonful of salt. Sift flour and baking powder into a bowl, cut through this mixture 1 tablespoonful of butter and lard each, and mix into a soft dough, with about 1 cup of sweet milk. 1 egg should have been added to the milk before mixing it with the flour. Reserve a small quantity of the yolk of egg, and thin with a little milk. Brush this over the top of biscuits before baking. Turn the biscuit dough onto a floured bake-board. Pat out about one inch thick. Cut into rounds with small tin cake cutter. Place a small bit of butter on each biscuit and fold together. Place a short distance apart on baking tins and bake in a quick oven. "FLANNEL" CAKES, MADE FROM SOUR MILK One pint of sour milk, 2 eggs (beaten separately), a little salt, 1 large teaspoon of melted butter, 1 teaspoonful of molasses, 1 good teaspoon of soda, sifted with enough flour to make a smooth batter. Beat hard and then add the 2 yolks and the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Bake small cakes on a hot, well-greased griddle. Serve with honey or maple syrup. "FLANNEL" CAKES WITH BAKING POWDER Sift together in a bowl 1 pint of flour, 1 teaspoon of salt, 2 teaspoons of Royal baking powder, mixed to a smooth batter, with about 1 pint of sweet milk. Add two yolks of eggs, 1 tablespoon of melted butter. Lastly, add the 2 stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. 1 teaspoon of baking molasses added makes them brown quickly. Bake on a hot griddle, well greased. FRAU SCHMIDT'S RECIPE FOR WAFFLES One pint of sour milk, 1 quart of sweet milk, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 tablespoon butter, whites of three eggs and yolks of two and 1 teaspoon of baking soda, and flour to make a rather thin batter. Beat the two yolks of the eggs until light and creamy, then add 1/2 teaspoon of baking powder, little flour, then the sour milk with soda dissolved in it, stirring all the time. Then add 1 tablespoon of melted or softened butter, then the sweet milk; beat well; and lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of the three eggs. Bake in hot waffle iron. "CRUMB" CORN CAKES One pint of stale bread crumbs (not fine, dried crumbs), covered with 1 pint of sour milk. Let stand over night. In the morning add 1 tablespoon of butter, yolks of 2 eggs and a little salt, 1/2 teaspoon of salaratus (good measure), 3/4 cup of granulated corn meal, to which add a couple of tablespoons of bread flour, enough to fill up the cup. Stir all well together, add the 2 stiffly-beaten whites of eggs and drop with a tablespoon on a hot, greased griddle. Make the cakes small, as they do not turn quite as easily as do buckwheat cakes. This makes about two dozen cakes. These are good. "GRANDMOTHER'S" RECIPE FOR BUTTERMILK WAFFLES Mix to a smooth batter, 4 cups of sour buttermilk, 5 cups of flour, and add 1 tablespoon of melted butter, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 tablespoon of molasses. Add the well-beaten yolks of 3 eggs, 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls of baking soda, dissolved in a little hot water. Lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of 3 eggs. Place about 3 tablespoonfuls of the batter on hot, well-greased waffle irons. If buttermilk cannot be procured, sour milk may be used with good results, providing the milk is quite sour. From this quantity of batter may be made twelve waffles. Serve with maple syrup or honey. BREAD GRIDDLE CAKES To 1 pint of sour milk add about 3 slices of stale bread and allow the bread to soak in this mixture over night. In the morning beat up smoothly with 1 egg yolk, 1 teaspoonful of soda, a pinch of salt and enough cornmeal and white flour, in equal quantities, to make a moderately thin batter. Lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg, bake on a hot griddle. Cakes should be small in size, as when baked cakes are less readily turned than other batter cakes. These cakes are economical and good. NEVER FAIL "FLANNEL" CAKES 2 cups thick sour milk (quite sour). 2 tablespoonfuls sweet milk. 1 egg. 1/2 teaspoonful salt. 2 cups flour. 1 teaspoonful baking soda (good measure). Pour the milk in a bowl, add yolk of egg. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt, four times. Beat all well together. Then add the stiffly-beaten white of egg, and bake at once on a hot griddle, using about two tablespoonfuls of the batter for a cake. Serve with butter and maple syrup or a substitute. This recipe, given Mary by an old, reliable cook, was unfailing as to results, if recipe be closely followed. The cakes should be three-fourths of an inch thick, light as a feather, and inside, fine, like bread, not "doughy," as cakes baked from richer batters frequently are. From this recipe was made eighteen cakes. WAFFLES MADE FROM SWEET MILK AND BAKING POWDER Sift together 1 quart of flour, 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt. Mix into a batter, a little thicker than for griddle cakes, with sweet milk; add yolks of 3 eggs, 3 tablespoonfuls of melted butter; lastly, stir in lightly the 3 stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Bake on a hot, well-greased waffle iron and serve with maple syrup. "BUCKS COUNTY" BUCKWHEAT CAKES About 12 o'clock noon dissolve 1 cake of yeast (the small, round or square cornmeal cakes) in 1 pint of lukewarm water. Add to this 1 tablespoonful wheat flour, 1 tablespoonful yellow cornmeal, and enough good buckwheat flour to make a thin batter. Set in a warm place near the range to rise. About 6 or 7 o'clock in the evening add this sponge to 1 quart and 1 pint of lukewarm potato water (water drained from boiled potatoes), 1 tablespoonful of mashed potatoes added improves the cakes; add salt. They need considerable. Stir in enough buckwheat flour to make quite a stiff batter, beat hard and set to rise, covered, in a warm place over night. The next morning add 1 teaspoonful salaratus, dissolved in a little hot water; 1 tablespoonful of baking molasses and a little warm milk, to thin the batter; or water will answer. The batter should be thin enough to pour. Let stand a short time, then bake on a hot griddle. Half this quantity will be enough for a small family. Then use only 1/2 teaspoonful salaratus. Bake golden brown on hot griddle. Serve with honey or maple syrup. If this recipe for buckwheat cakes is followed, you should have good cakes, but much of their excellence depends on the flour. Buy a small quantity of flour and try it before investing in a large quantity, as you cannot make good cakes from a poor brand of flour. DELICIOUS CORN CAKES One cup of sweet milk heated to boiling point; stir in 2 heaping tablespoonfuls yellow, granulated cornmeal; add a tablespoonful of butter or lard and salt to taste. As soon as the mixture has cooled, stir in 1 tablespoonful of wheat flour. If the batter should be too thick, stir in enough cold, sweet milk to make it run easily from the spoon. Add 1 heaping teaspoonful of Royal baking powder. Drop spoonfuls on hot, greased griddle, and bake. This quantity makes cakes enough to serve three people, about sixteen small cakes. This is an economical recipe, as no eggs are used. RICE WAFFLES (AS AUNT SARAH MADE THEM.) Add 1 tablespoonful of butter and 1 tablespoonful lard to 1 cup of cold, boiled rice; 2 yolks of eggs, the whites beaten separately and added last; 2 cups of flour, 1 teaspoonful salt and 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder, sifted together; 1 teaspoonful of sugar and 1 teaspoonful of molasses, and enough sweet milk to make a thin batter. Bake in hot waffle irons. With these serve either maple syrup or a mixture of sugar and cinnamon. "GERMAN" EGG-PANCAKES (NOT CHEAP) These truly delicious pancakes were always baked by "Aunt Sarah" when eggs were most plentiful. For them she used, 1 cup flour, 5 fresh eggs, 1/2 cup milk. The yolks of 5 eggs were broken into a bowl and lightly beaten. Then milk and flour were added gradually to form a smooth batter. Lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs were added. Large spoonfuls were dropped on a hot, well-greased griddle, forming small cakes, which were served as soon as baked. These cakes require no baking powder. Their lightness depends entirely on the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. "FRAU SCHMIDT'S" GRIDDLE CAKE RECIPE The Professor's wife gave Mary this cheap and good recipe for griddle cakes: 1 pint of quite sour, thick milk; beat into this thoroughly 1 even teaspoon of baking soda, 1/2 teaspoon each of salt and sugar and 2 cups of flour, to which had been added 1 tablespoon of granulated cornmeal and 1 rounded teaspoon of baking powder before sifting. No eggs were used by the Professor's wife in these cakes, but Mary always added yolk of 1 egg to the cakes when she baked them. MARY'S RECIPE FOR "CORN CAKE" 1 cup of white flour. 1/2 cup cornmeal (yellow granulated cornmeal). 1 cup of sweet milk. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. 1 tablespoonful sugar. 1/2 teaspoonful salt. 1 tablespoonful butter. 1 tablespoonful lard. 1 egg. Sift together flour, salt and baking powder, sugar, and add 1/2 cup of granulated, yellow cornmeal. Mix with 1 cup milk, 1 beaten egg, and the 2 tablespoonfuls of butter and lard. Beat thoroughly. Add a tablespoonful more of flour if not as stiff as ordinary cake batter. Pour in well-greased bread tin and bake about 40 minutes in a hot oven. AUNT SARAH'S DELICIOUS CREAM BISCUITS Place in a flour sifter 2 cups of flour, 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt and 1/2 teaspoonful of sugar. Sift twice; stir together 1/2 cup of sweet milk and 1/2 cup of thick, sweet cream. Quickly mix all together, cutting through flour with a knife, until a soft dough is formed, mixing and handling as little as possible. Drop spoonfuls into warmed muffin tins and bake at once in a hot oven. Serve hot. These are easily and quickly made, no shortening other than cream being used, and if directions are closely followed will be flakey biscuits when baked. Aunt Sarah was always particular to use pastry flour when using baking powder, in preference to higher-priced "Hard Spring Wheat," which she used only for the making of bread or raised cakes, in which yeast was used. MARY'S MUFFINS 2 cups of flour. 3 even teaspoonfuls of baking powder. 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar. 1 cup of sweet milk. 2 eggs. 1 tablespoonful of butter. Sift flour and baking powder in a bowl; add 1 tablespoonful of sugar and a pinch of salt; add the 2 yolks of eggs to the 1 cup of milk, and mix with the flour and baking powder; lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Place large spoonfuls of the batter in small Gem pans. Bake in a hot oven 20 minutes. These muffins are fine. CORN MUFFINS (AS MADE BY "FRAU SCHMIDT") 2 eggs. 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of sugar. 1 cup of granulated yellow cornmeal. 1-1/2 cups of sweet milk. 2 cups of white flour. 3 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. 1 tablespoonful melted butter. A pinch of salt Beat together eggs and sugar, add milk and cornmeal and the white flour, sifted, with baking powder and salt; add the 1 tablespoonful of melted butter. Bake 20 minutes in warmed Gem pans, in a hot oven. Mary's Aunt taught her to utilize any left-over muffins by making a very appetizing pudding from them called "Indian Sponge" Pudding, the recipe for which may be found among pudding recipes. STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE (AS FRAU SCHMIDT MADE IT) 1 pint of flour. 3 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of butter or lard. 1 egg. 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Milk or water. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt, and cut butter or lard through the flour. Add 1 beaten egg to about 1 cup of sweet milk, and add gradually to the flour, cutting through it with a knife until a soft dough is formed, mixing and handling as little as possible. Divide the dough into two portions, roll out one portion quickly and place on a large pie tin; spread the top of cake with softened (not melted) butter, lay the other cake on top and bake in a quick oven. When baked and still hot, the cakes may be easily separated without cutting; when, place between layers, and, if liked, on top of the cake, crushed, sweetened strawberries. "Frau" Schmidt thought a crushed banana added to the strawberries an improvement. Serve the hot shortcake with sweet cream and sugar. Or, the recipe for baking a plain (not rich) layer cake might be used instead of the above. When baked and cooled, spread between the layers the following: To the stiffly-beaten white of 1 egg, add 1 cup of sugar; beat well. Then add 1 cup of crushed strawberries. Beat all together until the consistency of thick cream. Serve cold. PERFECTION WAFFLES Sift together 4 cups of flour, 2 teaspoonfuls of baking soda and 1 teaspoonful of salt, four times. Separate 3 fresh eggs. Place the yolks in an earthenware mixing bowl. Beat well with a spoon. Then add 3-1/2 cups of sour milk or sour buttermilk and 1/2 cup of sour cream, and 1 teaspoonful of melted butter. Mix a smooth batter with the sifted flour and soda. Lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of 3 eggs. Mix the batter quickly and thoroughly. Bake on a hot, well-greased waffle iron and serve at once. The waffles may be buttered as soon as baked and sugar sifted over, or a saucer containing a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, or a small jug of maple syrup may be served with them. Twelve waffles were made from this recipe. RECIPE FOR MAKING "BAKING POWDER" Sift together three times (through a fine sieve) 8 tablespoonfuls of cream of tartar, 4 tablespoonfuls of baking soda (salaratus), 4 tablespoonfuls of flour. Cornstarch may be substituted for flour. This latter ingredient is used to keep the cream of tartar and soda separate and dry, as soda is made from salt and will absorb moisture. This recipe for making a pure baking powder was given Mary by Fran Schmidt, who had used it for years with good results. FRITTERS, CROQUETTES, DUMPLINGS AND CRULLERS When cooking any article to be immersed in fat use about this proportion: 2 pounds of sweet lard to 1 of suet, which had been previously tried out. It is cheaper, also more wholesome, to use part suet than to use all lard. Save all pieces of left-over fat, either raw or cooked, from steaks, roasts, bacon or ham. Cut all up into small pieces and place in a pan in the oven until tried out, or put in a double boiler and stand over boiling water until fat is tried out. Strain and stand aside to be used as drippings. To clarify this fat, pour boiling water over, let cook a short time, strain and stand away in a cool place, when a cake of solid fat will form on top, which may be readily removed and used as drippings, or it may be added to the kettle of fat used for deep frying. Always strain fat carefully after frying croquettes, fritters, etc. Should the frying fat become dark add to the can of soap fat the economical housewife is saving. Return the clear-strained fat to the cook pot, cover carefully, stand aside in a cool place, and the strained fat may be used times without number for frying. The housewife will find it very little trouble to fry fritters, croquettes, etc., in deep fat, if the fat is always strained immediately after using, and returned to the cook pot, kept especially for this purpose. Stand on the hot range when required and the fat will heat in a few minutes, and if the fat is the right temperature, food cooked in it should not be at all greasy. When the housewife is planning to fry fritters or croquettes she should, if possible, crumb the articles to be fried several hours before frying, and stand aside to become perfectly cold. When the fat for frying is so hot a blue smoke arises, drop in the fritters or croquettes, one at a time, in order not to chill the fat or plunge a frying basket, containing only a couple of fritters at a time, in the hot fat, as too many placed in the fat at one time lowers the temperature too quickly and causes the fritters to be greasy and soggy. To test the fat before dropping in the fritters, if a small piece of bread is dropped in the fat and browns in about one minute the fat is the right temperature for frying fritters, and fritters fried at the correct temperature should be a rich brown and not at all greasy. When removing fritters from hot fat place on coarse brown paper to absorb any remaining fat. Fritters composed of vegetables, or oysters, should be served on a platter garnished with parsley, and fritters composed of fruit, should have pulverized sugar sifted over them liberally. Should a small piece of bread brown in the fat while you count twenty, fat is the correct temperature for frying croquettes, but is too hot for frying crullers or any food not previously cooked. KARTOFFLE BALLA (POTATO BALLS) Boil until tender, 8 medium-sized (not pared) potatoes; when quite cold remove parings and grate them; fry one finely-chopped onion in a little butter until a yellow-brown; add this, also 1 egg, to the potatoes, season with salt and pepper and add flour enough to mold into balls; use only flour enough to hold the mixture together. The chopped onion may be omitted, and instead, brown small, dice-like pieces of bread in a little butter, shape dumplings into balls the size of walnuts, place a teaspoonful of the browned bread crumbs in the centre of each and add also a little chopped parsley. Drop the dumplings in salted boiling water and cook uncovered from 15 to 20 minutes. When dumplings rise to the top they should be cooked sufficiently, when remove from kettle with a skimmer to a platter; cut dumplings in half and strew over them bread crumbs, browned in butter. "BOOVA SHENKEL" For this excellent "Pennsylvania German" dish, which I am positive has never before been published, take 2-1/2 pounds of stewing meat (beef preferred), season with salt and pepper and cook slowly several hours until tender. For the filling for the circles of dough, take 12 medium-sized white potatoes, pared and thinly sliced, steamed until tender; then add seasoning to taste of salt and pepper, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, 2 tablespoonfuls of finely-minced parsley and 1 finely-chopped onion (small); lastly, add 3 eggs, lightly beaten together, to the mixture. Allow this to stand while the pastry is being prepared in the following manner: Pastry--Sift into a bowl 2-1/2 cups of flour, 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, 1 generous teaspoonful of lard and 1 of butter. Cut through the flour, mix with water into a dough as for pie crust. Roll thin, cut into about ten circles, and spread some of the mixture on each circle of dough. Press two opposite edges together like small, three-cornered turnover pies; drop these on to the hot meat and broth in the cook pot, closely covered. Cook slowly from 20 to 30 minutes. Before serving the "Boova Shenkel" pour over the following: Cut slices of stale bread into dice and brown in a pan containing 1 large tablespoonful of butter and a couple tablespoonfuls of fat (which had been skimmed from top of broth before "Boova Shenkel" had been put in cook pot), add about 1/2 cup of milk to diced, browned bread; when hot, pour over the "Boova Shenkel" and serve with the meat on a large platter. RICE BALLS WITH CHEESE Place 2 cups of cold, boiled rice, well drained, in a bowl and add 1/2 cup of grated cheese, a little salt, 1/4 cup flour and the stiffly-beaten white of one egg. Mix all together and mold into balls about the size of a small egg, with a little of the flour; then roll them in fine, dried bread crumbs, and stand away until perfectly cold. When preparing for lunch, beat the yolk of the egg with a little milk, dip the rice balls into this, then into fine, dried bread crumbs, drop in deep fat and fry a golden brown. Drain on brown paper and serve, garnished with parsley. "KARTOFFLE KLOSE" One quart of cold, boiled, skinned potatoes, grated. (Boil without paring the day before they are to be used, if possible.) Put into a frying pan 1 tablespoonful of butter, 1 finely-minced onion (small onion), and fry until a light brown. Remove from fire and mix with this: 2 heaped tablespoonfuls flour, 1 tablespoonful of finely-cut parsley, 2 eggs (whites beaten separately), and 2 slices of bread, cut fine. Add grated potatoes and bread crumbs, alternately, mixing together lightly with a fork; add the other ingredients, season well with salt and pepper, form into round balls the size of a walnut and drop into a stew-pan of boiling, salted water, containing a teaspoon of butter. Do not cover the stew-pan while they are cooking. As soon as the dumplings rise to the top, skim one out and cut in half to see if it is cooked through. They should take from 15 to 20 minutes to cook. Skim out of the boiling water on a platter. Cut each dumpling in half, pour over them bread crumbs browned in a pan containing a little lard and butter, and serve. The onion may be omitted and only finely-chopped parsley used, if desired, or use both. Or place the halved dumplings in pan containing a little lard and butter and chopped onion (if the latter is liked), and brown on each side, then serve. RICE CROQUETTES (AND LEMON SAUCE) Boil 1 cup of well-washed rice in 6 or 8 cups of rapidly-boiling water, until tender. The rice, when cooked and drained, should fill 3 cups. Prepare a cream sauce of 1 pint of milk, 3 heaping tablespoonfuls of flour and 2 tablespoons of butter and 2 egg yolks. Stir in 3 cups of flaky, cooked rice, while rice is still hot. When the mixture has cooled, mold into small cone shapes with the hands, stand aside until perfectly cold. Dip the croquettes into the whites of eggs, then roll them in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry in deep fat. If a cube of bread browns in the fat in a little longer time than a half minute, the fat is the right temperature. Eighteen croquettes were made from this quantity of rice. Lemon Sauce--To serve with rice croquettes, cream together 1/2 cup of sugar, 1 tablespoonful of butter, 1 egg, 2 cups of boiling water was added and all cooked together until the mixture thickened. When cooled slightly add the juice and grated rind of one lemon. Serve in a separate bowl, and pass with the croquettes. CORN OYSTERS Slice off tips of kernels from cobs of corn and scrape down corn-pulp from cobb with a knife. To 1 pint of pulp add 2 eggs, 2 heaping tablespoonfuls of flour, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt and a pinch of cayenne pepper and of black pepper; add the 2 yolks of eggs, then stir in lightly the stiffly-beaten white of eggs and flour. Fry in only enough butter to prevent them sticking to the pan. Drop into pan by spoonfuls size of an ordinary fried oyster, brown on both sides and serve hot. BANANA FRITTERS From one banana was made 4 fritters. The banana was halved, cut lengthwise and then cut cross-wise. The batter will do for all fruits, clams, corn or oysters. Make a sauce of the liquor, mixed with same quantity of milk, with a tablespoon of butter added, chopped parsley and flour to thicken. When making oyster or clam fritters use same rule as for fruit fritters, using clam juice and milk instead of all milk. For the "fritter batter," sift together 1 pint of flour, 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder and a pinch of salt. Stir slowly into it a pint of milk, then the well-beaten yolks of 3 eggs, and, lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Beat hard for a few minutes and fry at once in smoking hot fat. Orange sections make delicious fritters, or halves of fresh or canned peaches may be used. Allow the bananas to stand one-quarter hour in a dish containing a small quantity of lemon juice and sugar before putting them in the batter. Lay the slices of bananas or sections of orange in the batter, then take up a tablespoonful of the batter with one slice of banana for each fritter, drop into hot fat one at a time, and fry a golden brown. Sift pulverized sugar over and serve hot. If a small piece of bread browns in one minute in the fat it is the right temperature to fry any previously uncooked food. PARSNIP FRITTERS Scrape and boil 5 or 6 parsnips in salted water until tender and drain. If old parsnips, cut out the centre, as it is tough and woody. Mash parsnips fine, add 1 egg yolk (white beaten separately), and added last a little salt, 1 large tablespoonful flour, 1/4 teaspoonful baking powder, mold into small cakes, dredge with flour, and fry quickly to a golden brown in a tablespoonful of butter and one of drippings. Serve at once. AUNT SARAH'S "SCHNITZ AND KNOPF" This is an old-fashioned "Pennsylvania German" favorite. The end of a ham bone, containing a very little meat, was placed in a large kettle with a small quantity of water, with "Schnitz," or sliced, sweet, dried apples, which had been dried without removing the parings. When the apples were cooked tender in the ham broth; dumplings, composed of the following, were lightly dropped on top of the apples and broth and cooked, closely covered, from 15 to 20 minutes. Do not uncover kettle the first ten minutes. When dumplings have cooked place them with the "Schnitz" on a large platter, and serve at once. A VERY OLD RECIPE FOR DUMPLINGS, OR "KNOPF" One and one-half quarts of flour was sifted with 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of Royal baking powder, 1 teaspoonful of butter was cut through the flour in small bits, 1 egg was beaten and enough milk or water added to the egg to mix the flour into quite a soft dough. Sometimes instead of molding the dough into balls large spoonfuls were placed over the apples. Aunt Sarah had used this recipe for many years. This is a very old recipe, and from it was made a larger quantity than ordinary housekeepers usually require. Half the quantity, about 1-1/2 pints of flour to 1-1/4 tablespoonfuls of baking powder, mixed according to the directions given in the first part of recipe, would be about the correct proportions for a family of ordinary size. Aunt Sarah frequently substituted sour cherries and a teaspoonful of butter was added instead of ham and "Schnitz." Dumplings prepared from this recipe may be dropped on stewed chicken and broth and cooked or steamed, make an excellent pot-pie. Should there be more dough mixed than required for dumplings, place a panful in the oven and bake as biscuits. More baking powder is required when dough is steamed or boiled than when baked in the oven. "KARTOFFLE KUKLEIN" (POTATO FRITTERS OR BOOFERS) Place in a bowl 2 cups grated, pared, _raw_ potatoes; drain off any liquid formed, then add 1 small onion, also grated; large egg or 2 small eggs, salt and pepper, 1 tablespoonful chopped parsley, 1/4 teaspoonful baking powder (good measure), and a couple tablespoonfuls of flour to thicken just enough to make the fritters hold together; then drop by spoonfuls in deep, hot fat, and fry a rich brown. The fritters form into odd shapes a trifle larger than a fried oyster, when dropped in the fat. Should the fritter batter separate when dropped in the fat, add more flour, but if too much flour is added they are not as good as when a lesser quantity is used. Drain the fritters on brown paper and garnish the platter upon which they are served with parsley. Mary's Uncle was very fond of these fritters. He preferred them to fried oysters, and always called them "potato boofers." I would not answer for the wholesomeness of these fritters. In fact, I do not think any fried food particularly wholesome. ROSETTES, WAFERS AND ROSENKUCHEN (AS MADE BY FRAU SCHMIDT) Prepare a batter from the following: 1 cup of sweet milk. 2 eggs. Pinch of salt. 1 cup of flour, good measure. Gradually mix the flour with the milk to form a smooth batter, free from lumps. Add yolks, then the slightly-beaten whites of eggs. Fasten the long handle to a wafer iron, shaped like a cup or saucer, and stand it in hot fat, a mixture of 2/3 lard and 1/3 suet, or oil; when heated, remove at once, and dip quickly into the batter, not allowing the batter to come over top of the wafer iron. Then return it to the hot fat, which should cover the wafer iron, and in about 25 or 30 seconds the wafer should be lightly browned, when the wafer may be easily removed from the iron on to a piece of brown paper to absorb any fat which may remain. This amount of batter should make about forty wafers. On these wafers may be served creamed oysters, vegetables, chicken or fruit. When using the wafers as a foundation on which to serve fruit, whipped cream is a dainty adjunct. One teaspoonful of sugar should then be added to the wafer batter. These wafers may be kept several weeks, when by simply placing them in a hot oven a minute before serving they will be almost as good as when freshly cooked. Or the wafers may be served as a fritter by sifting over them pulverized sugar and cinnamon. "BAIRISCHE DAMPFNUDELN" These delicious Bavarian steamed dumplings are made in this manner: 1 cake of Fleischman's compressed yeast was dissolved in a cup of lukewarm milk, sift 1 pint of flour into a bowl, add 1 teaspoonful of sugar and 1 teaspoonful of salt. Mix the flour with another cup of lukewarm milk, 1 egg and the dissolved yeast cake and milk (two cups of milk were used altogether). Work all together thoroughly, adding gradually about 1-1/2 cups of flour to form a soft dough. Do not mix it too stiff. Cover the bowl with a cloth; stand in a warm place until it has doubled the original bulk. Flour the bread board and turn out dough and mold into small biscuits or dumplings. Let these rise for half an hour, butter a pudding pan and place dumplings in it, brushing tops with melted butter. Pour milk in the pan around the dumplings to about two-thirds the depth of the dumplings; set pan on inverted pie tin in oven and bake a light brown. Serve with any desired sauce or stewed fruit. Or, after the shaped dough has raised, drop it in a large pot of slightly-salted boiling water, allowing plenty of room for them to swell and puff up, and boil continuously, closely covered, for 20 minutes. This quantity makes about 30 small dumplings. Should you not wish so many, half the quantity might be molded out, placed in a greased pie tin, and when light, which takes half an hour, bake in a moderately hot oven, and you will have light biscuits for lunch. The thrifty German Hausfraus make fritters of everything imaginable, and sometimes unimaginable. Mary was told one day by a German neighbor how she prepared a fritter she called: "HELLER BLUTHER KUKLEIN" She gathered elderberry blossoms, rinsed off the dust, and when free from moisture dipped the blossoms into fritter batter, holding the stem ends, then dropped them into hot fat, and when golden brown, drained a minute on coarse, brown paper before serving, dusted them with powdered sugar; cinnamon may also be dusted over if liked. Mary pronounced them "fine," after tasteing, and said: "They certainly are a novelty." Perhaps something like this suggested the Rosette Iron, as it is somewhat similar. APYL KUKLEIN (APPLE FRITTERS) Pare and core 4 large tart apples. Cut each apple into about 4 round slices and allow the sliced apples to lie a couple of hours in a dish containing 2 tablespoonfuls of brandy, mixed with a half teaspoonful of cinnamon and a half teaspoonful of sugar. Drain the sliced apples, then a few at a time should be dropped in the following batter, composed of: 1 cup of flour sifted with 1/2 teaspoonful of Royal baking powder, 1/4 teaspoonful of salt, add the yolks of 2 eggs and 1 cup of milk to form a smooth batter, then add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Fry light brown, in deep, hot fat, and sift over powdered sugar. "Fried Apples" are an appetizing garnish for pork chops; the apples should be cored, _not pared_, but should be sliced, and when cut the slices should resemble round circles, with holes in the centre. Allow the sliced apples to remain a short time in a mixture of cinnamon and brandy, dry on a napkin, and fry in a pan, containing a couple of tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter. DUMPLINGS MADE FROM "BREAD SPONGE" Aunt Sarah's raised dumplings from bread sponge were greatly relished at the farm. When bread sponge, which had been set to rise early in the morning, and all flour necessary for loaves of bread had been added and loaves were being shaped to place in bread tins, Aunt Sarah reserved an amount of sponge sufficient for one loaf of bread, added a little extra salt, shaped them into small balls, size of a lemon, placed them on a well-floured board some distance apart to raise; when light (at 12 o'clock, if the dinner hour was 12.20), she carefully dropped the light balls of dough into a large pot of rapidly boiling, slightly salted water, covered closely, and boiled about 20 minutes, (Do not have more than one layer of the dumplings in cook pot, and do not place too close together; allow room for them to expand.) Test by tearing one apart with a fork. Serve at once, and serve with a roast, to be eaten with gravy, with butter, or they may be eaten as a dessert, with jelly or maple syrup. Aunt Sarah frequently added an equal quantity of fine, dried bread crumbs and flour and a little extra salt to a thin batter of bread sponge (before all the flour required for bread had been added), made about as stiff a dough as for ordinary loaves of bread; molded them into balls. When sufficiently raised, boiled them either in water or meat broth in the same manner as she prepared dumplings; made _only_ of _flour_. This is a small economy, using _bread crumbs_ in place of _flour_, and these are delicious if prepared according to directions. Remember to have a large quantity of rapidly boiling water in which to cook the dumplings, not to allow water to stop boiling an instant and to keep cook pot closely covered for 20 minutes before removing one, and breaking apart to see if cooked through. These are particularly nice served with stewed apricots. "LEBER KLOSE" OR LIVER DUMPLINGS Boil a good-sized soup bone for several hours in plenty of water, to which add salt and pepper to taste and several small pieces of celery and sprigs of parsley to flavor stock. Strain the broth or stock into a good-sized cook pot and set on stove to keep hot. For the liver dumplings, scrape a half pound of raw beef liver with a knife, until fine and free from all veins, etc. Place the scraped liver in a large bowl, cut three or four good-sized onions into dice, fry a light brown, in a pan containing 1 tablespoonful of lard and butter mixed. Cut into dice 3/4 to a whole loaf of bread (about 2 quarts). Beat 2 eggs together, add 1 cup of sweet milk, season well with salt and pepper, and mix all together with 1 large cup of flour. If not moist enough to form into balls when mixed together, add more milk. Keep the mixture as soft as possible or the dumplings will be heavy. Flour the hands when shaping the balls, which should be the size of a shelled walnut. Stand the pot containing stock on the front of the stove, where it will boil, and when boiling, drop in the dumplings and boil, uncovered, for 15 minutes. When cooked, take the dumplings carefully from the stock on to a large platter, pour the stock over the dumplings and serve. These are excellent, but a little troublesome to make. One-half this quantity would serve a small family for lunch. FRAU SCHMIDT'S "OLD RECIPE FOR SCHNITZ AND KNOPF" Place a cook pot on the range, containing the end piece of a small ham; partly cover with water. This should be done about three hours before serving, changing the water once. Soak sweet, unpared, sliced, dried apples over night in cold water. In the morning cook the dried apples (or schnitz) in a small quantity of the ham broth, in a separate stew-pan, until tender. Remove ham from broth one-half hour before serving. Sweeten the broth with a small quantity of brown sugar, and when the broth commences to boil add raised dumplings of dough, which had been shaped with the hands into round balls about the size of an ordinary biscuit. Cook 25 minutes. Do not uncover the cook-pot after the dumplings have been dropped into the broth until they have cooked the required length of time. When the dumplings have cooked a sufficient time carefully remove to a warm platter containing the cooked apple schnitz. Thicken the broth remaining with a little flour, to the consistency of cream. Pour over the dumplings and serve at once. Dumplings--At 9.30 in the evening set a sponge consisting of 1 cup of lukewarm milk, 1 tablespoonful sugar, 1 tablespoonful of butter, 1 egg, 3/4 of an yeast cake, add flour enough to form a sponge (as stiff as may be stirred with a mixing spoon). Set to raise in a warm place over night. In the morning add more flour to the risen sponge until nearly as stiff as for bread. Form into round dumplings, place on a well-floured bake-board to rise slowly. Twenty-five minutes before serving drop dumplings into the hot broth in a large cook-pot. There should be only one layer of dumplings, otherwise they will be heavy. "BROD KNODEL," OR BREAD DUMPLINGS 3 cups of stale bread (cut like dice). 3/4 cup of flour. 1/2 teaspoonful baking powder. 3/4 cup milk. 2 tablespoonfuls butter. 1 egg. 1 teaspoonful of finely-minced parsley. 1/2 teaspoonful finely-minced onion (if liked). Pinch of salt. Place two cups of diced bread in a bowl and pour over 3/4 cup of milk. (Reserve 1 cup of diced bread, which brown in 1 tablespoonful of butter, to be added to the mixture later.) Allow milk and bread to stand 10 or 15 minutes; then add 1 tablespoonful of melted butter, 1 egg, flour and baking powder, and salt; fried, diced bread and parsley, and mix all together. With well-floured hands form the mixture into balls size of a walnut, and drop at once into rapidly boiling salted water and cook 15 minutes. Stew pan should be closely covered. When cooked, remove to platter with perforated skimmer, and serve at once, or drop dumplings into a pan containing 1 tablespoonful of melted butter, and brown on all sides before serving. "GERMAN" POT PIE To serve a family of six or seven, place 2 pounds of beef and 4 pork chops, cut in small pieces, in a cook-pot. Season with a little chopped onion, pepper and salt. This should be done about three or four hours before dinner. One hour before serving prepare the dough for pot pie. Pare white potatoes, slice and dry on a napkin, sift 2 cups of flour with 1 teaspoonful of baking-powder, pinch of salt, cut through the sifted flour, 1 level tablespoonful of shortening. Moisten dough with 1 egg and enough milk to make dough stiff enough to handle. (Almost 1 cup of milk, including the egg.) Cut off a small piece of dough, size of a small teacup, roll thin and take up plenty of flour on both sides. Take up all flour possible. Cut this dough into four portions or squares. Have the meat more than covered with water, as water cooks away. Place a layer of potatoes on meat (well seasoned), then the pared potatoes and small pieces of dough alternately, never allowing pieces of dough to lap; place potatoes between. Roll the last layer out in one piece, size of a pie plate, and cover top layer of potatoes with it. Cover closely and cook three-quarters of an hour from the time it commences to boil. Then turn out carefully on a platter and serve at once. "ZWETCHEN DAMPFNUDELN" (PRUNE DUMPLINGS) In the evening a sponge was prepared with yeast for bread. All the flour required to stiffen the dough for loaves of bread being added at this time. The bread sponge was stood in a warm place to rise over night. In the morning, when shaping the dough into loaves, stand aside about one pint of the bread dough. Later in the morning form the pint of dough into small balls or dumplings, place on a well-floured bake board and stand in a warm place until doubled in size. Then drop the dumplings into a cook pot containing stewed prunes, a small quantity of water, a little sugar and lemon peel, if liked. The dried prunes had been soaked over night in cold water, and allowed to simmer on the range in the morning. The prune juice should be hot when the dumplings are added. Cook dumplings one-half hour in a closely covered cook-pot and turn out carefully on to a warmed platter, surrounded by prune juice and prunes. GREEN CORN FRITTERS Grate pulp from six cars of corn; with a knife scrape down the pulp into a bowl, add 2 eggs, beaten separately, a couple tablespoonfuls of milk, 1 large tablespoonful of flour, 1/4 teaspoonful of baking powder and a pinch of salt. Drop with a spoon on a well-greased griddle. The cakes should be the size of a silver half dollar. Bake brown on either side and serve hot. These should not be fried as quickly as griddle cakes are fried, as the corn might then not be thoroughly cooked. "MOULDASHA" (PARSLEY PIES) Mash and season with butter and salt half a dozen boiled white potatoes, add a little grated onion and chopped parsley. Sift together in a bowl 1 cup of flour, 1 teaspoonful baking powder and a little salt. Add a small quantity of milk to one egg if not enough liquid to mix into a soft dough. Roll out like pie crust, handling as little as possible. Cut into small squares, fill with the potato mixture, turn opposite corners over and pinch together all around like small, three-cornered pies. Drop the small triangular pies into boiling, salted water a few minutes, or until they rise to top; then skim out and brown them in a pan containing a tablespoonful each of butter and lard. I have known some Germans who called these "Garden Birds." Stale bread crumbs, browned in butter, may be sprinkled over these pies when served. Serve hot. These are really pot pie or dumplings with potato filling. Mary's Aunt always called these "Mouldasha." Where she obtained the name or what its meaning is, the writer is unable to say. INEXPENSIVE DROP CRULLERS Cream together 1 cup sugar and 1 egg, then add one cup of milk alternately with 2 cups of flour, sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Add 1/2 teaspoonful of vanilla and enough flour to make a stiff batter. Take about 1/2 a teaspoonful of the batter at a time and drop into boiling hot fat, and brown on both sides; then drain on coarse, brown paper and, when cool, dust with pulverized sugar. These cakes are cheap and good, and as no shortening is used are not rich. Do not make cakes too large, as they then will not cook through readily. BATTER BAKED WITH GRAVY The Professor's wife gave Mary this recipe, given her by an Englishwoman. The recipe was liked by her family, being both economical and good. When serving roast beef for dinner, before thickening the gravy, take out about half a cup of liquid from the pan and stand in a cool place until the day following. Reheat the roast remaining from previous day, pour the half cup of liquid in an iron fry pan, and when hot pour the following batter in the pan with the fat and bake in a moderately hot oven about 25 minutes. Or the batter may be poured in pan about 25 minutes before meat has finished roasting. The batter was composed of 1 cup of flour, sifted with 1 small teaspoonful of baking powder and 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, mixed smooth with 1 cup of sweet milk. Add 2 well-beaten eggs. When baked cut in small pieces, surround the meat on platter, serve instead of potatoes with roast. The addition of baked dough extends the meat flavor and makes possible the serving of a smaller amount of meat at a meal. "GERMAN" SOUR CREAM CRULLERS One cup sugar, 1 cup sour cream, 2 eggs, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, 1 teaspoonful soda, pinch of salt. About 3-1/2 cups of flour. (Use extra flour to dredge the bake-board when rolling out crullers.) This is a very good recipe for crullers, in which the economical housewife may use the cup of cream which has turned sour. This necessitates using less shortening, which otherwise would be required. Cream together sugar, butter, add yolks of eggs. Dissolve the soda in a small quantity of sour cream. Mix cream alternately with the flour. Add pinch of salt. Add just enough flour to roll out. Cut with small doughnut cutter with hole in centre. Fry in hot fat. Dust with pulverized sugar. "GRANDMOTHER'S" DOUGHNUTS Cream together 1 cup sugar and 2 teaspoonfuls butter, 1/2 a grated nutmeg, and a pinch of salt. Add 2 eggs, beaten without separating yolks from whites, and 1 cup of sweet milk. Then add 4 cups of flour (or 1 quart), prepared as follows: Measure 1 quart of unsifted flour and sift twice with 2 generous teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Use this to thicken the batter sufficiently to roll out and use about 1 extra cup of flour to flour the bake-board. Turn out one-half the quantity of dough on to a half cup of flour on the bake-board. Roll out dough half an inch thick. Cut out with round cutter, with hole in centre, and drop into deep, hot fat. Use 2/3 lard and 1/3 suet for deep frying; it is cheaper and more wholesome than to use all lard. When fat is hot enough to brown a small piece of bread while you count 60, it is the correct temperature for doughnuts. The dough should be as soft as can be handled. When cakes are a rich brown, take from fat, drain well on coarse, brown paper, and when cool dust with pulverized sugar and place in a covered stone jar. Never use fat as hot for frying doughnuts as that used for frying croquettes, but should the fat not be hot the doughnuts would be greasy. These doughnuts are excellent if made according to recipe. FINE "DROP CRULLERS" Cream together 1-1/2 cups pulverized sugar, 3 eggs, add 1 cup sweet milk, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, 3-1/2 cups of flour, sifted after measuring with 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Drop teaspoonfuls of this carefully into boiling fat. They should resemble small balls when fried. Batter must not be too stiff, but about the consistency of a cup-cake batter. Boil them in a mixture of cinnamon and sugar when all have been fried. SOUPS AND CHOWDERS Stock is the basis of all soups made from meat, and is really the juice of the meat extracted by long and gentle simmering. In making stock for soup always use an agate or porcelain-lined stock pot. Use one quart of cold water to each pound of meat and bone. Use cheap cuts of meat for soup stock. Excellent stock may be made from bones and trimmings of meat and poultry. Wash soup bones and stewing meat quickly in cold water. Never allow a roast or piece of stewing meat to lie for a second in water. Aunt Sarah did not think that wiping meat with a damp cloth was all that was necessary (although many wise and good cooks to the contrary). Place meat and soup bones in a stock pot, pour over the requisite amount of soft, cold water to extract the juice and nutritive quality of the meat; allow it to come to a boil, then stand back on the range, where it will just simmer for 3 or 4 hours. Then add a sliced onion, several sprigs of parsley, small pieces of chopped celery tops, well-scraped roots of celery, and allow to simmer three-quarters of an hour longer. Season well with salt and pepper, 1 level teaspoonful of salt will season 1 quart of soup. Strain through a fine sieve, stand aside, and when cool remove from lop the solid cake of fat which had formed and use for frying after it has been clarified. It is surprising to know the variety of soups made possible by the addition of a small quantity of vegetables or cereals to stock. A couple tablespoonfuls of rice or barley added to well-seasoned stock and you have rice or barley soup. A small quantity of stewed, sweet corn or noodles, frequently "left-overs," finely diced or grated carrots, potatoes, celery or onions, and you have a vegetable soup. Strain the half can of tomatoes, a "left-over" from dinner, add a tablespoonful of butter, a seasoning of salt and pepper, thicken to a creamy consistency with a little cornstarch, add to cup of soup stock, serve with croutons of bread or crackers, and you have an appetizing addition to dinner or lunch. The possibilities for utilizing left-overs are almost endless. The economically-inclined housewife will be surprised to find how easily she may add to the stock pot by adding left-over undesirable pieces of meat and small quantities of vegetables. One or two spoonfuls of cold left-over oatmeal may also be added to soup with advantage, occasionally. Always remove the cake of fat which forms on top of soup as soon as cooled, as soup will turn sour more quickly if it is allowed to remain. If soup stock be kept several days in summer time, heat it each day to prevent souring. Pieces of celery, onion, parsley, beans and peas may all be added to soup to make it more palatable. Also fine noodles. The yolk of a hard-boiled egg dropped into the soup kettle and heated through, allowing one for each plate of soup served, is a quick and appetizing addition to a soup of plain broth or consomme. VEGETABLE SOUP Slice thinly 3 potatoes, 3 carrots, 3 turnips, the undesirable parts of 2 heads of celery, 2 stalks of parsley and 3 onions. Cook the onions in a little butter until they turn a yellow brown, then add the other ingredients. Season well with salt and black pepper, also a pinch of red pepper. Put all together in a stew-pan, cover with three quarts of water, stand on range and simmer about three hours. Strain soup into stew-pan, place on range, and when hot add Marklose Balls. MARKLOSE BALLS Take marrow from uncooked beef soup bones, enough to fill 2 tablespoons, cut fine, add 2 eggs, 1 teaspoonful grated onion to flavor, pepper and salt, stiffen with 1 cup of bread crumbs, shape into balls size of marbles, drop into hot broth and cook uncovered from 15 to 20 minutes. Aunt Sarah purchased two good-sized soup bones containing considerable meat. After extracting 2 tablespoonfuls of marrow from the uncooked bones, she put the bones in a stew-pan with a couple of quarts of water, a large onion, chopped fine, and a piece of celery, and cooked for several hours, then skimmed off scum which arises on top of broth, removed the soup bones and meat and added a couple of tablespoonfuls of grated carrot, pepper and salt to taste, cooked a short time, and then added the marrow balls, a little chopped parsley and a couple of tablespoonfuls of boiled rice. Two tablespoonfuls of marrow will make about 15 balls, with the addition of crumbs, eggs, etc. EGG BALLS FOR SOUP Mash the yolks of 2 hard-boiled eggs fine and smooth with a little soft butter. Beat the white of 1 egg, and add with about 2 tablespoonfuls of flour, salt and pepper. Mix all together. Use a little flour to mold the mixture into balls the size of quite small marbles. Do not make too stiff. Drop these into hot broth or soup and cook about five minutes. This quantity will make 12 small balls. "SUPPEE SCHWANGEN" Mary was taught to make these by the Professor's wife. She beat together either 1 or 2 raw eggs, 1/2 cup flour, 1 tablespoonful butter, a little salt, and just enough milk to thin the mixture enough so it may be dropped by half teaspoonfuls into hot soup stock or broth. Cook these small dumplings about 10 minutes. Serve in soup broth. CREAM OF OYSTER BOUILLON Put two dozen oysters through food chopper, cook oyster liquor and oysters together five minutes, heat 1 pint milk and 1 tablespoon flour, mixed smooth with a little cold milk, and 1 tablespoonful butter. Let come to a boil, watching carefully that it does not burn. Pour all together when ready to serve. Serve in bouillon cups with crackers. This recipe was given Mary by a friend in Philadelphia, who thought it unexcelled. GERMAN NOODLE SOUP Place about 3 pounds of cheap stewing beef in a cook-pot with sufficient water and cook several hours, until meat is quite tender; season with salt and pepper. About an hour before serving chop fine 3 medium-sized potatoes and 2 onions and cook in broth until tender. Ten or fifteen minutes before serving add noodle. To prepare noodles, break 2 fresh eggs in a bowl, fill 1/2 an egg shell with cold water, add the eggs, and mix with flour as stiff as can conveniently be handled. Add a little salt to flour. Divide dough into sheets, roll on bake-board, spread on cloth a short time and let dry, but not until too brittle to roll into long, narrow rolls. Cut this with a sharp knife into thin, thread-like slices, unroll, drop as many as wished into the stew-pan with the meat and cook about 10 or 15 minutes. Place the meat on a platter and serve the remainder in soup plates. The remaining noodles (not cooked) may be unrolled and dried and later cooked in boiling salted water, drained and placed in a dish and browned butter, containing a few soft, browned crumbs, poured over them when served. The very fine noodles are generally served with soup and the broad or medium-sized ones served with brown butter Germans usually serve with a dish of noodles, either stewed, dried prunes, or stewed raisins. Both are palatable and healthful. CREAM OF CELERY Cook 1 large stalk of celery, also the root cut up in dice, in 1 pint of water, 1/2 hour or longer. Mash celery and put through a fine sieve. Add 1 pint of scalded milk, and thicken with a tablespoonful of flour, mixed with a little cold milk. Add 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, pepper and salt, and simmer a few minutes. Just before serving add a cup of whipped cream. Serve with the soup, small "croutons" of bread. OYSTER STEW Rinse a stew-pan with cold water, then put in 1 pint of milk and let come to a boil. Heat 15 oysters in a little oyster liquor a few minutes, until the oysters curl up around the edges, then add the oysters to one-half the hot milk, add a large tablespoonful of butter, season well with salt and pepper, and when serving the stew add the half pint of boiling hot milk remaining. This quantity makes two small stews. Serve crackers and pickled cabbage. When possible use a mixture of sweet cream and milk for an oyster stew instead of all milk. An old cook told Mary she always moistened half a teaspoonful of cornstarch and added to the stew just before removing from the range to cause it to have a creamy consistency. CLAM BROTH Clam broth may be digested usually by the most delicate stomach. It can be bought in cans, but the young housewife may like to know how to prepare it herself. Strain the juice from one-half dozen clams and save. Remove objectionable parts from clams, cut in small pieces, add 1/2 pint of cold water and the clam juice, let cook slowly about 10 minutes, strain and season with pepper and salt, a little butter and milk, and serve hot. TURKEY SOUP Take broken-lip bones and undesirable pieces of roast turkey, such as neck, wings and left-over pieces of bread filling, put in stew-pot, cover with water, add pieces of celery, sliced onion and parsley, cook several hours, strain, and to the strained liquor add a couple tablespoonfuls of boiled rice, season with salt and pepper and serve. Some of the cold turkey might also be cut in small pieces and added to the soup. CREAM OF PEA SOUP Cook quarter peck of green peas until very tender, reserve one-half cup, press the remainder through a sieve with the water in which they were boiled. Season with salt and pepper. Mix 1 tablespoonful of flour, 1 tablespoonful of butter with 1 cup of hot milk. Mix flour smooth with a little cold milk before heating it. Cook all together a few minutes, then add the one cup of peas reserved. If soup is too thick add a small quantity of milk or water. TOMATO SOUP One quart of canned tomatoes, 1 tablespoonful sugar, 1 onion, and a sprig of parsley, cut fine, and 1 carrot and 2 cloves. Stew until soft enough to mash through a fine, wire sieve. Place one quart of sweet milk on the stove to boil. Mix 1 large tablespoonful of cornstarch smooth, with a little cold milk, and stir into the hot milk. Add 1 large tablespoonful of butler and 1/4 teaspoonful (good measure) of soda. Let cook one minute, until it thickens, add 1 teaspoonful of salt. Do not add the milk to the strained tomatoes until ready to serve. Then serve at once. FRAU SCHMIDTS CLAM SOUP Chop 12 clams fine, add enough water to the clam broth to measure one quart, cook all together about 15 minutes; add 3 pints of scalding hot milk, season with 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls butter and salt and pepper to taste. Serve crackers with the soup. CLAM CHOWDER Cut 1/4 pound of rather "fat" smoked bacon in tiny pieces the size of dice; fry until brown and crisp. Take 25 fresh clams, after having drained a short time in a colander, run through a food chopper and place in ice chest until required. Pour the liquor from the clams into an agate stew-pan; add 6 medium-sized potatoes and 4 medium-sized onions, all thinly sliced; also add the crisp bits of bacon and fat, which had fried out from the bacon, to the clam juice. Cook all together slowly or simmer 3 or 4 hours. Add water to the clam liquor occasionally as required. Ten or fifteen minutes before serving add 1 cup of hot water and the chopped clams (clam juice if too strong is liable to curdle milk). Allow clams to cook in the clam broth 10 to 15 minutes. Boil 2 quarts of sweet milk, and when ready to serve add the hot milk to the chowder, also 1 teaspoonful of chopped parsley. One-half this quantity will serve a small family. Serve crisp crackers and small pickels, and this chowder, served with a dessert, makes an inexpensive, nourishing lunch. BROWN POTATO CHOWDER Put a pint of diced, raw potatoes in a stew-pan over the fire, cover with 1 quart of water, to which a pinch of salt has been added. Cook until tender, but not fine, then add water so that the water in the stew-pan will still measure one quart should some have boiled away. Place a small iron fry-part on the range, containing 1 tablespoonful of sweet lard; when melted, it should measure about 2 tablespoonfuls. Then add 4 tablespoonfuls of flour, a pinch of salt and stir constantly, or rather mash the flour constantly with a spoon, being careful not to allow it to scorch, until a rich brown; add this to the diced potatoes and the quart of water in which they were boiled, stir until the consistency of thick cream, or like clam chowder. Should there be a few, small lumps of the browned flour not dissolved in the chowder, they will not detract from the taste of it; in fact, some are very fond of them. Perhaps some folks would prefer this, more like a soup; then add more hot water and thin it, but be careful to add more seasoning, as otherwise it would taste flat and unpalatable. Very few people know the _good flavor_ of _browned flour_. It has a flavor peculiarly its own, and does not taste of lard at all. I would never advocate _any_ seasoning except butter, but advise economical housewives to try this, being very careful not to scorch the flour and fat while browning. A mixture of butter and lard may be used in which to brown the flour should there be a prejudice against the use of lard alone. BEAN CHOWDER Another palatable, cheap and easily prepared dish is called Bean Chowder. Small soup beans were soaked over night in cold water. Pour off, add fresh water and cook until tender. Then add browned flour (same as prepared for Potato Chowder) and the water in which the beans were cooked. When ready to serve, the beans were added. More water may be added until broth is thin enough for soup, then it would be called "brown bean soup." BOUILLON Buy a soup bone, cook with a chopped onion, one stalk of celery and a sprig of parsley until meat falls from bone. Season with salt and pepper. Strain the broth into a bowl and stand aside until perfectly cold. Then remove the cake of fat formed on top of soup and add it to drippings for frying. The broth may be kept several days if poured into a glass jar and set on ice. When wanted to serve, heat 1 pint of broth, add 2 tablespoonfuls of cream to yolks of 2 eggs. Stir well. Pour boiling hot broth over the cream and yolks of eggs and serve at once in bouillon cups. Serve crackers also. Do not cook mixture after cream and yolks of eggs have been added. This is very nourishing. FARMER'S RICE One and one-half quarts of milk, poured into a double boiler and placed on the range to heat. One cup of flour was placed in a bowl; into the flour 1 raw egg was dropped and stirred with a knife until mixed, then rubbed between the fingers into fine rivels. It may take a little _more_ flour; the rivels should be dry enough to allow of being rubbed fine. When the milk commences to boil drop the rivels in by handfuls, slowly, stirring constantly. Salt to taste. Let cook 15 minutes. Eat while hot, adding a small piece of butter as seasoning. This should be a little thicker than ordinary rice soup. PHILADELPHIA "PEPPER POT" This recipe for far-famed "Philadelphia Pepper Pot" was given Mary by a friend living in the Quaker City, a good cook, who vouched for its excellence: The ingredients consist of the following: 1 knuckle of veal. 2 pounds of plain tripe. 2 pounds of honeycomb tripe. 1 large onion, 1 bunch of pot-herbs. 4 medium-sized potatoes. 1 bay leaf--salt and cayenne pepper to season. 1/2 pound of beef suet--and flour for dumplings. The day before you wish to use the "Pepper Pot" procure 2 pounds of plain tripe and 2 pounds of honeycomb tripe. Wash thoroughly in cold water place in a kettle. Cover with cold water and boil eight hours; then remove tripe from water, and when cold cut into pieces about 3/4 of an inch square. The day following get a knuckle of veal, wash and cover with cold water--about three quarts--bring slowly to the simmering point, skimming off the scum which arises, simmer for three hours. Remove the meat from the bones, cut into small pieces, strain broth and return it to the kettle. Add a bay leaf, one large onion, chopped, simmer one hour; then add four medium-sized potatoes, cut like dice, and add to the broth. Wash a bunch of pot-herbs, chop parsley (and add last), rub off the thyme leaves, cut red pepper in half and add all to broth; then add meat and tripe and season with salt; _if liked hot_, use a pinch of cayenne pepper. For the dumplings, take 1 cup of beef suet, chopped fine, 2 cups flour, pinch of salt, mix well together and moisten with enough cold water to allow of their being molded or rolled into tiny dumplings, the size of a small marble. Flour these well to prevent sticking together. When all are prepared drop into soup, simmer a few minutes, add parsley and serve at once. GERMAN VEGETABLE SOUP Take 6 potatoes, half the quantity of onions, carrots, turnips, cabbage and a stalk of celery, cut up into dice-shaped pieces, place all in a stew-pan and cover with a couple quarts of hot water. Let cook about two hours, until all the vegetables are tender, then add 1 tablespoonful of butter, a large cup of milk, and about a tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little cold milk, cook a few minutes, add a tablespoonful minced parsley, and serve. A CHEAP RICE AND TOMATO SOUP Take one pint of rice water which has been drained from one cupful of rice boiled in 2-1/2 quarts of water 25 minutes (the rice to be used in other ways), and after the rice has drained in a sieve add to the rice water 1 cup stewed, strained tomatoes (measure after being strained), 1 teaspoonful butter, 1 teaspoonful flour mixed with a little cold water, salt, pepper, and 1 tablespoonful of the cooked rice, and you have a palatable soup, as the water in which the rice was boiled is said to be more nutritious than the rice. FISH, CLAMS AND OYSTER (BONED SHAD) How many young cooks know how to bone a shad? It is a very simple process, and one becomes quite expert after one or two trials. And it fully repays one for the extra time and trouble taken, in the satisfaction experienced by being able to serve fish without bones. With a sharp knife cut the fish open along the back bone on the outside of the fish, but do not cut through the bone, then carefully cut the fish loose along the back bone on each side, cut the centre bone away with the smaller bones branching out on each side attached. Cut the shad into sizable pieces after being washed in cold water and dried on a cloth to take up all the moisture. Dip pieces of fish into white of egg containing a teaspoonful of water, roll in fine, dried bread crumbs, season with salt and pepper, drop in hot fat, and fry a rich brown. Serve on a platter, surrounded by a border of parsley. Some small portions of the fish will adhere to the bones, however carefully the fish has been boned. The meat may be picked from the bones after cooking in salt water until tender. Flake the fish, and either make it into small patties or croquettes. Shad roe should be parboiled first and then dredged with flour on both sides and fried in drippings or a little butter. CROQUETTES OF COLD, COOKED FISH Shred or flake cold, cooked fish, which has been carefully picked from bones. To 2 cups of fish add an equal amount of mashed potatoes, a small half cup of cold milk, 1 tablespoonful butter, yolk of 1 egg, lightly beaten, 1 teaspoonful of chopped parsley, season with salt and pepper. Mix all well together, and when cold, form in small croquettes. Dip into white of egg containing 1 tablespoonful of water, roll in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry in hot fat. Shad, salmon, codfish, or any kind of fish may be prepared this way, or prepare same as "Rice Croquettes," substituting-fish for rice. SHAD ROE Shad roe should be carefully taken from the fish, allowed to stand in cold water, to which a pinch of salt has been added, for a few minutes, then dropped in boiling water, cooked a short time and drained. Dredge with flour and fry slowly in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter and lard or drippings until a golden brown. Be particular not to serve them rare. Serve garnished with parsley. Or the shad roe may be parboiled, then broken in small pieces, mixed with a couple of lightly beaten eggs and scrambled in a fry-pan, containing a couple of tablespoonfuls of butter and sweet drippings. Serve at once. Garnish with parsley or water cress. SCALLOPED OYSTERS Take about 50 fresh oysters. Place a layer of oysters in a baking dish alternately with fine, dried crumbs, well seasoned with pepper and salt and bits of butter, until pan is about two-thirds full. Have a thick layer of bread crumbs for the top, dotted with bits of butter. Pour over this half a cup or less of strained oyster liquor and small cup of sweet milk. Place in oven and bake from 40 to 50 minutes. DEVILED OYSTERS 2 dozen oysters. 1 cup rich milk. 3 tablespoonfuls flour. Yolks of 2 raw eggs. 1 generous tablespoonful butter. 1 tablespoonful finely-minced parsley. Drain oysters in a colander and chop rather coarsely. Mix flour smooth with a little cold milk. Place the remainder of the milk in a saucepan on the range. When it commences to boil add the moistened flour and cook until the mixture thickens, stirring constantly to prevent burning, or cook in a double boiler. Add yolks of eggs and butter, 1/2 teaspoonful salt and 1/4 teaspoonful of black pepper and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Then add chopped oysters, stir all together a few minutes until oysters are heated through. Then turn into a bowl and stand aside in a cool place until a short time before they are to be served. (These may be prepared early in the morning and served at six o'clock dinner.) Then fill good-sized, well-scrubbed oyster shells with the mixture, sprinkle the tops liberally with fine-dried, well-seasoned bread crumbs. (Seasoned with salt and pepper.) Place the filled shells on muffin tins to prevent their tipping over; stand in a hot oven about ten minutes, until browned on top, when they should be heated through. Serve at once in the shells. Handle the hot shells with a folded napkin when serving at table. This quantity fills thirteen oyster shells. Serve with the oysters small pickles, pickled cabbage or cranberry sauce as an accompaniment. PLANKED SHAD After eating planked shad no one will wish to have it served in any other manner, as no other method of preparing fish equals this. For planked shad, use an oak plank, at least two inches thick, three inches thick is better. Planks for this purpose may be bought at a department store or procured at a planing mill. Place plank in oven several days before using to season it. Always heat the plank in oven about 15 minutes before placing fish on it, then have plank _very hot_. Split a nicely-cleaned shad down the back, place skin side down, on hot plank, brush with butter and sprinkle lightly with pepper and salt. Put plank containing shad on the upper grating of a hot oven of coal range and bake about 45 minutes. Baste frequently with melted butter. The shad should be served on the plank, although not a very sightly object, but it is the proper way to serve it. The flavor of shad, or, in fact, of any other fish, prepared in this manner is superior to that of any other. Fish is less greasy and more wholesome than when fried. Should an oak plank not be obtainable, the shad may be placed in a large roasting pan and baked in oven. Cut gashes across the fish about two inches apart, and place a teaspoonful of butter on each. Bake in oven from 50 to 60 minutes. Serve on a warmed platter, garnished with parsley, and have dinner plates warmed when serving fish on them. Do not wash the plank with soap and water after using, but instead rub it over with sandpaper. BROILED MACKEREL When fish has been cleaned, cut off head and scrape dark skin from inside. Soak salt mackerel in cold water over night, skin side up, always. In the morning; drain, wipe dry and place on a greased broiler, turn until cooked on both sides. Take up carefully on a hot platter, pour over a large tablespoonful of melted butter and a little pepper, or lay the mackerel in a pan, put bits of butter on top, and set in a hot oven and bake. Garnish with parsley. CODFISH BALLS Soak codfish several hours in cold water. Cook slowly or simmer a short time. Remove from fire, drain, and when cold squeeze out all moisture by placing the flaked fish in a small piece of cheese-cloth. To one cup of the flaked codfish add an equal quantity of warm mashed potatoes, yolk of 1 egg, 1 tablespoonful of milk and a little pepper. Roll into small balls with a little flour. Dip in white of egg and bread crumbs, and when quite cold fry in deep fat. Garnish with parsley. FRIED OYSTERS Procure fine, large, fresh oysters for frying. Drain in a colander carefully, look over, and discard any pieces of shell. Roll each oyster in fine, dried bread crumbs, well seasoned with salt and pepper, then dip them in a lightly-beaten egg, and then in bread crumbs. Allow them to stand several hours in a cool place before frying. Place a few oysters at one time in a wire frying basket, and immerse in smoking hot fat. Should too great a number of oysters be placed in the fat at one time it would lower the temperature of the fat and cause the oysters to become greasy. Drain the oysters when fried on heavy, brown paper, to absorb any remaining fat, and serve at once. For all deep frying use two-thirds lard and one-third suet, as suet is considered to be more wholesome and cheaper than lard. Two items to be considered by the frugal housewife. If fat for deep frying is the right temperature a crust is at once formed, and the oysters do not absorb as great a quantity of fat as when fried in only enough butter and drippings to prevent scorching, as they must then be fried more slowly. Serve pickled cabbage and tomato catsup when serving fried oysters. PANNED OYSTERS Aunt Sarah always prepared oysters in this manner to serve roast turkey. At the very last minute, when the dinner was ready to be served, she placed 50 freshly-opened oysters, with their liquor, in a stew-pan over a hot fire. The minute they were heated through and commenced to curl up, she turned them in a hot colander to drain a minute, then turned the oysters into a stew-pan containing two large tablespoonfuls of hot, melted butter, and allowed them to remain in the hot butter one minute, shaking the pan lo prevent scorching, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and turned all into a heated dish and sent to the table at once. These are easily prepared and are more wholesome than fried oysters. OYSTERS STEAMED IN THE SHELL Place well-scrubbed shells, containing fresh oysters, in a deep agate pan, which will fit in a kettle containing a small amount of boiling water. Cover very closely until the shells open easily. These may be served in the shell with hot, melted butter, in a side dish, or they may be removed from the shell to a hot bowl and seasoned with hot butter, salt and pepper. A RECIPE GIVEN MARY FOR "OYSTER COCKTAIL" To 2 tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup add 1/2 tablespoonful of grated horseradish, 1/2 tablespoonful of lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoonful of tabasco sause, 1/2 tablespoonful of vinegar, 1 saltspoonful of salt. Stand on ice one hour at least. To serve--The freshly-opened oysters on half shell were placed on a plate, in the centre of which was placed a tiny glass goblet containing a small quantity of the mixture, into which the oysters were dipped before being eaten. OYSTER CROQUETTES Boil 50 oysters five minutes, drain. When cold, cut into small pieces, add 1/2 cup of bread crumbs and mix all together with a thick cream sauce composed of 1/2 cup of cream or milk thickened with flour, to which add 1 large tablespoonful of butter; season with salt, a dash of red pepper and 1 teaspoonful of finely-minced parsley. Stand this mixture on ice until quite cold and firm enough to form into small croquettes. Dip in egg and bread crumbs and fry in deep fat until a golden brown. Serve at once on a platter garnished with sprigs of parsley From these ingredients was made 12 croquettes. FRAU SCHMIDTS WAY OF SERVING "OYSTER COCKTAILS" Place in a bowl 2 tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup, 1 teaspoonful of grated horseradish, 2 tablespoonfuls of very finely cut celery juice and pulp of 2 lemons. Season with salt and pepper. Mix this with oysters which have been cut in small pieces. Serve in halves of lemons, from which the pulp has been carefully removed. Place on ice a short time before serving. Crisp crackers should be served at the same time this is served. SALMON LOAF One can of salmon, from which all bones have been removed, 1 cup of cracker crumbs, 1/2 cup of milk, 1 tablespoonful of butter, which had been melted; 2 eggs beaten, salt and pepper to season. Mix all together, bake in a buttered pudding dish one-half hour or until browned on top. Serve hot. CREAMED SALMON A half cup of canned salmon, a left-over from lunch the preceding day, may be added to double the quantity of cream dressing, and when heated through and served on crisply-toasted slices of stale bread, make a tasty addition to any meal. Of course, it is not necessary to tell even unexperienced housewives never under any circumstances allow food to stand in tins in which it was canned; do not ever stand food away in tin; use small agateware dishes, in which food, such as small quantities of left-overs, etc, may be reheated. Never use for cooking agate stew-pans, from the inside of which small parties have been chipped, as food cooked in such a vessel might become mixed with small particles of glazing, and such food when eaten would injure the stomach. OYSTER CANAPES 1 cup cream. 4 tablespoonfuls of bread crumbs. 1 tablespoonful of butter. 3 dozen stewing oysters. Season with paprika, tiny pinch of nutmeg and salt. Boil the cream, add bread crumbs and butter. Chop oysters fine, add seasoning. Serve hot in pattie cups or on toast. Serve small pickles or olives. Good dish for chafing dish. MEAT Every young housewife should be taught that simmering is more effective than violent boiling, which converts water into useless steam. Even a tough, undesirable piece of "chuck" or "pot roast" may be made more tender and palatable by long-continued simmering than it would be if put in rapidly boiling water and kept boiling at that rate. Meat may be made more tender also by being marinated; that is, allowing the meat to stand for some time in a mixture of olive oil and vinegar before cooking it. In stewing most meats a good plan is to put a large tablespoonful of finely-minced beef suet in the stew-pan; when fried out, add a little butter, and when sizzling hot add the meat, turn and sear on both sides to retain the juice in the meat, then add a little hot water and let come to a boil; then stand where the meat will just simmer but not slop cooking for several hours. The meat then should be found quite tender. Cheaper cuts of meat, especially, require long, slow cooking or simmering to make them tender, but are equally as nutritious as high-priced meats if properly prepared. To quote from _The Farmers' Bulletin_: "The number of appetizing dishes which a good cook can make out of the meat 'left over' is almost endless. Undoubtedly more time and skill are required in their preparation than in the simple cooking of the more expensive cuts. The real superiority of a good cook lies not so much in the preparation of expensive or fancy dishes as in the attractive preparation of inexpensive dishes for every day. In the skillful combination of flavors. Some housewives seem to have a prejudice against economizing. If the comfort of the family does not suffer and the meals are kept as varied and appetizing as when they cost more, with little reason for complaint, surely it is not beneath the dignity of any family to avoid useless expenditure, no matter how generous its income. And the intelligent housekeeper should take pride in setting a good table." This is such an excellent article, and so ably written and true, that I feel it would be to the advantage of every young housewife to read and profit by it. "SAUERGEBRATENS" OR GERMAN POT ROAST Buy about three pounds of beef, as for an ordinary pot roast. Place in a large bowl. Boil vinegar (or, if vinegar is too sharp, add a little water, a couple of whole cloves and a little allspice); this should cover the piece of meat. Vinegar should be poured over it hot; let stand a couple of days in a cool place uncovered; turn it over occasionally. When wanted to cook, take from the vinegar and put in a stew-pan containing a little hot fried-out suet or drippings in which has been sliced 2 onions. Let cook, turn occasionally, and when a rich brown, stir in a large tablespoonful of flour, add 1-1/2 cups of hot water, cover and cook slowly for two or three hours, turning frequently. Half an hour before serving add small pared potatoes, and when they have cooked tender, serve meat, gravy and potatoes on a large platter. The writer knew an old gentleman who had moved to the city from a "Bucks County farm" when a boy, who said that he'd walk five miles any day for a dish of the above as his mother had prepared it in former years. Mary was surprised at the amount of valuable information to be obtained from the different _Farmers' Bulletins_ received at the farm, on all subjects of interest to housewives, and particularly farmers' wives. All books were to be had free for the asking. The dishes Mary prepared from recipes in the _Farmers Bulletin_ on "economical use of meat in the home," were especially liked at the farm, particularly "Stewed Shin of Beef" and "Hungarian Goulash" (a Hungarian dish which has come to be a favorite in the United States). HUNGARIAN GOULASH 2 pounds top round of beef. 1 onion. A little flour. 2 bay leaves. 2 ounces salt pork. 6 whole cloves. 2 cups of tomatoes. 6 peppercorns. 1 stalk celery. 1 blade mace. Cut the beef into 2-inch pieces and sprinkle with flour. Fry the salt pork until a light brown; add the beef and cook slowly for about thirty-five minutes, stirring occasionally. Cover with water and simmer about two hours. Season with salt and pepper or paprika. From the vegetables and spices a sauce is made as follows: Cook in sufficient water to cover for 20 minutes; then rub through a sieve, and add to some of the stock in which the meat was cooked. Thicken with flour, using 2 tablespoonfuls (moistened with cold water) to each cup of liquid, and season with salt and paprika. Serve the meat on a platter with the sauce poured over it. Potatoes, carrots and green peppers cooked until tender and cut into small pieces or narrow strips are usually sprinkled over the dish when served, and noodles may be arranged in a border upon the platter. BROILED STEAK When buying beefsteak for broiling, order the steak cut 1 inch to 1-1/4 inches thick. Place the steak on a well-greased, hot broiler and broil over a clear, hot fire, turning frequently. It will take about ten minutes to broil a steak 1-inch thick. When steak is broiled place on a hot platter, season with butter, pepper and salt, and serve at once. Serve rare or otherwise, but serve _at once_. Broil-steak unseasoned, as salt extracts juice from meat. Steak, particularly, loses its savoriness if not served _hot_. What to a hungry man is more nutritious and appetizing than a perfectly broiled, rare, juicy, steak, served hot? And not a few young and inexperienced cooks serve thin steaks, frequently overdone or scorched, containing about the same amount of nourishment a piece of leather would possess, through lack of knowledge of knowing just how. Often, unconsciously. I will admit; yet it is an undiluted fact, that very many young housewives are indirectly the cause of their husbands suffering from the prevailing "American complaint," dyspepsia, and its attendant evils. And who that has suffered from it will blame the "grouchy man" who cannot well be otherwise. So, my dear "Mrs. New Wife," be warned in time, and always remember how near to your husband's heart lies his stomach, and to possess the former you should endeavor to keep the latter in good condition by preparing, and serving, nourishing, well-cooked food. STEWED SHIN OF BEEF 4 pounds of shin of beef. 1 medium-sized onion. 1 whole clove and bay leaf. 1 sprig of parsley. 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls flour. 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of butler or savory drippings. 1 small slice of carrot. 1/2 tablespoonful of salt. 1/2 teaspoonful of pepper. 2 quarts boiling water. Have the butcher cut the bone in several pieces. Put all the ingredients but the flour and butter in a stew-pan and bring to a boil. Set the pan where the liquid will just simmer for six hours, or after boiling for five or ten minutes put all into the fireless cooker for eight or nine hours. With the butter, flour and 1/4 cup of the clear soup from which the fat has been removed make a brown sauce. To this add the meat and marrow removed from the bone. Heat and serve. The remainder of the liquid in which the meat has been cooked may be used for soup. HAMBURG STEAK Take the tough ends of two sirloin steaks and one tablespoonful of kidney suet, run through a food chopper; season with pepper and salt, form into small cakes, dredge lightly with flour, fry quickly, same manner steak is fried, turning frequently. The kidney fat added prevents the Hamburg steak being dry and tasteless. "A tender, juicy broiled steak, flaky baked potatoes, a good cup of coffee and sweet, light, home-made bread, a simple salad or fruit, served to a hungry husband would often prevent his looking for an affinity," said Aunt Sarah to her niece Mary. MEAT STEW WITH DUMPLINGS STEW. 5 pounds of a cheap cut of beef. 4 cups of potatoes cut into small pieces. 2/3 cup each of turnips and carrots cut into 1/2-inch cubes. 1/2 an onion chopped. 1/4 cup of flour. Season with salt and pepper. Cut the meat into small pieces, removing the fat. Fry out the fat and brown the meat in it. When well browned, cover with boiling water. Boil for five minutes and then cook in a lower temperature until meat is done. If tender, this will require about three hours on the stove, or five hours in the fireless cooker. Add carrots, onions, turnips and pepper and salt during the last hour of cooking, and the potatoes fifteen minutes before serving. Thicken with the flour diluted with cold water. Serve with dumplings. If this dish is made in the tireless cooker the mixture must be reheated when the vegetables are put in. Such a stew may also be made of mutton. If veal or pork is used the vegetables may be omitted or simply a little onion used. Sometimes for variety the browning of the meat is dispensed with. When white meat, such as chicken, veal or fresh pork is used, the gravy is often made rich with cream or milk thickened with flour. DUMPLINGS. 2 cups of flour. 4 teaspoons (level) of baking powder. 2/3 cup of milk or a little more if needed. 1/2 teaspoonful of salt. 2 teaspoonfuls of butter. Mix and sift the dry ingredients. Work in butter with the tips of the fingers. Add milk gradually, roll out to thickness of half inch. Cut with biscuit cutter. Place in a buttered steamer over a kettle of hot water and cook from 12 to 15 minutes. If the dumplings are cooked with the stew enough liquid should be removed to allow of their being placed directly upon the meat and vegetables. Sometimes the dough is baked and served as biscuits, over which the stew is poured. If the stew is made with chicken or veal it is termed a fricassee. This recipe tells of such an economical way of extending the meat flavor that I think every young housewife should know it. Mary copied it from _The Farmers' Bulletin_, an article on the "Economical Use of Meat in the Home." The dumplings, as she prepared them from this recipe, were regular fluff balls, they were so light and flaky. I would add, the cook-pot should be closely covered while cooking or steaming these dumplings, and the cover should not be raised for the first ten minutes. A lesser quantity of baking powder might be used with equally good results, but these dumplings are certain to be light and flaky. A larger quantity of baking powder should be used when dough is steamed or boiled than if dough is baked, if one expects good results. EXTENDING THE MEAT FLAVOR Mary learned, through reading _The Farmers' Bulletin_, different methods of extending the meat flavor through a considerable quantity of material, which would otherwise be lacking in distinctive taste, one way to serve the meat with dumplings, generally in the dish with it; to combine the meat with crusts, as in meat pies or meat rolls, or to serve the meat on toast or biscuits. Borders of rice, hominy or mashed potatoes are examples of the same principles, applied in different ways. By serving some preparation of flour, rice, hominy or other food, rich in starch, with the meat, we get a dish which in itself approaches nearer to the balanced ration than meat alone, and one in which the meat flavor is extended through a large amount of the material. The measurements given in the above recipes call for a level spoonful or a level cup, as the case may be. In many American families meat is eaten two or three times a day. In such cases, the simplest way of reducing the meat bill would be to cut down the amount used, either by serving it less often or by using less at a time. Deficiency of protein need not be feared, when one good meat dish a day is served, especially if such nitrogenous materials as eggs, milk, cheese and beans are used instead. In localities where fish can be obtained fresh and cheap, it might well be more frequently substituted for meat for the sake of variety as well as economy. Ingenious cooks have many ways of "extending the flavor" of meat; that is, of combining a small quantity with other materials to make a large dish as in meat pies, stews and similar dishes. The foregoing information may be useful to other young, prospective housekeepers who may never have read "the very instructive articles on The Economical Use of Meat in the Home,' in the _Farmers' Bulletin_." PREPARING A POT ROAST When buying a pot roast, "Aunt Sarah" selected a thick, chunky piece of meat, weighing several pounds, and a small piece of beef suet which she cut into small bits, placed pan containing them on hot range, added a small, sliced onion, and when fat was quite hot she added the quickly rinsed piece of meat, and quickly seared it to retain the juice; added 1 cup of hot water, a sprig of parsley, seasoning of salt and pepper; cooked a short time, then allowed it to stand on the range closely covered, where it would simmer gently several hours; turning the meat frequently, adding a small amount of water occasionally, as the broth was absorbed by the meat. An inexperienced cook will be surprised to find how tender, palatable, and equally nutritious, an inexpensive cut of meat may become by slow simmering. When the pot roast has become tender, remove from the broth and place on a _hot platter_; this latter is a small item, but dishes may be quickly heated in a hot oven and meat and vegetables are more appetizing if served hot on warmed plates. "Forgive this digression; I fear the pot roast will cool even on a warmed platter." After removing the meat from the pan add a large tablespoonful of flour, moistened with a small quantity of cold water, to the broth in the pan for gravy; cook until thickened, strain sliced onion and parsley from the broth, add seasoning of salt and pepper, serve on the platter with the meat; the onion added, gives the gravy a fine flavor and causes it to be a dark, rich brown in color. STUFFED BREAST OF VEAL Rub the piece of meat with salt, pepper, ginger and minced onion. Prepare a stuffing as for chicken of crumbled, stale bread, etc., or soak pieces of stale bread in cold water. Squeeze dry and season with a little minced onion, parsley, a little melted butter, salt and pepper, and moisten all with one egg. Fill the breast of veal with this stuffing, sew together, place in roasting pan with a small quantity of water, to which a tablespoonful of butter has been added. Roast in a moderately hot oven until well done, basting frequently. "GEDAMPFTES RINDERBRUST" Take breast of beef or veal, without fat or bones, quickly rinse off meat and wipe with a cloth. Place in a stew-pot with one chopped onion, one sliced tomato, a bay leaf, season with pepper and salt, add a small quantity of hot water, cook, closely covered, several hours. To be tender this meat requires long, slow cooking, when it cooks and browns at the same time. Strain the broth and thicken for gravy and pour around the meat on platter when serving. "PAPRIKASH" Two pounds of veal, from leg, cut into small pieces for stewing; 4 good-sized onions, cut rather fine; measure about 1/2 cup of sweet lard, place onions in pan with some of this lard and fry a light brown. Add meat and cook meat and onions together about one-half hour, adding lard gradually until all is used and the meat is golden brown. Then cover with water and stew, closely covered, about two hours or longer, until meat is ready to serve; then add more water until meat is covered. Season with salt and paprika. Add about three tablespoonfuls of vinegar (not too sour; cook must judge this by tasting); then add 1/2 pint of sweet cream. Thicken gravy with flour mixed smooth with a little water. Place on platter surrounded with gravy. With this was always served baked or steamed sweet potatoes. BEEF STEW Three pounds of the cheaper cut of beef, cut in pieces a couple inches square; brown in a stew-pan, with a sliced onion, a sprig of parsley and a coupe tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings or suet; cook a few minutes, add a little water, and simmer a couple of hours; add sliced turnips and a few medium-sized potatoes. Should there he a larger quantity of broth than required to serve with the meat and vegetables, a cup or more of the broth may form the basis of a palatable soup for lunch the following day. SAVORY BEEF ROLL Three and one-half pounds raw beef, or a mixture of beef and veal may be used, run through a food chopper. A cheap cut of meat may be used if, before chopping, all pieces of gristle are trimmed off. Place the chopped meat in a bowl, add 8 tablespoonfuls of fine, dried bread crumbs, 1 tablespoonful of pepper, 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of salt. Taste the meat before adding all the seasoning specified, as tastes differ. Add 3 raw eggs, 4 tablespoonfuls of sweet milk or cream, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, a little sweet marjoram or minced parsley. Mix all together and mold into two long, narrow rolls, similar to loaves of bread. Place 1 tablespoonful each of drippings and butter in a large fry-pan on the range. When heated, place beef rolls in, and when seared on both sides add a small quantity of hot water. Place the pan containing meat in a hot oven and bake one hour. Basting the meat frequently improves it. When catering to a small family serve one of the rolls hot for dinner; serve gravy, made by thickening broth in pan with a small quantity of flour. Serve the remaining roll cold, thinly sliced for lunch, the day following. VEAL CUTLETS Use either veal chops or veal cutlets, cut in small pieces the size of chops; pound with a small mallet, sprinkle a little finely-minced onion on each cutlet, dip in beaten egg and bread crumbs, well seasoned with salt and pepper. Place a couple tablespoonfuls of a mixture of butter and sweet drippings in a fry-pan; when hot, lay in the breaded cutlets and fry slowly, turning frequently and watching carefully that they do not scorch. These take a longer time to fry than does beefsteak. When a rich brown and well cooked take up the cutlets on a heated platter and serve, garnished with parsley. MEAT "SNITZEL" Cut 1-1/2 pounds of thick veal steak into small pieces, dredge with flour, season with salt and pepper, and fry brown in a pan containing bacon fat (fat obtained by frying several slices of fat, smoked bacon). Remove the meat from the pan, add a couple tablespoonfuls of flour to the remaining fat stir until browned, then pour in the strained liquor from a pint can of tomatoes. Add one slice of onion and one carrot, then return the meat to the sauce; cover closely and simmer three-quarters of an hour. When the meat is tender, place on a hot platter, add a pinch of red pepper to the sauce and a little more salt if required, and strain over the meat on the platter. This was a favorite dish of Mary's Uncle, and he said she knew how to prepare it to perfection. SIRLOIN STEAKS Procure 2 sirloin steaks, 1-1/2 inches thick, and a small piece of suet. Cut the tenderloin from each steak, and as much more of the steak as required for one meal. Place the finely-cut suet in a hot fry-pan; this should measure 1 tablespoonful when tried out, add one teaspoonful of butter, when the fat is very hot and a blue smoke arises place pieces of steak, lightly dredged with flour, in the pan of hot fat, place only one piece at a time in the fat; sear the meat on one side, then turn and sear on the other side; then place the other pieces of meat in the pan and continue in the same manner, turning the steak frequently. The hot butter and suet sear the steak, thus the juice of the meat is retained, making the meat more palatable; season with salt and pepper, place on a hot platter and serve at once. MEAT BALLS Chop meat fine; beef, chicken, lamb or veal; mince a small onion and fry in a tablespoonful of butler; add a tablespoonful of flour, the yolk of one egg, the chopped meat and a little broth, gravy, or milk to moisten, salt and pepper. Stir all together and turn the whole mixture into dish to cool. When cool, shape with well-floured hands into balls the size of a shelled walnut. Dip in beaten white of egg, then into bread crumbs, and fry in deep fat until crisp and brown. Place only three or four meat balls in a frying basket at one time. Too many at a time chills the fat; but if plunged in boiling hot fat, then a crust is formed at once over the outside, which prevents the grease from penetrating. When the meat balls are browned nicely, lay them on brown paper to absorb any grease that may adhere to them. To try whether the fat is the right temperature, drop a small piece of bread in it, and if it browns while you count twenty, the fat is hot enough for any form of croquettes. Garnish with parsley or watercress. VEAL LOAF Three pounds raw veal, chopped fine; 1 teaspoonful salt, 1 teaspoonful pepper, 2 tablespoonfuls butter, 2 raw eggs, 2 tablespoonfuls water. Mix all together with 6 tablespoonfuls fine, rolled, dried bread crumbs and mold into a long, narrow loaf. Roll the loaf in two extra tablespoonfuls of bread crumbs. Place in a hot pan, pour 3 tablespoonfuls melted butter over the top, and bake in hot oven two hours or less, basting frequently. Slice thinly when cold. Should the veal loaf be served hot thicken the broth with flour and serve this gravy with it. SWEETBREADS (BREADED) Place sweetbreads in cold water, to which 1/2 teaspoonful salt has been added, for a short time, then drain and put over the fire with hot water. Cook ten minutes. Drain and stand aside in a cool place until wanted. Remove stringy parts, separate into small pieces about the sue of an oyster, dip in beaten white of egg and then in bread crumbs. Put in a pan containing a little hot butter and drippings and fry light brown. Serve hot. Garnish platter with parsley. FRIED LIVER AND BACON Have _beef_ liver cut in slices about one inch thick; quickly rinse and wipe dry. Remove the thin skin on the edge and cut out all the small, tough fibres. If liver from a _young_ beef it can scarcely be told from calves' liver when cooked, and is considerably cheaper. Fry a dozen slices of fat bacon in a pan until crisp and brown. Take from the pan on a warm platter and place in oven. Put the pieces of liver, well dredged with flour, into the pan containing the hot bacon fat, also a little butter, and fry slowly until well done, but not hard and dry. Turn frequently and season with salt and pepper. Take the liver from the pan, add one tablespoonful of flour to the fat remaining in the pan, stir until smooth and brown, then add about one cup of sweet milk or water, stir a few minutes until it thickens and season with salt and pepper. Should the liver be a little overdone, put it in the pan with the gravy, cover and let stand where it will just simmer a few minutes, then turn all on a hot platter and serve the bacon on a separate dish. BEEFSTEAK SERVED WITH PEAS Fry quickly a large sirloin steak. Place in the oven, on a warm platter. Add a large tablespoonful of butter to the fry pan, also a can of sifted peas, which have been heated and drained, season with pepper and salt, shake pan to prevent burning and when hot turn on to platter containing steak and serve at once. This makes an appetizing luncheon dish. CREAMED "DRIED BEEF" Put a tablespoonful of butter in a frying pan, add 1/2 cup of chipped beef cut fine and brown it in the butter, then add 1/4 cup of water. Let stand and simmer for a short time, then add a cup of sweet milk, thicken to the consistency of thick cream by adding 1 tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a small quantity of cold milk, season with salt and pepper. This is an economical way of using small pieces of dried beef not sightly enough to be served on the table. Serve with baked potatoes for lunch, or pour over slices of toasted bread, or over poached eggs for an appetizing breakfast dish. CREAMED SWEETBREADS Parboil sweetbreads in water 10 minutes. Remove stringy parts and dry on a napkin. Separate the sweetbreads into small pieces with a _silver knife_, never use _steel_, put in a stewpan with enough cream to cover, add butter, pepper and salt to taste. Flour enough to thicken a little, let all come to a boil. Fill small pattie shells with the mixture and serve hot. MEAT CROQUETTES 2 cups finely chopped meat (beef or veal). 1 tablespoonful butter. 2 tablespoonfuls flour (or a little more flour). 2 tablespoonfuls chopped parsley. 1 scant cup of milk. Put milk on to boil. Mix flour smooth with a little cold milk before adding to boiling milk, add the butter and cook all together until a creamy consistency, then add the chopped meat well seasoned with salt and pepper and the chopped parsley. Mix well and let cool. Shape into croquettes, dip in white of egg and bread crumbs. Let stand until perfectly cold, then fry brown, in deep hot fat. Chicken, beef, veal and mutton may be prepared in the same manner. When dipping croquettes, 1 tablespoonful of water may be added to the white of egg and 2 tablespoonfuls of water if the whole of the egg is used. Use the whites of eggs for dipping croquettes if possible. Croquettes may be made the day before wanted, and placed in a refrigerator or cool place. Croquettes should be cold before frying. STEWED RABBIT After the rabbit has been skinned, and carefully cleaned, wash quickly and let stand over night in cold water to which salt has been added; also a pinch of red pepper. Place on the range in the morning (in a stew-pan with fresh warm water). When it comes to a boil, drain off, add one pint of hot water containing two sliced onions and a little ginger. This prevents the flavor of wild game, objectionable to some. When the meat has cooked tender, drain, dust pieces with flour, and brown quickly in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot lard, butter, or drippings. If you wish the meat of the rabbit white, add a thin slice of lemon to the water when cooking meat. ROAST LAMB Select leg or loin, or if a larger roast is wanted, leg and loin together. Carefully rinse the piece of meat. Place in pan, dust lightly with pepper. Have the oven hot and place pan in without putting water in pan. Brown on one side, then turn and brown on the other. Then put about 1/2 cup of water in roasting pan, and if oven is too hot, leave door open for a few minutes. Allow 25 minutes for each pound of lamb. "GEFULLTE RINDERBRUST," OR STUFFED BREAST OF BEEF Take a fillet of beef, rub both sides well with a mixture of finely chopped onion, minced parsley, salt and pepper. Then spread over the fillet a small quantity of raw, chopped, well-seasoned meat, roll together and tie. Place in a stew pan with a small quantity of water, cook closely covered until tender. Serve with gravy. FRIED PEPPERS WITH PORK CHOPS Dust four or five pork chops with flour and fry in a pan, not too quickly. When nicely browned, remove to a warm chop plate and stand in warming oven while preparing the following: Slice or cut in small pieces four good-sized, sweet, red peppers and a half teaspoon of finely chopped hot pepper, add to the fat remaining in the pan in which the chops were fried, and cook about ten minutes, until peppers are tender (stirring them frequently). When sufficiently cooked, add one tablespoon of vinegar, pepper and salt to taste, cook one minute longer and serve on the same dish with the chops. BOILED HAM When preparing to cook a ham, scrape, wash and trim it carefully. Place ham in a large cook pot or boiler, partly cover with cold water, let come to a boil, then move back on range where the water will merely simmer, just bubble gently around the edge of the boiler. A medium sized ham should be tender in five or six hours. When a fork stuck into the ham comes out readily, the ham is cooked. Take from the boiler and skin carefully, removing all the discolored portions of the smoked end, stick 2 dozen whole cloves into the thick fat, and sprinkle a couple tablespoonfuls of brown sugar and fine bread crumbs over top. Place in a very hot oven a short time, until the fat turns a golden brown. Watch carefully to see that it does not scorch. When cold, slice thin and serve. Aunt Sarah frequently added a pint of cider to the water in which the ham was boiled. She said this improved the flavor of the ham. SLICED HAM When about to fry a slice of uncooked ham, do young housewives know how very much it improves the flavor of the ham if it is allowed to stand for ten or fifteen minutes in a platter containing a large teaspoonful of sugar and a little cold water? Turn several times, then wipe quite dry with a clean cloth and fry in a pan containing a little hot drippings and a very little butter (one-half teaspoonful) just enough to prevent its sticking to the pan. Do not fry as quickly as beefsteak. After a slice of ham has been cut from a whole ham, if lard be spread over the end of ham from which the slice has been cut, it will prevent the cut place from becoming mouldy. ROAST PORK Place pork roast in a covered roasting pan containing a small cup of hot water, season with pepper and salt and sweet marjoram and sprinkle a little powdered sage over it, and stand in a very hot oven. After the meat has been roasting for a half hour, have less heat in your oven, allow about 25 minutes to every pound of pork, or longer if necessary, but be sure it is _well done_. When served, _underdone_ pork is very unwholesome and unappetizing. When meat is sufficiently roasted, pour off all the fat in the pan except a small quantity, to which add 1/2 cup of boiling water, pepper and salt and serve. Serve baked apples or apple sauce with pork. PORK CHOPS Dip pork chops in egg, then into bread crumbs to which has been added salt, pepper, and a very little sage and sweet marjoram. Some prefer chops simply dredged with flour. Fry about 25 minutes or until cooked through and nicely browned, but not scorched. 'Tis said, "The frying of chops in a perfect manner is the test of a good cook." HOME-MADE SAUSAGE Nine pounds of fresh pork (lean and fat intermixed as it comes). Cut meat in small pieces, run through a meat cutter. Sprinkle over the finely chopped meat 3 tablespoonfuls salt, 2 tablespoonfuls of black pepper, 4 tablespoonfuls of powdered sage if bought at a chemist's. Aunt Sarah used but three tablespoonfuls of her own home-grown sage, as the flavor was much stronger than dried sage. Some folks add 2 tablespoonfuls of summer savory, but Aunt Sarah did not care for the flavor. Cloves, mace and nutmeg may also be added if one likes highly-spiced food. This is a matter of taste. A good plan is to season the small pieces of meat before chopping, as this distributes the seasoning through the sausage. Fill well cleaned casings, with the finely chopped meat. Or form sausage into small pats, fry brown on both sides and serve with home-made buckwheat cakes. AUNT SARAH'S METHOD OF KEEPING SAUSAGE To keep sausage one year, take sausage which has been put in casings (skins in long links) and cook until heated through in a fry pan half filled with hot water. Take sausage from the water, cut in 4-inch length pieces (stick sausage with prongs of a fork, to prevent skins bursting) and fry brown on both sides, as if preparing it for the table. Place, while hot in quart jars, fill jars as compactly as possible, then pour the hot fat remaining in pan over top. Seal air-tight and it will keep well one year if jars are perfectly air-tight. SOUSE Two pig's feet, weighing together about 1-1/2 pounds. After thoroughly cleansing with a vegetable brush, place in a stewpan and cover with cold water. Allow water to come to a boil then move stew-pan to place on range where contents will cook slowly for a number of hours, or until the meat is loosened from the bones, then strain liquid, which should measure a scant three cups. (If a lesser quantity of liquid, add hot water until you have the required amount.) Add also 3 tablespoonfuls of sharp cider vinegar, about 3/4 teaspoonful of salt and a dust of black pepper. Pour this mixture over the meat, which should have been separated from bones, allowing a few smaller bones to remain with the meat, which should have been placed in a bowl with several thin slices of lemon, if liked. Stand bowl in a cool place over night or until the "Souse" is of a jelly-like consistency. When cold, remove any surplus grease from the top of "Souse." Turn it from the bowl on to a platter. Serve cold. Garnish with thin slices of lemon and sprigs of parsley. This will furnish about 2-1/4 pounds of souse. UTILIZING COLD MEAT "LEFT-OVERS" Small pieces of cold roast beef, veal or steak may all be utilized by being put through the food chopper. To 1 cup of finely-chopped cold meat add 1/4 cup of stale bread, which has soaked for a few minutes in cold water. The water having been squeezed from the bread, it was added to the meat, as was also a small quantity of finely-minced onion or parsley, and either the yolk or while of 1 egg and a seasoning of salt and pepper. Add left-over gravy, to cause the mixture to be soft enough to form into small rolls or cakes, and fry in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings. Mashed potatoes may be substituted for the bread with equally good results. The meat mixture may be formed into small cone shapes, dipped in egg, then rolled in fine bread crumbs and fried in deep fat. Very appetizing sandwiches may he made from cold pieces of fried ham, run through food chopper. Spread this on thinly-sliced, buttered bread, with a dish of prepared mustard, spread over the prepared ham. Small bits of boiled ham, which cannot be sliced, may also be used in this manner. The fat was cut from left-over pieces of roast beef (place a couple of tablespoonfuls of fat in a pan on the range until the fat has fried out), then add a little finely-minced onion and the beef cut in pieces the size of a small marble, brown in the fat a few minutes, then add a small quantity of vinegar and water, and thicken to the consistency of cream (with a little flour moistened with cold water, before being added). This Aunt Sarah made frequently, being a frugal housewife, and called "Salmagundi." FOWL--ROAST CHICKEN OR TURKEY Singe the fowl, after it has been picked; then with a small vegetable brush quickly scrub it well, with luke-warm water. Do not let it lie in the water. When perfectly clean rinse in cold water, wipe dry, cut out the oil sack, remove craw from neck, draw the fowl, being careful not to break the gall in the process, as that would cause the meat, as well as giblets, to have a bitter taste. Take out the lungs, the spongy red pieces lying in crevices near the bones of the back, and pour cold water through the fowl until you have thoroughly rinsed and chilled it, and no blood remains inside. I think fowls should be rinsed thoroughly inside and outside with cold water (many good cooks to the contrary). Wipe the inside of the fowl perfectly dry with a clean cloth, and it is ready for the "filling." Separate the liver and heart from entrails and cut open the piece containing the gizzard; wash the outer part, and put the giblets on to cook with a little hot water; if wanted to use with the filling. If the fowl is wanted to cook or steam the day following, do not cut in pieces and let stand in water over night, as I have known some quite good cooks to do, as that draws the flavor from the meat and makes it tasteless. If the giblets are not to be cooked and added to dressing, place them inside the fowl, tie feet together, and hang up in a cool place until wanted. When serving a turkey dinner with its accompaniments one finds so many things to be attended to in the morning, especially if the fowl is cooked on a Sunday. It will be found a great help to the cook to have the turkey or chicken stuffed with bread filling the day before it is to be roasted, ready to pop in the oven in the morning. BREAD FILLING AS AUNT SARAH PREPARED IT Chop the cold, cooked liver, heart and gizzard into tiny dice; add this to a bowl containing one quart of crumbled stale bread, seasoned with 1 teaspoonful of salt, 1/4 teaspoonful pepper, 1/2 of a small, finely-minced onion, 1/4 teaspoonful sweet marjoram and a teaspoonful of chopped parsley. Stir into the crumbs 3 tablespoonfuls of melted butter, moisten all with one egg beaten with 2 tablespoonfuls of milk. Sir all together lightly with a fork. Fill the body of the chicken, put a couple of spoonfuls of this dressing into the space from which the craw was taken, tie the neck with a cord, sew up the fowl with a darning needle and cord, after filling it. (Always keep a pair of scissors hanging from a nail conveniently near the sink in your kitchen, as it saves many steps.) The secret of _good filling_ is not to have it _too moist_, and to put the filling into the fowl _very lightly_; on no account press it down when placing it in the fowl, as that will cause the best of filling to be heavy and sodden. Rather put less in, and fill a small cheese cloth bag with what remains, and a short time before the fowl has finished roasting, lay the bag containing the dressing on top of fowl until heated through, then turn out on one side of platter and serve with the fowl. Instead of the chopped giblets, add 2 dozen oysters to the dressing, or a few chestnuts boiled tender, mashed and seasoned with butter, pepper and salt and added to the crumbled bread. This makes a pleasant change. Do not use quite as many crumbs if chestnuts or oysters are added. Place fowl in covered roasting pan, put a couple of pieces of thinly-sliced bacon on the breast of fowl, put two cups of hot water in the pan and set in a very hot oven for the first half hour, then reduce the heat and baste frequently. An ordinary eight-pound turkey takes from two to three hours to roast; a chicken takes about twenty minutes to the pound. When the fowl has been sufficiently roasted, remove from pan to a hot platter. Pour off some of the fat in the pan and add a small quantity of milk to the broth remaining. Thicken with flour, for gravy, season with salt and pepper and sprinkle one teaspoonful chopped parsley over gravy after being poured into the gravy boat ready to serve. The yolk of one egg added makes a richer gravy to serve with chicken. FRIED CHICKEN WITH CREAM GRAVY Cut one small spring chicken in pieces, dip each piece in a batter composed of 1 beaten egg, 1 cup of milk, a pinch of salt, 1/2 teaspoonful of baking powder, sifted with flour enough to form a batter. Dip the pieces of chicken in this batter, one at a time, and fry slowly in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot butter and lard, until a golden brown. Place the fried chicken on a platter. Make a gravy by adding to the fat remaining in the pan--1 cup of milk, 1 tablespoonful of corn starch. Allow this to brown and thicken. Then pour the gravy over the chicken and serve garnished with parsley or watercress. STEWED OR STEAMED CHICKEN Cut a nicely cleaned chicken into nine pieces. (Do not separate the meat from the breast-bone until it has been cooked.) Put in a cook pot and partly cover with boiling water. Add one small onion and a sprig of parsley, and let simmer about 1-1/2 hours, or until tender. If an old fowl it will take about one hour longer. Add salt and pepper. Strain the broth, if very fat, remove a part from broth. After separating the white meat from the breast-bone, put all the meat on a platter. Add 1/4 cup of sweet milk to the strained broth, thicken with a couple tablespoonfuls of flour, mixed smooth with a little cold water. Let come to a boil, and add one teaspoonful of chopped parsley. Pour the chicken gravy over the platter containing the meat, or serve it in a separate bowl. Or you may quickly brown the pieces of stewed chicken which have been sprinkled with flour in a pan containing a little sweet drippings or butter. Should the chicken not be a very fat one, add yolk of one egg to the gravy. Or, instead of stewing the chicken, place in the upper compartment of a steamer, and steam until tender and serve. The day following that on which stewed or steamed chicken was served, small undesirable left-over pieces of the chicken were added (after being picked from the bones) to the gravy remaining from the day before, heated thoroughly and poured hot over a platter containing small baking powder biscuits broken in half or slices of toasted bread, which is economical, extending the meat flavor. VEGETABLES--WHITE POTATOES Potatoes are one of the most valuable of vegetables. White potatoes, after being pared, should be put in a stew-pan over the fire with a little boiling water, but not enough to cover them. The water should be kept boiling continuously. About thirty minutes from the time they commence boiling will be the time required for cooking potatoes of ordinary size. It spoils potatoes to have the water stop boiling even for a short time. Add half a teaspoonful of salt to the potatoes when partly boiled and when cooked sufficiently drain the water from them at _once_ and sprinkle a little salt over the dry potatoes. Close the lid of the stew-pan tightly, give it a quick shake, when the potatoes will he found dry and flaky. Mash fine with a potato masher, adding a tablespoonful of butter and a couple tablespoonfuls of milk. Let stand a minute on the hot range to heat the milk, then beat all together with a fork until creamy. Add more salt if necessary. That is quite important, as potatoes require considerable salt. Cover the potatoes with a cloth. Never allow to stand with the lid of the stew-pan over them, as it will draw moisture. Serve white potatoes as soon as possible after being cooked, as they are not appetizing when allowed to stand any length of time. BAKED POTATOES All young housewives may not know "that there is more real food value in potatoes baked 'in their jackets' than is found in preparing this well-known tuber in any other way." The secret of a good baked potato lies in having a hot oven, but not too hot. Scrub good sized potatoes, or, for a change, they may be pared before baking, place in a hot oven, and bake about 45 minutes, when they should be a snowy, flaky mass inside the skins, palatable and wholesome. When fully baked they should fed soft to the touch when pressed. Take from oven, pinch one end of potato to break the skin to allow the gas to escape. Always break open a baked potato. Never cut with a knife. Medium-sized potatoes, pared, cut in half lengthwise, and baked in a hot oven 25 to 40 minutes, until the outside of the potato is a light brown, make a pleasant change from boiled potatoes. When baked the proper length of time and served at once, the inside of potato should be light and flaky. The housewife should occasionally serve rice or macaroni and omit potatoes from the bill of fare, especially in the spring of the year. Potatoes should always be served as soon as baked, if possible. Potatoes may be baked in less than a half hour in a gas oven. VARIOUS WAYS OF USING SMALL POTATOES Early in the season when small, early potatoes are more plentiful and cheaper than large ones, the young housewife will be able to give her family a change, while practicing economy, as there are various ways of using small potatoes to advantage. First, new potatoes, if about the size of marbles, may be scraped, boiled in salted water, and served with a thin cream dressing, sprinkled liberally with chopped parsley, or the boiled potatoes, while still hot, may be quickly browned in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot drippings or butter. They are much better prepared in this manner if the potatoes are put in the hot fat while still warm. Or the small boiled potatoes may be cut in thin slices, browned in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter or drippings and two eggs beaten together stirred over the potatoes a few minutes before they are ready to serve. The small potatoes may also be scraped and dropped in hot, deep fat and fried like fritters. When possible, the small potatoes should be well cleansed with a vegetable brush and boiled without paring. They may then be easily skinned after they are cooked. Some of the more important ingredients are lost when potatoes are pared, and it is also more economical to boil them before paring. The cold boiled potatoes may be cut up and used for potato salad, or thinly sliced after being skinned and placed in a baking dish alternately with a cream sauce consisting of milk, butter and flour, and seasoned with salt and pepper, having the first and last layer cream sauce. Sprinkle bread crumbs liberally over the top, dot with hits of butter and bake in a moderate oven about 20 minutes until the top is nicely browned. Serve in the dish in which they were baked. Or peel one-half dozen medium-sized raw potatoes, cut into small, narrow strips about 1/3 inch wide, dry on a napkin and fry in very hot, deep fat about six minutes, then lift from fat, drain, sprinkle salt over and serve hot. These are a nice accompaniment to broiled steak. Peel and slice, or cut in dice, 6 or 8 cold boiled potatoes, cut into in a stew-pan with 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, salt and pepper to season, heat all together, shaking pan occasionally. Add 1/2 cup of cream, sprinkle a small teaspoonful of parsley over and serve hot. Instead of slicing or dicing cold boiled potatoes (in the usual manner) to be fried, if they be cut in lengthwise sections like an orange (one potato should make about 8 pieces) and fried quickly in enough hot fat to prevent burning, they can scarcely be distinguished from raw potatoes cut in the same manner and fried in deep fat, and are much easier to prepare. They should be served at once. Another manner of preparing potatoes is to slice raw potatoes as thinly as possible on a "slaw-cutter," place in a fry-pan with a couple of tablespoonfuls of a mixture of butter and sweet drippings. Watch carefully, as they should be fried quickly over a hot fire, turning frequently. When brown, serve at once. Raw _sweet_ potatoes cut about as thick as half a section of an orange, fried in a couple tablespoonfuls of a mixture of sweet drippings and butter, prove a change, occasionally. SCALLOPED POTATOES In a baking dish place layers of pared, thinly sliced, raw white potatoes. Season with a very little salt and pepper and scatter over small bits of butter. A very little finely minced onion or parsley may be added if liked. To 1 quart of the sliced potatoes use a scant half pint of milk, which should almost cover the potatoes. Either sift over the top 1 tablespoon of flour or 2 tablespoons of fine, dried bread crumbs and bits of butter; place in hot oven and bake about 3/4 of an hour, until top is browned nicely and potatoes are cooked through. Old potatoes are particularly good prepared in this manner. CANDIED SWEET POTATOES Place in an agate pudding dish 6 pared and halved (lengthwise) raw sweet potatoes. Scatter over them three tablespoons of sugar, 2 large tablespoons of butter cut in small bits, and about 1/2 a cup (good measure) of water. Stand in a hot oven and bake about 3/4 of an hour. Baste frequently with the syrup formed in the bottom of the dish. The potatoes when baked should look clear and the syrup should be as thick as molasses. Serve in the dish in which they were baked. Should the oven of the range not be very hot, the dish containing the potatoes may be placed on top the range and cooked about 25 minutes before placing in oven to finish baking. SWEET POTATO CROQUETTES To 1 pint of hot mashed potatoes, or cold boiled ones may be used, squeezed through a fruit press; add 1 tablespoon of butter, pinch of salt, 2 eggs, whites beaten separately. When cool, form into small cone-shapes, dip in bread crumbs, then into egg, then into crumbs again, and fry in deep fat. Drain on paper and serve on platter garnished with parsley. POTATO CHIPS Aunt Sarah's way of making particularly fine potato chips: She pared six large white potatoes, one at a time. As she wished to slice them to fry, she rinsed the potatoes, rolled them on a clean cloth to dry them. She sliced the potatoes thinly on a "slaw" cutter. She patted the sliced potatoes between old linen napkins, until all moisture was absorbed, then dropped them into hot fat, consisting of two-thirds lard and one-third suet. Place only one layer of potatoes at a time in the fat. The chips quickly turn light brown; then remove with a perforated skimmer to a colander lined with coarse brown paper, to absorb any remaining fat. Should the fat be the right temperature, the chips will be entirely free from grease. Dust salt over the chips while hot. She _never_ allowed chips to stand in salt water, as many cooks do. She usually made potato chips when frying doughnuts, and always fried potato chips first; after frying doughnuts in the fat fry several large slices of potato in it, as the potato clarifies it. Six large, thinly sliced potatoes will make about five quarts of potato chips when fried and may be kept several weeks in a dry place. The potato chips may be re-heated by placing in a hot oven a few minutes before serving. FRIED EGGPLANT Pare the egg-plant, cut in slices one-half inch thick, sprinkle salt on slices; let stand under heavy weight several hours. Wipe slices dry with a napkin and dip in a mixture of white of one egg, and one tablespoon of water, then dip them in fine rolled bread crumbs and fry a rich brown in deep fat. Drain and serve. Catsup should always be served with eggplant. BAKED "STUFFED PEPPERS" Place a fry-pan on stove containing about two tablespoonfuls of butter, add a couple of finely chopped sweet peppers and a finely minced small onion. Let all simmer on stove. Measure the chopped pepper and add an equal amount of finely crumbled bread. Season with salt and pepper and fill (well-washed) peppers from which the stem and seeds have been removed. Stand the peppers in a bake dish containing a small amount of water. Place in a hot oven about twenty-five minutes, or until peppers are tender. Serve hot. CHILI (AS PREPARED IN NEW MEXICO) Place hot peppers (well-washed) from which seeds have been removed into a bake dish containing a very little hot water. Stand in a hot oven until tender and skins turn a yellow brown, turning them over occasionally. Remove the outside skin, chop fine, add a small quantity of finely minced onion, pepper and salt and enough vinegar to moisten. If sweet peppers are used add a pinch of cayenne pepper. Serve as a relish in place of pickles or chow-chow. This recipe was given Marry by a friend who had lived in Mexico. The outside skin of the peppers may be more readily removed if upon being removed from the oven the peppers are sprinkled with water, then covered with a cloth and allowed to steam a short time. BAKED CABBAGE A half head of cabbage was cut into small pieces and cooked in hot salted water until cabbage was tender. The water was drained from the boiled cabbage, which was placed in an agate pudding dish alternately with cream sauce composed of one cup of milk; one small tablespoonful of flour, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, seasoned with salt and pepper. Sprinkle a few crumbs and place bits of the butter over top. Bake in oven about 25 minutes and serve hot. This dish is almost equal to cauliflower in flavor, especially if after the cabbage has cooked ten or fifteen minutes the water is drained from it and fresh substituted. And it is said, "Cauliflower is only cabbage with a college education." CRIMSON CREAMED BEETS Cut all except two inches from the tops of beets. Scrub thoroughly with a vegetable brush, then pour scalding water over beets. When perfectly cleansed, place in a cook-pot, partly cover with boiling water, stand on range and when beets have cooked tender remove outside skin. Strain and stand aside one cup of water in which beets were boiled, which should be dark wine color. When beets are to be served to the one cup of strained beet juice add one tablespoonful of sugar, one-fourth cup of not _very sharp_ vinegar. Add one teaspoon of butter. Thicken this liquid with one and one-fourth tablespoonfuls of a mixture of corn starch and flour. When cooked to the consistency of cream add the quartered beets, season with pepper and salt, stand on back part of range a few minutes, serve hot. To three cups of the quartered beets use one and one-half cups of cream dressing. BUTTERED BEETS Wash young beets, cut off tops. Boil one hour or until tender, one tablespoonful of sugar having been added to the water in which beets were boiled. Rub off skins, cut in quarters, strew over them one tablespoon of butter cut in small pieces, stand in oven just long enough for the butter to melt. Or cut the beets in slices one-fourth of an inch thick and while still warm place in a bowl and pour over them half a cup of hot vinegar and water to which had been added one tablespoonful of sugar, a pinch of salt and pepper; serve cold. PICKLED MANGELWURZEL A vegetable in taste, similar to very sweet, red beets in shape, greatly resembling carrots. Wash the mangelwurzel and place in a stew-pan with boiling water and cook until tender (allow about an inch of top to remain when preparing to cook). Skin the mangelsurzel, slice and pour over the following, which has been heated in a stew-pan over the fire: One cup of vinegar and water combined, one tablespoonful of sugar, one teaspoonful of salt, a dust of pepper. Stand aside until cold then serve. Or serve hot like buttered beets. Some "Bucks County" farmers raise mangelwurzel simply to feed to their cattle, but Aunt Sarah preferred them when young and tender to beets, and always raised them for her table. GERMAN STEAMED CABBAGE Cut one-half head of cabbage fine on a slaw cutter. Place in a stew-pan over fire, with about four tablespoonfuls of water, one tablespoonful of butter, a couple tablespoonfuls of flour, one teaspoonful of sugar and a pinch of salt. Cover and steam twenty minutes. Then add three tablespoons of vinegar. Stir in one beaten egg. Cover and let stand where it will keep hot until ready to serve. BEAN "SNITZEL" Place in a pan on the range one tablespoon of diced, smoked bacon, fry a few minutes, watch closely it does not scorch. Add one tablespoonful of sweet lard, when hot, add four thinly sliced, medium-sized onions and four chopped tomatoes and 1-1/2 quarts of string beans, cut in inch lengths. Season with salt and a pinch of red pepper. Simmer all together three hours. After cooking one hour add about one cup of hot water, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching, add a little more water if necessary; when beans are tender and ready to serve there should be a small quantity of liquid, resembling tomato sauce, with the beans. BOILED SPINACH Wash one-half peck of spinach thoroughly through a half dozen waters, until free from sand. Place in a stew-pan containing a small quantity of _boiling_ water and one teaspoon of butter. Cook until tender, drain, chop fine. Place a large tablespoonful of butter in stew-pan and when hot add chopped spinach, season with salt and pepper; serve in a warmed dish, garnished with either chopped or sliced hard boiled eggs. A German cook, noted for the fine flavor of her cooked spinach and green peas, said her secret consisted in adding a teaspoon of butter to the vegetables while cooking. FRIED ONIONS AND POTATOES Another way of utilizing left-over cold boiled potatoes particularly relished by "Pennsylvania Germans," whose liking for the humble onion is proverbial, is to fry onions with potatoes in a fry-pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter; when heated place a half dozen thinly sliced cold boiled potatoes, half the quantity of thinly sliced raw onions, well seasoned with pepper and salt, cover and steam for ten or fifteen minutes, when uncover and fry until light brown; serve at once. Or the thinly-sliced onions, after skins have been removed, may be sliced thinly across the onion, placed in a fry-pan and partly covered with boiling water; stand on hot range and steam, closely covered, about fifteen minutes, or until onions are tender, then drain off water, should any remain, add a small tablespoonful of butter, salt and pepper to season, fry quickly a light brown; pan should be uncovered. Serve at once with liver or bacon. Onions are considered more wholesome prepared in this manner than if fried. STEAMED ASPARAGUS (FINE) Wash asparagus and cut off about an inch of the tough ends, scrape off thin skin. Place pieces of asparagus tips (all in one direction) in the top part of perforated section of a double boiler. Fill lower part of steamer with hot water and steam about three-quarters of an hour or less time, until tender. The fine flavor of the vegetable is retained when steamed. When cooked tender turn out on a hot platter and pour cream sauce over the tips, or the cream sauce may be served separately, or the asparagus may be served on freshly toasted slices of bread, over which the cream sauce should be poured. "PASTURE" MUSHROOMS All the members of the Landis family unanimously agreed in declaring the dish "Frau Schmidt" taught Sarah Landis to prepare from the delicious edible Fungi, known as "Pasture" mushrooms (gathered by Professor Schmidt from rich, wind-swept pastures early in the fall of the year until the coming of frost) were good enough to tickle the palate of an epicure. Sarah Landis was very particular to use _none_ unless pronounced _edible mushrooms_, and not poisonous toad-stools, by Professor Schmidt, who was a recognized authority. Said the Professor, "The edible variety may be easily recognized by one having a knowledge of the vegetable. The cap may be readily peeled, and the flesh of the 'Pasture' mushroom, when cut or broken, changes in color to a pale rose pink, and they possess many other distinctive features, easily recognized, when one has made a study of them." The following is the manner in which the mushrooms were prepared by Fran Schmidt: STEAMED MUSHROOMS. One-half pound or about twenty-four small mushrooms were peeled, washed carefully in cold water, placed in a small stew-pan containing two generous tablespoonfuls of butter, covered closely and allowed to simmer or steam for twenty minutes in butter and liquid, drawn from the mushrooms by steaming, then uncover and allow liquid in sauce-pan and mushrooms to cook about ten minutes longer, then sprinkle two teaspoonfuls of flour over the mushrooms, brown a minute, stir into this 1/2 cup of milk, or enough to make a sauce the consistency of cream, season well with salt and pepper to taste. Have ready prepared six crisply toasted and buttered slices of stale bread. Place four mushrooms and a couple of tablespoonfuls of the mushroom sauce on each slice of bread and serve hot. The combination of toast and mushrooms results in a particularly fine flavor. STEWED TOMATOES Scald ripe tomatoes by pouring boiling water over them and allowing them to stand a few minutes. Skin them and cut in small pieces. Place in a stew-pan with 1 tablespoonful of butter, season _well_ with pepper and salt, cook about 25 minutes, add 1/2 teaspoonful of sugar and thicken with 1 teaspoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little water. Let cook a few minutes, then serve. If tomatoes are very tart a small pinch of baking soda, added when cooked, will counteract acidity. SWEET CORN Sweet corn on the cob should be cooked as soon as possible after taking it from stalk, as after being removed it soon loses its sweetness. Do not remove the husk until it is to be boiled. Place corn in a kettle of rapidly boiling water, not salted; rather add a pinch of sugar if corn is not as sweet as liked. Cover the kettle to prevent steam escaping. Do not use a _large quantity of water_. Corn is sweeter if steamed. Boil from ten to fifteen minutes. If corn is not cooked in that time, it should be used uncooked for corn fritters, as corn if _not_ young and tender may be grated and from it excellent corn fritters may be made. FRIED TOMATOES WITH CREAM SAUCE Cut large, solid, ripe tomatoes in half-inch slices; one ordinary tomato makes 3 slices. Dredge thickly with flour. Fry several slices of bacon in an iron pan, take bacon from pan when fried and put in warming oven. Lay the well-floured slices of tomatoes in hot bacon fat and one tablespoon of butter and fry brown on both sides. Serve on hot platter with bacon. Or fry slices of well floured tomato in pan containing just enough butter and drippings to keep them from sticking to the bottom of pan, over a hot fire. Fry quickly, browning on each side. Season with salt and pepper. If the tomatoes are very sour, sprinkle a _very little_ sugar over them before frying. When brown, lift the tomatoes carefully from pan and place in a circle around the inside edge of a warm chop plate, add a lump of butter to the pan and a small half cup of sweet milk. Let come to a boil, thicken with a little flour mixed smoothly with a little cold milk, and cook until the consistency of thick cream. Season with salt and pour in centre of chop plate, surrounded with fried slices of tomatoes. Dust pepper over top and serve hot. This is a delicious way of serving tomatoes. Or slices of the fried tomatoes may be served on slices of crisply toasted bread over which place a couple tablespoons of the cream dressing. BAKED "STUFFED TOMATOES" Wash a half dozen ripe red tomatoes. Cut the top from each and remove about the half of the inside of tomato. Sprinkle a very tiny pinch of sugar in each. This small quantity of sugar is not noticed, but counteracts the acidity of the tomato. To one and one-half cups of soft bread crumbs add one small finely minced onion and season highly with salt and pepper, also add one teaspoon of chopped parsley. Mix all together and fill the tomatoes with the mixture. Place a small bit of butter on each tomato. Place in a bake dish containing a half cup of water, a piece of butter, one teaspoonful of sugar, a sprig of parsley and pepper and salt to season. Stand in a hot oven and bake from 25 to 30 minutes. The centres which were removed from tomatoes may be utilized in various ways. CANNED TOMATOES--FRIED Place in a bowl a half pint of canned tomatoes, one-fourth teaspoon of sugar and season with salt and pepper. Add about four tablespoonfuls of flour sifted with one-half teaspoon of baking powder and one tablespoon of butter. Use only flour enough to hold the mixture together when fried. Drop spoonfuls some distance apart in a fry-pan containing several tablespoons of hot lard, butter, suet or drippings. Fry on both sides and serve hot. In winter, when the housewife is unable to obtain fresh tomatoes, she will find this dish a good substitute to serve occasionally. "BUCKS COUNTY" BAKED BEANS Put one quart of small soup beans to soak over night in cold water to cover. In the morning drain the beans, cover with boiling water, add one tablespoonful of molasses and cook until tender, but not too soft. Drain. Do not use this water. Put the beans in an earthen bake dish. In the centre of the bake dish place one pound of clean, scored smoked bacon, and pour over the beans the water in which the bacon had been simmering for an hour. Add water, if not enough, to almost cover the beans, salt and pepper to taste. Place in oven and bake about three hours, or until beans are tender and a rich brown on top. Add more hot water if beans bake dry, until the last half hour, then allow the water to cook away. Serve stewed tomatoes, baked apples or apple sauce as an accompaniment to baked beans. This is not a recipe for "Boston Baked Beans." Just a "plain country recipe," but it will be found very satisfactory. If part of a dish of beans remain after a meal, re-heat the day following in "tomato sauce." Aunt Sarah always baked a pan of corn bread or Johnny cake, to serve hot with baked beans. When the housewife serves a dish of baked beans at a meal, serve also a quart of stewed tomatoes. The day following a "tomato sauce" may be quickly prepared by adding a well-cooked carrot and an onion to the "left-over" tomatoes. Press all through a coarse sieve, adding a little water if too thick; re-heat beans in this; serve hot. A delicious "cream of tomato soup" may be prepared by substituting milk or cream to which a small pinch of baking soda has been added, omitting the beans. COOKED HOMINY Wash one cup of hominy through several waters. (The grains should resemble kernels of corn.) Cover with cold water and stand in a cool place over night. In the morning, drain. Place the hominy in an agate pudding dish holding 2 quarts, cover with boiling water, add more water as the grains swell and water boils away, and 1 teaspoonful of salt. The hominy should be placed on the range to cook early in the morning on the day it is to be served and continue cooking slowly until late afternoon, when all the water should have been absorbed and each grain should be large, white and flaky. The dish should be about three-quarters full. A half hour before serving the hominy, at a six o'clock dinner, add a generous tablespoonful of butter and about 3/4 of a cup of hot milk and stand on back of range until served. This is a remarkably cheap, wholesome and appetizing dish if served properly and is easily prepared. GRATED "PARSNIP CAKES" Scrape, then grate enough raw parsnips to fill two cups, put in a bowl and add the yolk of one egg, pinch of salt, 1 tablespoonful of milk, 1 tablespoonful of flour, lastly add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. Form into small round cakes, dust with flour and fry brown on both sides in a pan containing a tablespoonful of butter and one of drippings. Or these may be crumbed and fried in deep fat. These are much finer flavored than if parsnips had been cooked before being fried. TO MAKE "SAUER KRAUT" Cut heads of cabbage in half, after trimming off outside leaves. Cut out centres or hearts, cut cabbage fine on a regular old-fashioned cabbage cutter, which has a square box on top of cutter to hold the pieces of cabbage when being pushed back and forth over the cutter. If not possible to procure this, use small slaw cutter for the purpose. Partly fill a large pan with the cut cabbage, and mix enough salt, with the hands, through the cut cabbage to be palatable when tasted, no more. This was the rule taught Aunt Sarah by her Grandmother, and always followed by her. Then put the salted cabbage into a wooden cask or small tub to the depth of several inches. Pound the cabbage down well with a long-handled, heavy, wooden mallet, something like a very large wooden potato masher. Then mix another panful of finely cut cabbage, lightly salted, into the tub and pound down well, as before. Continue in this manner until the tub is partly filled with cabbage, pounding down well at the last until the liquid formed by the cabbage and salt rises above the cabbage. Cover the kraut with a layer of large, clean cabbage or grape leaves, then cover top with a clean piece of muslin cloth, place a round, clean board on top and put a well-scrubbed, heavy stone on the board to weight it down. Stand the tub in a warm place several days, to ferment. When fermentation begins, the liquor rises over the top of the board. Remove the scrum which rises to top, in about six days, and stand in a cool part of the cellar after washing stone and cloth with cold water, return to top of kraut and in two weeks the sauer kraut will be ready to use. Should the sauer kraut require extra liquid at any time, add one quart of water in which has been dissolved two teaspoonfuls of salt. Squeeze the sauer kraut quite dry when taking it from the brine to cook. Boil about two quarts of the sauer kraut several hours with a piece of fresh pork and a little water until the pork is thoroughly cooked through, when the sauer kraut should be cooked tender. Some prefer "frankfurters" cooked with the kraut instead of pork, and others do not care for the German dish without the accompaniment of drop dumplings. Serve mashed potatoes and simple dessert with sauer kraut. Aunt Sarah taught Mary to save the hearts of the cabbage usually thrown aside when making sauer kraut. The hearts were trimmed all one size, like small triangles. She cooked them in salted water until tender, drained them and served with a cream dressing, and they had much the flavor of a dish of cauliflower. Frau Schmidt always placed several tart apples among her sauer kraut when making it, and thought it improved the flavor of the kraut; gave it a "winey" flavor, obtained in no other manner. A sour apple, cored and cooked with sauer kraut is considered by some cooks an improvement. The apple, of course, is not eatable. Aunt Sarah _never_ placed apples with her sauer kraut. DUMPLINGS TO SERVE WITH SAUER KRAUT For these dumplings, 1 egg was broken into a bowl and well beaten. Then a pinch of salt was added and 1/2 cup of sweet milk. Enough flour was added to make a soft dough, and one tablespoonful of baking powder was sifted with a very little flour into the batter, then a little more flour was added to make the dough the right consistency. Form the dough into small balls, handling as little as possible. Drop on top of the hot cooked "sauer kraut" in cook-pot on range and boil, closely covered, about 20 minutes. Aunt Sarah taught Mary to cook green vegetables, peas, spinach, etc., in a stew-pan _uncovered_, if she wished them to retain their natural color. Also, that old potatoes may be freshened by being allowed to stand a short time in cold water before being cooked, but they should not stand too long a time in cold water, as it draws the starch from them and causes them to be tasteless, and to lose part of their nourishing qualities. Also that one teaspoonful of salt will usually season one quart of vegetables, to be put in when the vegetables begin to cook. Cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce and watercress should stand in a pan containing water and a little vinegar for a half hour. This will cause insects to drop to the bottom of the pan. Changing the water on cabbage and onions when partly cooked will improve their flavor. PARSLEY DRIED TO PRESERVE ITS GREEN COLOR Young housewives possessing a bed of parsley in their kitchen gardens, wishing to preserve it for use during the winter, may like to know how Aunt Sarah taught Mary to dry it in a manner to preserve its bright green color. She washed the parsley in cold water and while still moist placed it on agate pans and dried it _quickly_ in a _very hot_ oven. Watch carefully as it scorches easily. Place the parsley when dried, in tin cans covered to exclude the dust. TIME REQUIRED TO COOK VEGETABLES Bake good-sized potatoes in oven about 45 minutes. Smaller potatoes require less time to bake. Boil ordinary sized potatoes 25 to 30 minutes. _Steam_ asparagus from 30 to 40 minutes. Boil young beets about 60 minutes or longer. Old beets, two hours, or until tender. Green corn on cob about 10 or 15 minutes. Cauliflower, 30 minutes. Cabbage, 30 to 40 minutes. Turnips and carrots, 40 minutes. String beans, 60 minutes to 2 hours. Lima beans, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Onions about 1 hour. Squash about 30 minutes. Parsnips, 30 to 40 minutes. Sweet potatoes, good size, 40 minutes. Spinach, 25 minutes. Tomatoes, 25 minutes. Salt should be added to the water when boiling potatoes, carrots, cabbage, parsnips, turnips and onions, even if liquid in which they were boiled is drained from them after being cooked, before being seasoned. Add a small pinch of baking soda to the water in which string beans are boiled, and they will cook tender in less time. Especially should this be done if the beans are not young and tender. COMMON "CREAM SAUCE" Young housekeepers will be surprised to learn of the various attractive, appetizing dishes which may be prepared by combining them with a "cream sauce." After cooking vegetables until tender in salted water, they should be drained and served with a cream sauce poured over. The art of making a smooth, creamy sauce of the proper consistency is easily acquired. A good rule for "common cream sauce" is 1 cup of milk, water, or meat broth, thickened with 1 tablespoonful to 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of flour, or a combination of flour and cornstarch. Mix flour, or cornstarch, with a small quantity of cold milk or water, to a smooth paste, before adding it to liquid; add, usually, one tablespoonful of butter. Place the mixture in a saucepan and cook until the consistency of cream, add 1/2 teaspoonful of salt just before removing from the fire, and dust pepper over when serving. When mixing gravy to serve with roast beef or veal, omit butter. For a thick sauce use either 2 or 3 tablespoonfuls of flour and the same amount of butter. This thick sauce may be used to mix with meat for croquettes in the proportion of 1 cup of sauce to 2 cups of chopped cold roast lamb, beef, veal or chicken. Should a richer sauce be desired, add 1 or more yolks of eggs to the cream sauce. Some of the numerous dishes which might be served by the young housewife to vary the daily bill of fare by the addition of "cream sauce," are: Small, new potatoes, cauliflower, onions, cabbage asparagus tips, thinly sliced carrots, celery, mushrooms, fish, oysters, chicken, veal and sweetbreads. All of these, when coked, may be served on slices of toasted bread, or served in Pattie-cases, with cream sauce, or served simply with cream sauce. PREPARATION OF SAVORY GRAVIES The art of preparing savory gravies and sauces is more important in connection with the serving of the cheaper meats than in connection with the cooking of the more expensive cuts. There are a few general principles underlying the making of all sauces or gravies, whether the liquid used is water, milk, stock, tomato juice or some combination of these. For ordinary gravy, 2 level tablespoonfuls of flour or 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of cornstarch, or arrow root, is sufficient to thicken a cup of liquid. This is true excepting in recipes where the flour is browned. In this case, about 1/2 tablespoonful more should be allowed, for browned flour does not thicken so well as unbrowned. The fat used may be butter or the drippings from the meat, the allowance being 2 tablespoonfuls to a cup of liquid. The easiest way to mix the ingredients is to heat the fat, add the flour and cook until the mixture ceases to bubble, and then to add the liquid. This is a quick method and by using it there is little danger of getting a lumpy gravy. Many persons, however, think it is not a wholesome method, and prefer the old-fashioned one of thickening the gravy by means of flour mixed with a little cold water. (Aunt Sarah was one who thought thus.) The latter method is not "practicable for brown gravies," to quote the _Farmers' Bulletin_. The _Farmers' Bulletin_ further adds: "Considering the large amount of discussion about the digestibility of fried food and of gravies made by heating flour in fat, a few words on the subject at this point may not be out of order. It is difficult to see how heating the fat before adding the flour can be unwholesome, unless the cook is unskillful enough to heat the fat so high that it begins to scorch. Overheated fat, as has already been pointed out, contains an acrid, irritating substance called 'Acrolein,' which may readily be considered to be unwholesome. It is without doubt the production of this body by overheating which has given fried food its bad name. There are several ways of varying the flavor of gravies and sauces. One should be especially mentioned here. The _flavor of browned flour_--The good flavor of browned flour is often overlooked. If flour is cooked in fat, until it is a dark brown color, a distinctive and very agreeable flavor is obtained. "This flavor combines very well with that of currant jelly, and a little jelly added to a brown gravy is a great improvement. The flavor of this should not be combined with that of onions or other highly-flavored vegetables." BUTTER, CHEESE AND SUET--A SUBSTITUTE FOR BUTTER This formula for preparing a good, sweet, wholesome substitute for butter to be used for baking and frying was given Aunt Sarah by a thrifty German hausfrau, who prepared and used it in her large family many years. Aunt Sarah always kept a supply on hand. It was made as follows: 10 pounds of fine solid kidney suet. 10 pounds of clean pork fat. 10 pounds of butter. The suet cut in small pieces was put in a large boiler of water, boiled until all was melted, and the fat extracted from the suet. It was then all poured through a fine sieve into a vessel containing hot water (the larger the quantity of hot water the finer the fat will be). Stand aside to become cold and solid. The boiling process prevents the peculiar taste which _fried_ lard and suet usually possess. Treat the pork fat in a similar manner. Allow the suet and pork fat to stand until the following morning, when remove the solid fat from the boiler of water, wipe off all moisture and add both pork fat and suet fat to the melted butter, which had been prepared in the following manner: The butter was melted in a porcelain lined boiler and allowed to cook until all salt and other foreign substance had settled and the butter had the appearance of clear oil. At this point the butter should be watched carefully, as when settled it might quickly boil over, when you would be liable to lose your butter, besides suffering serious consequences. Now the liquid butter, suet and pork fat are all put together into a large boiler and allowed to melt together on the back part of the range. This will probably be done in the morning. After the noon meal is finished move the boiler containing fat to front part of range; let come to a boil, skimming it occasionally as it boils up. It needs close watching now, the fat being liable to cook over the top of boiler, when the "fat" will surely be "in the fire." Carefully pour into stone crock, and it may be kept for months in a cool place. The fat which has been first poured off the top, if it has been carefully skimmed, will keep longest. The last taken from the boiler should be put in a stone crock to use first. This may be prepared in lesser quantities, or a smaller quantity of butter might be used to mix with the lard and suet. Although the preparation is to be preferred composed of equal quantities of butter, lard and suet, adding milk to the first water in which the suet is boiled is quite an improvement. After filling the crocks with the fat, take the boiled-out suet and hard scraps and settlings of butter remaining and go through the same process and you will have a small jar of cooking fat for immediate use. A little trouble to do this, I admit, but one is well paid by having good, sweet, inexpensive cooking fat. I should advise a young housekeeper to experiment with one pound each of clarified suet and pork fat after it is rendered, and one pound of butter before attempting the preparation of a larger quantity. BUTTER--AS IT WAS MADE AT THE FARM, BY "AUNT SARAH" Aunt Sarah strained fresh, sweet milk into small, brown earthenware crocks kept for this purpose, scrupulously clean. The crocks were kept in the spring-house or cellar in summer (in cold weather the milk should be kept in a warmer place to allow cream to form on the top of the milk). When the cream was thick and sour she skimmed the cream from off the top of milk every day, stirring the cream well together every time she added fresh cream to that on hand. Aunt Sarah churned twice a week; sour cream should not be kept a longer time than one week. The churn was scalded with boiling water, then rinsed with cold water; this prevented the butter adhering to the churn. The cream should be at a temperature of 60 degrees when put in the churn, but this would be almost too cold in Winter. In very hot weather the temperature of the cream should be 56 degrees. Aunt Sarah tested the cream with a small dairy tube thermometer. She churned steadily and usually had butter "come" in about 25 minutes, but should the cream he too cold or too warm it would be necessary to churn a longer time. If the cream is too warm, stand vessel containing cream on ice; if too cold, stand in a warm place near the range. When the sour cream had been churned a certain length of time and granules of butter had formed, she drained off the buttermilk and poured water over the granules of butter. Water should be two degrees colder than the buttermilk. After churning a few minutes the lump of butter was removed from the churn, placed in a bowl, washed thoroughly several times in very cold water, until no buttermilk remained. The butter was worked thoroughly, with a wooden paddle, until all buttermilk had been extracted. One small tablespoonful of salt was added to each pound of butter. She worked the butter well, to incorporate the salt, and molded it into shape. Aunt Sarah did not knead the butter, but smoothed it down, then lifted it up from the large, flat, wooden bowl in which it was molded. When the butter was to be molded into _small shapes_, she scalded the small wooden molds, then dipped them into cold water before using; this prevented the butter adhering to the molds. Before commencing to churn butter, Aunt Sarah was particular to have her hands scrupulously clean. All the utensils used were washed in hot water, then rinsed in cold water, both hands and utensils. She frequently wrapped small pats of freshly-churned butter in small squares of clean cheese-cloth and placed in a stone crock with a cover. Placed in the crock was usually, with the butter, a bunch of sweet clover blossoms, which imparted to the butter a delicious flavor. "SMIER-KASE" OR COTTAGE CHEESE Stand a pan containing three quarts of milk in a warm place until it becomes sour and quite thick. Stand the pan containing the thick milk on the back part of the range, where it will heat gradually but not cook. When the "whey" separates from the curd in the centre and forms around the edges it is ready to use. Should the sour milk become _too hot_ on the range, or _scald_, the curds, or smier-kase, will not become soft and creamy. When the curd has separated from the "whey," pour the contents of the pan into a cheese-cloth bag and hang in the open air to drip for several hours, when it should be ready to use. From three quarts of sour milk you should obtain one good pound of smier-kase. To prepare it for the table place one-half the quantity in a bowl and add one teaspoonful of softened butter, a pinch of salt and mix as smoothly as possible. Or the smier-kase may be molded into small rolls, and a small quantity of finely-chopped Pimento added. This will keep fresh several days if kept in a cool cellar or refrigerator. USES OF "SWEET DRIPPINGS" AND SUET For deep frying Mary was taught to use lard and kidney suet combined. The latter had been tried out by cutting suet in small pieces. The suet, in an iron pan, was placed in a moderately hot oven until fat was tried out. To prevent suet when rendered having a taste of tallow, place in the upper part of boiler, over one containing hot water, and stand on a hot range until all is tried out, or melted, instead of putting it in oven. Strain into a jar and stand aside in a cool place until wanted. Take one-third of this tried-out suet to two-thirds lard when frying croquettes, oysters, cruellers or fritters. Suet contains food value equal to that of lard and food fried in this fat, combined with lard, is more wholesome than if fried in lard alone--if any food fried in fat _ever is_ wholesome. And suet is more economical than lard if rendered at home. Mary was taught by her Aunt to save all the trimmings from steaks, fat left over from roasts, boiled ham, sausage, bacon fat, etc. When different fats have been tried out, to clarify them, add to every pound and a half of combined fat or drippings a half cup of boiling water and a pinch of baking soda. Boil until water evaporates and fat is clear. Strain into a bowl and keep in a cool place. Clean, sweet drippings are preferred by most cooks to lard for many purposes. All young housewives do not know that ham or bacon fat may be substituted for half the shortening called for in many recipes for molasses cakes (where spices are used) with good results. Also that the grease rendered from clean fat of chickens, which greatly resembles butter when tried out and cold, may be combined with an equal quantity of other shortening in making cakes in which spices are used. The difference in the taste of cake made from this fat, if rendered sweet and clean, will not be noticed. Equal parts of ham or bacon fat, pork chops or sausage fat, combined with butter, are excellent for frying cornmeal mush, eggs, sweet potatoes, egg bread and calves' liver. Also sliced tomatoes have a particularly fine flavor if fried in bacon fat. Should fat removed from top of stock pot have a flavor of vegetables, pour boiling water over, strain and stand aside to cool; then remove the clean cake of fat on top of the water and add to bowl of drippings. This is one of the small economies which will, I think, appeal to the frugal young housewife. If possible, procure an iron pot for deep frying. After using, strain the fat remaining, adding sediment in the bottom of cook-pot to the can of soap fat; then return the clean, strained fat to the cook pot. Keep in a cool place, closely covered, and if careful not to scorch the fat. It may be used over and over again, and croquettes, etc., may be prepared in a few moments by simply heating the kettle of fat in which to fry them. Aunt Sarah frequently filled small glass jars with rendered mutton suet, scented with violet essence, to be used for chapped lips and hands. EGGS--"EIERKUCHEN" OR OMELETTE For this excellent omelette or "eierkuchen," as Aunt Sarah called it, she used the following: 3 fresh eggs. 1 cup sweet milk. 3 level tablespoonfuls of flour. She placed on the range a small fry pan (size of a tea plate), containing one tablespoonful of butter. She then placed 3 tablespoonfuls of flour in a bowl, mixed smoothly with a portion of the cup of milk, then added the three yolks of eggs which had been lightly beaten and the balance of the milk and a pinch of salt. Lastly, she stirred in lightly the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. Poured all into the warmed fry-pan and placed it in a moderately hot oven until lightly browned on top. The omelette when cooked should be light and puffy, and remain so while being served. Double the omelette together on a hot platter and sprinkle finely chopped parsley over the top. Serve immediately. HARD BOILED EGGS Eggs to be hard boiled should be carefully placed in boiling water and cooked 15 minutes from the time the water commences to boil again. If cooked a longer time, the white of egg will look dark and the outer part of yolk will not be a clear yellow, as it should, to look appetizing when served. SOFT BOILED EGGS The quicker way to prepare eggs is to drop them in a stew-pan containing boiling water, and let boil 3-1/2 to 4 minutes, when the white part of the egg should be "set" and the yolk soft, but a soft boiled egg is said to be more easily digested if dropped into a stew-pan of rapidly boiling water; remove the stew-pan of boiling water the minute the eggs have been put in from the front part of the range to a place where the water will keep hot, but not allow the eggs to boil. Let the eggs remain in the hot water from 8 to 10 minutes. On breaking the egg open, the yolk will be found soft, and the white of the egg a soft, jelly-like consistency. This latter is the way Aunt Sarah taught Mary. AN EGG AND TOMATO OMELETTE Beat the yolks of three eggs until light, then add three tablespoonfuls of water. Beat the whites of the eggs separately. Turn the stiffly-beaten whites of the eggs into the bowl containing the yolks of eggs and water. Stir lightly together and add a pinch of salt. Turn all into a small fry-pan containing a generous tablespoonful of butter and cook on top of stove until the eggs are set, then place the pan containing omelette in a hot oven and finish cooking. When cooked, turn out on a hot platter and spread over the top the following, which was prepared while the omelette was cooking. In a small fry-pan place a tablespoonful of finely-chopped bacon. When fried brown add half a small tomato, finely chopped, 1/4 of an onion, chopped fine, and a little chopped green pepper. Cook all together for a short time and season with salt and pepper. After spreading the mixture on the omelette, fold over and serve on a hot platter. This recipe had been given Frau Schmidt years before by a friend and she used no other for making omelette. Always make small omelettes. They are more satisfactory. Use a small pan no larger than a small tea plate, and, if wished, make two small, rather than one large one. Always serve immediately. MUSHROOM OMELETTE Place the yolks of three eggs in a bowl and beat until light. Add a teaspoonful of cream and 1/2 teaspoonful of flour mixed together; 1/2 cup of chopped mushrooms, salt and pepper and a dust of baking powder. Lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of the eggs. Turn into a pan containing two tablespoonfuls of melted butter, stand on range a few minutes until eggs are set, then finish cooking in a hot oven. Serve at once. A few cold, steamed mushrooms (left-overs), if finely chopped, and added to a plain omelette or roast, will improve the flavor. A CLAM OMELETTE Two eggs beaten separately, 1 scant cup of milk, 1 tablespoonful of flour, 6 clams run through a food-chopper. Place in a bowl the tablespoon of flour and mix smooth with a little of the milk. Then add the two yolks of eggs and beat well together. Add the milk, salt and pepper, the chopped clams, and lastly the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs, and add a trifle more flour, if necessary. Drop a couple of tablespoons at a time in a large fry-pan containing a couple of tablespoons of butter or drippings. They spread out about the size of a small saucer. Fry as many at a time as the pan will conveniently hold without running together. Turn when browned lightly on one side, and when the other side has cooked fold together and serve at once. Garnish with parsley. These are very easily made for luncheon, and are very nice served with fried chicken. DEVILED EGGS Boil half a dozen eggs until hard. Remove shells, cut in halves, mash the yolks to a smooth paste with about 1/2 teaspoon mixed mustard, 1 teaspoon softened butter, pepper and salt to taste. Some like a small quantity of cold boiled minced ham added. When ingredients are well mixed, press enough of this mixture into the cup-shaped whites of eggs to form a rounding top. Serve on a platter of parsley. To boil eggs uniformly, they should be placed in a wire basket and plunged into boiling water and boiled not longer than 15 to 20 minutes from time water commences to boil, then pour cold water over and shell them. EGGS IN CREAM SAUCE Four eggs, boiled hard, cut in halves lengthwise, then across, each egg cut in four pieces. A cream sauce was made using 1/2 cups sweet milk, 1-1/2 tablespoons flour, 1 generous tablespoon of butter, seasoned with salt. After letting milk come to a boil and adding flour mixed smoothly with a little cold milk or water, add butter and cook until a thick creamy consistency, then add the quartered eggs to sauce. Stand a few minutes until heated through. Pour the creamed eggs over four or five slices of nicely-toasted bread. Sprinkle a little finely-chopped parsley and a pinch of pepper over top and serve at once. This is a delicious and quickly prepared luncheon dish. A very wholesome and digestible way to prepare an egg is to put yolk and white of a fresh egg together in a bowl, beat lightly, pour over the egg a pint of rich milk, which has been heated to the boiling point. Add a pinch of salt. Stir constantly while slowly adding the milk. The hot milk should slightly cook the egg. Eat slowly with crackers or toasted bread. AUNT SARAH'S METHOD OF PRESERVING EGGS WITH LIQUID WATER GLASS Aunt Sarah for many years preserved eggs in water glass, or soluble glass, also known as "Sodium Silicate," a thick liquid about the consistency of molasses. It is not expensive and may easily be procured at any drug store. She used the water glass in the proportion of 10 quarts of water to one pint of the water glass. The water glass, although in liquid form, is usually sold by the pound, and 1-1/2 pounds equals one pint. The water should always he boiled and allowed to cool before combining with the water glass. She was particular to use none but perfectly clean, fresh eggs. She placed the eggs, narrow end down, in an earthenware crock which had been well scalded and cooled. When the water glass had been thoroughly mixed through the water she poured the mixture over the eggs in the crock. A stronger solution might be used to preserve the eggs, but Aunt Sarah declared she used eggs for baking cake which were good at the expiration of a year, which had been preserved in a mixture of 10 quarts of water to a pint of water glass, and she considered this proportion perfectly reliable. So I do not see the need of using a large quantity of the water glass, although many recipes call for a mixture of one pint of water glass to only 8 quarts of water. Fresh eggs may be added daily until the crock is filled, having the mixture at least one inch above the last layer of eggs. It is best not to wash the eggs before packing, as this removes the natural mucilaginous coating on the outside of the shell. Place clean, fresh eggs carefully into the crock containing the water glass and water, with a long-handled spoon to avoid cracking the shell. Stand the crock containing eggs in a cool place, cover with a cloth tied over top of crock, avoiding frequent change of temperature; they should keep one year. The water glass solution may become cloudy, and resemble a soft-soap mixture, but this is a natural condition and does not affect the eggs. April is considered the best month for packing eggs. Infertile eggs are to be preferred to others. Carefully remove the eggs from the water glass mixture with a long-handled spoon when wanted to use, as the shells are sometimes not quite as hard as when placed in the crock. The eggs may be used for cooking, baking, in fact, for any purpose except soft-boiled but should you wish to boil them, a tiny puncture should be made in the shell of these eggs before boiling. Ten quarts of water to one pint of water glass will cover about 12 or 13 dozen eggs. TO TEST FRESH EGGS. Place an egg in a tumbler, fill tumbler with cold water. If eggs are fresh they will remain in the bottom of tumbler. If not strictly fresh the egg will float on the top, or near the top of tumbler of water. SALADS--AUNT SARAH'S SALAD DRESSING For this she used 1 pint of sour cream, 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of flour, 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of mustard (pulverized dry mustard), 3 eggs, 1/4 cup butter (or 1/4 cup of olive oil may be used instead, if liked), 1/2 cup good sour vinegar, 1/2 teaspoonful of black pepper and a pinch of red pepper (cayenne), salt to taste, 1/2 teaspoonful of sugar. Place in a bowl the 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of flour with the same quantity of mustard; mix smoothly with a little of the sour cream. Then add the eggs, beaten in one at a time, or use, instead, the yolks of five eggs. When using the whites for angel cake or any white cake Aunt Sarah usually made salad dressing from the remaining yolks of eggs. Add the sour cream and vinegar, salt and pepper. Mix all well together and strain through a fine sieve and cook in a double boiler over hot water until a creamy consistency. Pour in glass jars. This dressing will keep well on ice or in a cool place for two weeks. If too thick, thin with a little vinegar, water or milk when using it. About 3/4 of a cup of this dressing was used for mixing with 1 cup of the meat of cold, cooked chicken in making chicken salad. The white meat of chicken was cut in dice and 3/4 cup of celery was also cut in small pieces, a couple of hard boiled eggs, cut in dice, were added and the whole was carefully mixed with the salad dressing. Cold boiled veal or pork may be used instead of chicken for salad. Potato salad was sometimes prepared by using a small quantity of this dressing, adding, also, minced onion, parsley and celery. Hot slaw was prepared by heating a couple of tablespoonfuls of the salad dressing and mixing with shredded cabbage. Or use as a dressing for lettuce when not served "Au Natural" with olive oil and vinegar at the table. Should very _thick_, sour cream be used in making "Aunt Sarah's salad dressing," use a mixture of sour cream and sweet milk, instead of all sour cream. "DUTCH" CUCUMBER SALAD Thinly slice one large green cucumber and one medium-sized onion (if liked). Sprinkle over about one teaspoonful of salt. Allow to stand a short time, then place in a piece of cheese-cloth and squeeze out all the moisture possible. Place cucumbers, when drained, in the dish in which they are to be served, add a couple tablespoonfuls of sour vinegar, mix well. Then pour over enough thick sour cream to half cover and a dust of pepper. Cucumbers are considered less unwholesome, prepared in this manner. CARROT SALAD Aunt Sarah pared and cut 1-1/2 cups of uncooked carrots in thin strips, not much larger than common match sticks, and cooked in salted water until tender. When drained, pour over them a couple of tablespoonfuls of vinegar. Allowed to stand until cold. When ready to prepare the salad she drained off vinegar remaining. Lined a salad bowl with lettuce leaves or parsley, placed inside this a border of halved or sliced cold hard-boiled eggs; mixed the carrots lightly with salad dressing, placed them in the centre of the bowl and served ice cold. This is a particularly delicious, as well as an appetizing looking, salad. I have never eaten this elsewhere than at Aunt Sarah's home. "AN OLD RECIPE" FOR CHICKEN SALAD Two dressed chickens were cooked tender. When cold, meat was removed from bones and cut in dice (not too fine). Cut half the amount of celery you have of meat into small pieces. Dressing for salad was composed of the following: Three well-beaten yolks of eggs. Pour over these 1 pint of boiling hot cider vinegar, stand on back of range to thicken. Place in a bowl 3 freshly boiled and finely mashed white potatoes, add 1 tablespoonful of dry mustard, 6 teaspoonfuls of olive oil, 1 tablespoonful of salt, 1 tablespoonful of pepper. Mix all well together, then add the thickened vinegar. Beat together until creamy and stand aside until chilled. Drop the three whites of eggs in hot water, remove when cooked, chop fine and when cold add to the chicken meat and celery. Pour the dressing over all the ingredients, stir lightly with a fork and stand in a cold place until chilled before serving. GERMAN POTATO SALAD Boil one dozen small potatoes without paring. Remove the skin and cut potatoes size of dice, also a small onion, finely minced. Put small pieces of bacon in a pan and fry brown and crisp. Add a large tablespoonful of vinegar and a pinch of salt. Pour the hot bacon fat and vinegar over the diced potatoes, toss them up lightly with a fork and serve hot. GERMAN TURNIP SALAD This is the manner in which Aunt Sarah made turnip salad: She pared and sliced thin on a slaw cutter 5 large, solid turnips, put them in a stew-pan which she placed on the range, adding about 1/4 cup hot water, 1 teaspoonful of butter and 1/4 teaspoonful of sugar (no more). She covered the stew-pan closely and steamed about half an hour until the turnips were tender. Then mixed together 1 teaspoonful of flour with 1 tablespoonful of vinegar and yolk of one egg. This was poured over the stewed turnips, just allowed to come to a boil, then removed from the fire. Add a little salt and serve hot. GERMAN SALAD DRESSING For dandelion, watercress, endive or lettuce, a dressing was made thus: The leaves of vegetables used for salad, after being carefully rinsed and looked over, were cut fine, and the following dressing poured over hot and served at once. A small quantity of bacon was finely minced and fried crisp. To about 2 tablespoonfuls of bacon and fat after being fried, 3 tablespoonfuls of vinegar and 1 of sour cream, were added pepper and salt and a very little flour mixed with cold water, to make it the consistency of cream. The yolk of one raw egg may be added to the dressing if liked. An easier way for the busy housewife to do is to simply add a couple of tablespoonfuls of Aunt Sarah's Salad Dressing, add also a small quantity of water, flour and fried, diced bacon; serve hot at once. MARY'S POTATO SALAD A bowl of cold, boiled, diced or thinly-sliced potatoes, three hard boiled eggs, also diced, and about half the quantity of celery chopped in half-inch pieces, and a little minced onion, just enough to give a suspicion of its presence. She mixed all together lightly with a silver fork and mixed through some of the following salad dressing, which is fine for anything requiring a cold salad dressing. MARY'S SALAD DRESSING One tablespoonful of flour, 1 tablespoonful of mustard, 2 cups of sweet or sour cream, 1 tablespoonful of sugar, 1/2 cup of good sharp vinegar, yolks of four eggs, small teaspoonful of salt. Omit sugar when using the dressing for potato or chicken salad. This salad dressing may also be used for lettuce. "FRUIT" SALAD DRESSING Three tablespoonfuls of olive oil to 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of vinegar. Season with salt and pepper. Use this quantity for 1 pint of salad. GRAPE FRUIT SALAD Cut the pulp from one grape fruit into small pieces, add an equal amount of chopped apples, a few English walnuts chopped coarsely. Serve on lettuce leaves with fruit salad dressing. This recipe was given Mary by a friend who knew her liking for olive oil. Grape fruit is delicious, served cut in halves with the addition to each half; of a couple tablespoonfuls of pineapple juice, a tablespoonful of orange juice or tiny pieces of orange pulp, topped with a marachino cherry. A small quantity of sugar should have been added. The sections of grape fruit should each have been cut loose from the white skin inclosing pulp with a small knife or scissors. A GOOD, INEXPENSIVE SALAD DRESSING 1 tablespoonful flour. 1 tablespoonful butter. 1 tablespoonful mustard. 1/2 tablespoonful sugar. 1 teaspoonful salt. 1 egg. 3/4 cup milk. 3/4 cup vinegar. Use a double boiler, put in it the first five articles, stir together until smooth; add the well-beaten egg and the milk. Let cook, stirring hard. Then add vinegar, and beat all with an egg-beater until the mixture is smooth and creamy. Let cool before using. Aunt Sarah frequently used this salad dressing over sliced, cold, hard boiled eggs when other salad materials were not plentiful. Serve on lettuce leaves. IMITATION LOBSTER SALAD A bowl was lined with crisp lettuce leaves, over this was spread a layer of cold boiled potatoes, cut in dice, a little finely minced onion, a layer of chopped celery, another layer of diced potatoes, then a layer of sliced tomatoes and one hard boiled egg, thinly sliced. Pour a good salad dressing over and serve ice cold. "GERMAN" HORSERADISH SAUCE A sauce to serve with boiled meat was prepared by Aunt Sarah in the following manner: She put half a cup of milk in a stew-pan, let come to a boil, added one large tablespoonful of cracker crumbs, 1 large teaspoonful of butter, 2 large tablespoonfuls of freshly grated horseradish, seasoned with pepper and salt. Also a pinch of salt, sugar and pepper added to grated horseradish, then thinned with vinegar, is an excellent accompaniment to cold meat. MAYONNAISE DRESSING IN WHICH OLIVE OIL IS USED Before making this dressing for salads, Mary placed a large soup plate or a shallow bowl in the refrigerator, also a bottle of olive oil and two egg yolks. All should be quite cold. Put the yolks on the cold plate, add 1/4 teaspoonful of salt, the same of mustard. Mix well and then, with a fork, stir or blend the olive oil into it drop by drop. After about 1/2 cup of oil has been blended in, add lemon juice, a drop or two at a time. Then more oil, and when it becomes very thick add more lemon juice. A pint or even more oil may, with care, be blended into two yolks. Care must be taken not to mix oil in too fast, or the egg and oil will separate, making a mixture resembling curdled custard. If this should happen, take another plate, another egg yolk, and begin over again, blending a drop or two at a time in the curdled mixture. Then add more oil and lemon juice as before. MUSTARD DRESSING TO SERVE WITH SLICED TOMATOES Two tablespoonfuls mustard, 1 tablespoonful of sugar, 1/2 cup cream, 1 tablespoon salt, yolks of two eggs and 1/2 cup of vinegar. Beat all well together, first mixing the mustard until smooth with a small quantity of cream, then add the other ingredients. (Mary used only 1 tablespoonful of mustard, and substituted 1 tablespoonful of flour instead of the second tablespoonful of mustard and thought it improved the dressing.) This mustard dressing may also be served at table, to be eaten with lettuce. CHICKEN SALAD The meat of one boiled chicken cut in small pieces, three-fourths as much celery, also cut in small pieces. Three hard boiled eggs cut in dice. Take 2 teaspoonfuls salt, 2 teaspoonfuls pepper, 4 teaspoonfuls mustard, 1 cup of sweet cream and 1 raw egg. Use vinegar to thin the mustard. Beat the raw egg, add to cream, egg and butter (mash yolks of hard boiled eggs and butter together). Mix all the ingredients together and cook until it thickens (all except chicken meat, celery and hard boiled whites of eggs, which should be placed in a large bowl after cutting in small pieces). The salad dressing should he put in another bowl and stood on ice until cold, then mix the salad dressing carefully through the chicken meat, celery, etc., one hour before using. Cover with a plate until ready to serve. Or "Aunt Sarah's Salad Dressing" could be used over the chicken, celery, etc. This is a very old but an excellent recipe used by Aunt Sarah's mother for many years. PEPPER HASH Chop fine with a knife, but do not shred with a slaw cutter, 1 pint of finely chopped cabbage, adding 1 teaspoonful of salt, 2 teaspoonfuls of sugar, 1 teaspoonful of whole mustard seed, 1/2 a chopped red, sweet pepper, a pinch of red cayenne pepper and 1/2 pint of vinegar. Mix all well together and serve with fried oysters, oyster stew and deviled oysters. This "pepper hash" is delicious if a couple tablespoonfuls of thick cream be added just before serving. Should very sour cider vinegar be used in this recipe, the housewife will, of course, dilute it with water. GERMAN BEAN SALAD Use small green or yellow string-beans, which snap when broken, called by some "snap beans." String them carefully. (If quite small and tender this should not be necessary.) Rub well with the hands through several waters. This removes the strong bean taste. Have your kettle half filled with boiling water on the range over a brisk fire. Put a tablespoon of butter in the water, add beans by handfuls until all are in and cook until tender. Turn the beans in a colander to drain. When cool add a chopped onion, salt and pour enough good vinegar over to cover, and allow to stand two days, when strain vinegar from beans. Boil vinegar, add water if vinegar is quite sour and pour hot over the beans. Fill quart glass jars with the beans and pour vinegar over, within an inch of top of jar; pour pure olive oil over top of beans, screw on jar covers tightly and stand in a cool place until wanted to use. In the winter, when fresh salads were scarce, Aunt Sarah opened a can of these beans. If they were very sour she poured cold water over, allowed to stand an hour, drained and added a little fresh olive oil. Every one called her "bean salat," as the Pennsylvania Germans call it, delicious. The instructions regarding the preparing and cooking of string beans for salad will answer for beans used as a vegetable, omitting vinegar, of course. There is a great difference in the manner of cooking vegetables. Aunt Sarah always added an onion and a sprig of parsley when cooking beans to serve as a vegetable. MEAT SALADS To quote from the _Farmers' Bulletin_: "Whether meat salads are economical or not depends upon the way in which the materials are utilized. If in chicken salad, for example, only the white meat of chicken, especially bought for the purpose, and only the expensive inside stems of expensive celery are used, it can hardly be cheaper than plain chicken. But, if portions of meat left over from a previous serving are mixed with celery grown at home, they certainly make an economical dish, and one very acceptable to most persons. Cold roast pork or tender veal, in fact, any white meat, can be utilized in the same way. Apples cut into cubes may be substituted for part of the celery. Many cooks consider that with the apple the salad takes the dressing better than with the celery alone. Many also prefer to marinate (_i.e._, mix with a little oil and vinegar) the meat and celery or celery and apples before putting on the final dressing, which may be either mayonnaise or a good boiled dressing." Celery should not be allowed to stand in water. To keep fresh until used it should be wrapped in a piece of damp cheese-cloth and placed in an ice box or cool cellar. Lettuce should be broken apart, carefully rinsed, and put loosely in a piece of damp cheese-cloth and placed on ice to crisp before using. BEVERAGES--COFFEE Scald coffee pot well before using (never use metal). Place in it five tablespoons ground coffee. (A good coffee is made from a mixture of two-thirds Java to one-third Mocha.) Beat up with the ground coffee one whole egg. Should the housewife deem this extravagant, use only the white of one egg, or peel off the white skin lining inside of egg shells and use. Add three tablespoons cold water and mix well together. Stand on range to heat; when hot add one quart of _freshly-boiled_ hot water. Allow coffee to boil to top of coffee pot three times (about eight minutes), pour over one tablespoon cold water to settle. Stand a few minutes where it will keep hot, not boil. Place a generous tablespoon of sweet thick cream in each cup and pour coffee through a strainer over it. Always serve hot. A larger or smaller amount of coffee may be used, as different brands of coffee vary in strength and individual tastes differ, but five tablespoons of coffee, not too coarsely ground and not pulverized, to one quart of water, will be the correct proportions for good coffee. Use cream and you will have a delicious, rich, brown beverage not possible when milk is used. Better coffee may be made if whole grains of roasted coffee be bought, reheated in oven and freshly ground whenever used, rather finely ground but not pulverized. Coffee, when ground for any length of time, loses strength. If coffee is ground when purchased, always keep it in closely covered cans until used. Or buy green coffee berries and roast them in oven; when coffee has been roasted, stir one whole raw egg through the coffee berries; when dry, place in covered cans, then no egg will be needed when preparing coffee. As a substitute for cream, use yolk of fresh egg mixed with a couple tablespoonfuls of milk. COCOA Mix four tablespoonfuls of cocoa to a smooth paste with one cup of boiling water. Add one more cup boiling water and boil fifteen or twenty minutes. Add four tablespoonfuls of sugar, then add 4 cups of hot boiled milk. A few drops of essence of vanilla improves the flavor. Add a couple tablespoonfuls whipped cream on top of each cup when serving, or, instead of cream, place a marshmallow in each cup before pouring in cocoa. This quantity is for six cups of cocoa. CHOCOLATE One square of Baker's unsweetened chocolate shaved thinly or grated, mixed to a smooth paste with 1 cup of boiling water. Boil from fifteen to twenty minutes. Add 1 cup of boiling milk and 2 even tablespoonfuls of sugar. Flavor with a few drops of vanilla, if liked, and add whipped cream to each cup when serving. This is for 2 cups of chocolate. BOILED WATER It sometimes becomes necessary to boil drinking water, which usually has a flat, insipid taste. Do young housewives know it is said that after water has been boiled and when quite cool if a bottle be half filled and shaken well the water will become aerated, and have the taste of fresh spring water? TEA To make tea always scald the teapot, which should be agate, earthenware or china, never metal. Always use water that has been _freshly_ boiled, and use it boiling hot. Never, under any circumstances, boil tea, as tannin is then extracted from the leaves, and the tea will have a bitter taste. Do not allow tea to stand any length of time unless strained from tea leaves. Use one teaspoon of tea for each cup, unless liked stronger, when add one extra teaspoon to each three cups of tea. Some contend that tea is better, if at first a small quantity of boiling water is poured over the leaves, allowing it to steep three minutes--then pour over the remaining quantity of boiling water and let stand about four minutes, when it is ready to serve with cream and sugar, if liked. Should any tea remain after serving do not throw away, but strain at once from tea leaves and when cool place in a glass jar in refrigerator to be used as iced tea. ICED TEA For two quarts of delicious iced tea, place in an agate teapot one generous tablespoon of good tea (never buy a cheap, inferior grade of tea). Pour over the tea leaves one quart of freshly boiled, scalding hot water; let stand five minutes, keep hot (not boil), strain from the leaves into a pitcher, then pour over the tea leaves another quart of hot water, allow it to stand a few minutes, then strain as before. Add the juice of one lemon and sugar to taste. When cooled stand on ice and add chipped ice to tumblers when serving. PUDDINGS To boil a pudding in a bag, dip the bag, which should be made of thick cotton or linen, in hot water, dredge the inside well with flour before putting batter into the bag. When the pudding has boiled a long enough time, dip the bag quickly in cold water, and the pudding will turn out easily. Allow five large eggs to 1 quart of milk usually to make custard solid enough to keep its shape when turned from the mold. One teaspoonful of extract will flavor one quart. Always stand individual cups in a pan partly filled with hot water. Place pan containing custard cups in a moderate oven and bake slowly forty minutes. Always sift flour over beef suet when chopping it to be used in puddings. Pour boiling water over Pecans (nuts), allow to stand several hours. When cracked, the shell may be easily removed, leaving the nuts whole. Blanch almonds by pouring boiling water over them. Allow them to stand a short time, when the brown skin may be easily removed. Dry thoroughly by standing in a rather cool oven, then put in glass jars and they are ready to use. Almonds are used particularly by the Germans in various ways. One hausfrau adds chopped almonds to cooked oatmeal for her children's breakfast and they are frequently used as an ingredient; also to decorate the tops of raised cakes. When dried currants and raisins are bought by the frugal housewife they are quickly washed in cold water, carefully picked over, then turned on to a sieve to drain. Raisins are seeded, then spread over pans, placed in a warm oven about 15 minutes, then spread on a plate and allowed to stand in a dry place for several days. When thoroughly dried place in glass jars and stand aside until required. Currants or raisins should always be well floured before adding to cake or pudding. The "German hausfrau" usually serves stewed prunes or raisins with a dish of noodles or macaroni. RICE PUDDING One of the simplest and cheapest of desserts depends partly on the quality of the ingredients used, but chiefly on the manner of making for its excellence. If prepared according to directions, you will have a pudding both rich and creamy. Use 1 quart of good sweet milk (do not use either skimmed milk or water), 3 tablespoonfuls of whole uncoated rice (no more), 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of sugar, pinch of salt, vanilla or almond flavoring. Wash the rice well, mix all together in a pudding dish, bake from 2-1/2 to 3 hours in an oven with a slow, even heat. When a skin forms on the top of the pudding, carefully stir through the rice. Do this frequently. This gives the pudding a rich, creamy consistency. When grains of rice are tender allow pudding to brown over top and serve either hot or cold. Raisins may be added, if liked, or raisins may be stewed separately and served with the rice, which many think a great improvement to the pudding. Many think rice pudding should always be flavored with grated nutmeg. Aunt Sarah, while using nutmeg flavoring in various other dishes, never used it for her rice pudding. When mixing a boiled pudding Aunt Sarah frequently substituted a large tablespoon of fine dried bread crumbs instead of the same amount of flour. She said, "'Twas a small economy," and, she thought, "the pudding's improved" by the use of bread crumbs. FRAU SCHMIDT'S APPLE DUMPLINGS Prepare a syrup of 1 cup sugar, 2 cups of hot water and 1 tablespoon of butter. Pour all into an agate pudding dish. Add to this syrup 2 heaping cups of pared, sliced sour apples. Let all come to a boil. For the dumplings, sift together one cup of flour and two even teaspoons of baking powder. Add a pinch of salt. Mix into a soft dough or batter with about 3/4 cup of sweet milk or cream. Drop six or eight spoonfuls of this batter into the boiling syrup on top of apples. Cover closely and cook on top of range twenty minutes without uncovering. Serve hot. These dumplings should be light as puff balls. Peaches may be substituted for apples and are delicious. CARAMEL CUSTARD (AS MARY PREPARED IT) 1 pint of milk. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup granulated sugar. Melt 1/2 cup of sugar in an iron pan on stove and allow it to brown. Add a part of the hot milk, stirring constantly until brown sugar is dissolved. Add balance of the pint of hot milk. Stir all together, then stand aside to cool. When cold, add eggs and bake in oven in custard cups. Stand cups in hot water while baking. AUNT SARAH'S BREAD PUDDING Pour 1 quart of boiling milk over 1-1/2 pints of soft bread crumbs. Put the mixture into a buttered pudding dish with 1 teaspoonful salt. Cover closely with a plate and let stand about half an hour. At the end of that time beat into it three eggs, 1 teaspoonful lemon extract, and beat until perfectly smooth. Bake in a moderately hot oven three-quarters of an hour. Serve with the following sauce: 6 tablespoonfuls pulverized sugar, 2 tablespoonfuls butter, 1 tablespoonful lemon juice. Beat all together to a cream; when it is ready to serve. No sugar is needed in this pudding if this sweet sauce is used. STEAMED BREAD PUDDING Place 1 cup of fine dried bread crumbs in a bowl. Pour over the crumbs 2 cups of milk and allow to stand a short time. Beat together 2 eggs and scant 1/2 cup sugar, add 1 tablespoon of butter. Mix all the ingredients together thoroughly; then add 1/2 cup of chopped raisins, which have been seeded and floured. Pour the batter in the well-buttered top part of a double boiler over hot water. Steam about 2-1/2 to 3 hours. Serve hot with sauce used for cottage pudding, or serve with sugar and cream. AN ECONOMICAL BREAD AND APPLE PUDDING Into a well-buttered pudding dish put a layer of sliced sour apples. On the top of these a layer of stale bread crumbs with small bits of butter and sugar sprinkled over them, more sliced apples and bread crumbs, having the crumbs for the top layer. To about three apples use 1 cup of bread crumbs, 1/2 cup sugar, piece of butter size of walnut and bake in oven until apples are tender. Serve with cream. CUP CUSTARDS 1 quart of sweet milk. 5 large eggs. 3 tablespoons sugar. Grated nutmeg or vanilla flavoring. Scald milk. Beat whites of eggs separately. Add milk when cooled to the beaten yolks. Add sugar and flavoring. Stir in stiffly beaten whites of eggs, pour into custard cups, stand them in a dripping pan half filled with boiling water. Stand the pan in a moderate oven about twenty minutes, or until custard is "set." This quantity fills about eight small custard cups. The water surrounding the custard cups should not be allowed to boil, but the custard should cook slowly. Grate nutmeg thickly over top of each custard before placing in the oven. Scalding the milk before using improves the custard. FRAU SCHMIDT'S GRAHAM PUDDING Sift into a bowl 1/4 cup of pastry flour and 1 teaspoonful of baking powder. Add 1 cup Graham flour, pinch of salt and 1/2 cup granulated sugar. Mix all thoroughly, then add 1/2 cup of finely chopped kidney suet. Add 1 cup of seedless raisins mixed with one extra tablespoonful of white flour. Mix into a batter with 1 cup of sweet milk, to which add yolk of one egg. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of egg. Flavor with either a little grated nutmeg or essence of vanilla. Make a strong, unbleached muslin bag 7 by 12 inches. Pour the batter into the bag, which had been previously dipped in cold water, the inside of the bag sifted over with flour, and tie bag at top with a string, allowing room for the pudding to swell. Place the bag in the perforated compartment of a steamer, over boiling water, and boil continuously 1-1/2 hours, or longer, without removing lid of steamer oftener than absolutely necessary. Serve Graham Pudding hot with sauce used for "cottage pudding," or serve simply with sugar and cream, or a sauce may be served composed of 1/2 cup of pulverized sugar, creamed with 1/4 cup of butter. Add 1 tablespoonful of lemon juice or flavor with vanilla. Stand sauce in a cool place a short time and serve cold on hot pudding. SPONGE BREAD PUDDING Place 1-3/4 cups of soft stale (either white or graham) bread crumbs in a pudding dish. Pour 2 cups of hot milk over the crumbs, cover with a plate and allow it to stand about thirty minutes, then add yolks of 2 eggs, 1/2 teaspoonful of salt, 1 tablespoonful of sugar and grated yellow rind of orange or lemon for flavoring. Beat the mixture until perfectly smooth, add the stiffly beaten whites of two eggs. Bake in a moderately hot oven. Serve hot with the following sauce: SAUCE. Three large tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and 1 tablespoonful of butter were beaten together until smooth and creamy, 1 teaspoonful of lemon juice was added. The sauce, when quite cold, was served with the warm pudding. AUNT SARAH'S COTTAGE PUDDING Cream together 1 cup of sugar, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, 1 egg, white beaten separately, and added last, 1 cup of sweet milk, pinch of salt, 2 cups of flour, sifted with 2 heaping teaspoonfuls of Royal baking powder, 1/2 cup of dried currants, well floured. Add stiffly beaten white of egg. Bake in a small oblong bread pan. SAUCE. One cup of milk, 1/2 cup of water, 1 large teaspoonful of butter, a scant tablespoonful of flour moistened with a small quantity of water, before adding. Sweeten to taste, add 1/2 teaspoonful of grated nutmeg. Cook all together a few minutes, allow the mixture to partly cool, then stir in the yolk of one egg; stand on stove to heat, but not to cook. Serve hot over freshly baked, warm cottage pudding, cut in squares. APPLE "STRUDEL" Aunt Sarah pared and quartered six medium-sized tart apples, placed in the bottom of an agate pudding dish, poured over them one cup of hot water and 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar. She allowed this to stand on the range and cook while she mixed the following dough. Into a bowl she sifted 1 pint of flour with 2 teaspoons baking powder, one teaspoonful of sugar, a little salt. Cut 1 tablespoonful of butter through the flour. Lightly mixed all together into a soft dough with about 3/4 cup sweet milk. Should she have a left-over yolk of egg, that was added to the milk. She rolled dough out lightly on the bread board, cut vents in the crust to allow steam to escape and spread it over the top of the dish containing the hot apples; placed in a hot oven to bake until light brown on top. Serve with sugar and cream. Aunt Sarah called this "Apple Strudel," but the German recipe for "Apple Strudel," handed down by her Grandmother, was quite different. An ordinary noodle dough was made, placed on a clean cloth on the table and rolled as thin as tissue paper. Small bits of butter were scattered over this, covered with tart apples, thinly sliced, sprinkled with cinnamon, sugar and chopped raisins, rolled up and baked in the oven until brown on top, basting frequently with a thin syrup composed of sugar, butter and water. "LEMON MERINGUE" PUDDING 1 pint of milk. 1/2 cup of sugar 1 cup bread crumbs. Juice and grated rind of one lemon. 2 eggs. 1/3 cup of butter. 3 tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar used for top. Soak the bread crumbs in milk. Beat the butter and sugar together. Add yolks of eggs, soaked bread crumbs and grated lemon rind and about 3/4 of the juice of the lemon. Bake in a buttered pudding dish until firm, then cover the pudding with a meringue composed of the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, 3 tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and the remaining lemon juice. Place in oven to brown. Stand on ice; serve cold. SUET PUDDING 1 cup suet, chopped fine. 1 cup sugar. 1 cup sweet milk. 2 eggs. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. 1 cup raisins. 1 cup currants. 3 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Steam 2-1/2 hours, then place in oven two or three minutes. This quantity will partly fill three empty 1-pound baking powder cans; allowing room to swell. These puddings are equally as good as when freshly prepared if placed in a steamer a short time before serving until heated through. SAUCE FOR SUET PUDDING. One cup of pulverized sugar and 1 large tablespoonful of butter creamed together. One teaspoonful of vanilla. Add one whole egg or the yolks of two eggs, or the whites of two eggs, whichever you happen to have. STEAMED FRUIT PUDDING 1 cup sweet milk. 1 cup chopped suet. 1 cup molasses. 1 cup raisins. 1 teaspoonful soda dissolved in a little water. 1 teaspoonful salt. SAUCE FOR PUDDING. A small quantity of cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and a _very little_ clove. Flour to make a batter a little thicker than that of ordinary cake. Steam about 3 hours. This pudding is also inexpensive and equally as good as the former recipe. Beat 1 egg very light, add 1 cup brown sugar, 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Beat all together until creamy. Serve at once. CORNMEAL PUDDING Scald 1 quart of sweet milk. While hot stir in 3 tablespoonfuls of cornmeal, 3 tablespoonfuls of flour mixed smooth with a little cold milk. Add 1 tablespoonful of butter. Let cool. Then add to the mixture 1/2 cup sugar, 1/4 cup molasses, 1 well-beaten egg, 1/2 teaspoonful of ginger, 1/2 teaspoonful cinnamon, 1/4 pint cold milk, a small pinch of soda and 1/2 cup of floured, seeded raisins. Bake 2 hours in a moderate oven. Serve with sugar and cream. HUCKLEBERRY PUDDING Two eggs and 1 small cup of granulated sugar creamed together. Four tablespoonfuls of cold water. Add 1 cup of sifted flour containing 1 teaspoonful of baking powder, and 1 cup of huckleberries, pitted cherries, or raisins and bake. Serve with milk or any sauce liked. This recipe was given Mary by a friend, who called it her emergency pudding, as it may be easily and quickly prepared from canned sour cherries from which liquid has been drained, or any tart fruit, when fresh fruit is not in season. TAPIOCA CUSTARD Four tablespoonfuls of pearl tapioca soaked in cold water over night. The next morning drain the tapioca, boil 1 quart of sweet milk, beat the yolks of 4 eggs light, stir them into the tapioca, adding 4 tablespoonfuls of sugar. Beat all together and gradually add the hot milk. Return to the fire and stir until it commences to boil. Take from the range and pour in a glass dish. Flavor with 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. Whip the whites of the eggs to a standing froth and stir into the cooling pudding When cold stand on ice until ready to serve. One-half cup of shredded cocoanut may be added if liked. DELICIOUS BAKED PEACH PUDDING For the dough place in a bowl 1 pint of flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of Royal baking powder and a pinch of salt. Cut through this a scant 1/2 cup of butter. Mix this with sufficient sweet milk to make a soft dough. Roll out dough half an inch thick, cut in strips and in case whole, ripe, pared peaches, leaving top and bottom of the peach exposed. Or solid canned peaches may be used. Put two halves of peach together and place a strip of dough around the peach. Pinch dough well together, place in a bake dish. Prepare a syrup of 2 cups of sugar and 1 cup of water. Let come to a boil, pour around the dumplings and bake a half hour in a moderately hot oven. These are delicious. The recipe was given Mary by a friend who was an excellent cook. From this dough may also be baked excellent biscuits. CARAMEL CUSTARD Place 1 pint of milk on the range in a double boiler. Melt half a cup of sugar in an iron pan over the fire until a golden brown. When melted add four tablespoonfuls of boiling water. Allow mixture to cook one minute, then add it to the milk. Remove from the fire and add 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. When cool stir in 4 well-beaten eggs with 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar. Pour the mixture in a small pudding dish. Stand in a pan of boiling water, place in oven to bake until a jelly-like consistency. When cooled serve plain or with whipped cream. "AUNT SARAH'S" RHUBARB PUDDING Remove skin from stalks of rhubarb, wash and cut into half-inch pieces a sufficient quantity to half fill a medium-sized agate or earthenware pudding dish. Place in a stew-pan on range, cook slowly with a couple tablespoons of sugar and a very small amount of water. Sift together in a bowl 1 pint of flour, 1-1/2 teaspoons of baking powder and a pinch of salt. With a knife cut through the flour 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, moisten with one beaten egg and sufficient milk added to make a soft dough or batter. Drop tablespoons of this thick batter over top of dish containing hot stewed rhubarb. Place at once in a hot oven, bake quickly until crust is a light brown. Serve on individual dishes, placing over each a couple tablespoonfuls of the following sauce. The combined flavor of rhubarb and vanilla is delicious. VANILLA SAUCE FOR RHUBARB PUDDING. Beat 1 egg very light, add 1 cup of light brown sugar and 1 teaspoon of vanilla flavoring. Beat all together until foamy. Serve at once, cold, on the hot pudding. RICE CUSTARD Add 1 cup of cold boiled rice to 2 cups of sweet milk, mix together slowly. Add 1/4 cup sugar, the well-beaten yolks of 2 eggs, let all cook together a few minutes. Remove custard from the fire and pour over the stiffly-beaten whites of two eggs. Beat well with an egg-beater. Place in a glass dish and serve cold. MARY'S CUP PUDDING (FROM STALE BREAD) One quart of finely _crumbled stale bread_ (not dried crumbs). Fill buttered cups two-thirds full of crumbs and pour over the following custard, composed of one pint of milk and three eggs. Allow to stand a few minutes, then place the cups in a pan partly filled with hot water, place the pan in a moderately hot oven and bake thirty minutes. No sugar is required in this pudding if the following sweet sauce be served with it: SAUCE FOR PUDDING. Mix one tablespoonful of cornstarch with a half cup of sugar. Pour over one cup of boiling water, add one generous teaspoonful of butter. Cook all together until clear, take from the fire and add one well-beaten egg and one teaspoonful of vanilla. Serve hot. "BUCKWHEAT MINUTE" PUDDING Pour three cups of milk in a stew-pan, place on range and let come to a boil. Then stir slowly into the boiling milk 1-1/4 cups of buckwheat flour and 1/4 teaspoonful of salt. Keep stirring constantly until a thick mush. Serve at once with sugar and cream. I have never eaten this pudding anywhere except in "Bucks County." It is cheap, quickly and easily prepared and well liked by many country folk in Bucks County. PEACH TAPIOCA One cup of tapioca soaked in 1 quart of cold water several hours. Place in stew-pan, set on stove and cook until clear. Add sugar to taste and 1 pint can of peaches. Boil two or three minutes, remove from range and pour into the dish in which it is to be served. Stand aside to cool. AUNT SARAH'S PLAIN BOILED PUDDING One cup of beef suet chopped fine or run through a food-chopper, 1/2 cup sour milk, 1 egg, 1 teaspoonful soda, pinch of salt. 1/2 cup sugar, 1 teaspoonful cinnamon, 1 cup raisins, seeded and floured. Flour enough to make as stiff as ordinary cake batter. Boil or steam in a muslin bag three hours. This is a very inexpensive and good pudding. Dust a small quantity of flour over suet before chopping. Serve with the following sauce: PUDDING SAUCE. One large tablespoonful of butter, 1 teacup water, 1/2 teacup milk, scant tablespoonful of flour, grated nutmeg to flavor. Sweeten to taste, add a pinch of salt. Cook and let cool. Beat up yolk of egg, add to sauce, stand on back of stove to heat, not cook. Serve hot over the pudding. APPLE TAPIOCA Pour 1 pint of cold water over 1/2 cup tapioca. Allow to stand until the following morning, when cook until clean. Slice 6 tart apples. Place in bottom of pudding dish, strew sugar over, then pour over the tapioca; place over this a layer of thinly sliced apples over which dust sugar. Place in oven and bake until the apples are cooked. Serve with sugar and cream. Several thin slices of lemon added before baking impart a fine flavor. STEAMED WALNUT PUDDING Place in a bowl 1/2 cup butter and 1 cup of granulated sugar. Beat to a cream. Add yolks of 2 eggs and 1/2 cup of syrup molasses or maple syrup, in which had been dissolved 1 teaspoonful baking soda. Then add 1 cup sweet milk, alternately, with about 3-1/2 cups flour, 1/2 cup of walnut meats, run through food-chopper or crushed with rolling pin, 3/4 cup of seeded raisins, 1/2 teaspoonful ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoonful grated nutmeg, 1/4 teaspoonful ground cloves, a pinch of salt and the stiffly beaten whites of the two eggs. The batter should be placed in two empty one-pound tin coffee cans, about two-thirds full, covered tightly with lid and placed in a pot of boiling water which should be kept boiling constantly for three hours; when steamed the pudding should almost fill the cans. If the cans were well buttered and flour sifted over, the pudding when steamed may be easily removed to a platter. Slice and serve hot with the following sauce: Beat one cup of pulverized sugar to a cream with 2 heaping tablespoonfuls of butter. Add white of one egg (unbeaten). Beat all together until creamy. Add 3/4 of a teaspoonful of lemon extract and stand sauce in a cold place or on ice one hour before serving on slices of hot pudding. This is a delicious pudding. "CORNMEAL SPONGE" PUDDING Crumble cold corn muffins, or corn cake, a quantity sufficient to fill two cups. Soak in 1 quart of sweet milk three or four hours, then add 3 well-beaten eggs, 3 tablespoonfuls of sugar and a pinch of salt. Beat all well together. Place in a pan and bake 1 hour in a moderately hot oven. Serve hot with whipped cream and sugar or with a sauce made by beating to a cream a heaping tablespoonful of butter, 1 cup of granulated sugar, 1 egg and a very little vanilla flavoring. MARY'S CORN STARCH PUDDING 1-1/2 quarts of milk. 5 eggs. 2 heaping tablespoonfuls of corn starch. 1 scant cup of sugar. 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. Pour milk in a double boiler and place on range to cook. Moisten cornstarch with a little cold milk and add to remainder of the milk when boiling hot. Stir thoroughly, then beat yolk of eggs and sugar until light, stir in stiffly beaten whites and when all are mixed stir into the scalding milk. Let come to a boil again and add vanilla or almond flavoring. Pour into individual molds to cool. Serve cold with a spoonful of jelly or preserved strawberry with each serving. APPLE JOHNNY CAKE (SERVED AS A PUDDING) This is a good, cheap, wholesome pudding. 1 cup corn meal. 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar. 1 teaspoonful of soda. 1 tablespoonful of melted butter. 1/4 teaspoonful of salt. 2/3 cup flour. 1 cup sour milk. Mix batter together as you would for cake, then add 4 pared, thinly sliced, tart apples to the batter. Stir all together. Bake in a quick oven in a bread pan and serve hot with cold cream and sugar. Raisins may be substituted for apples if preferred. A GOOD AND CHEAP "TAPIOCA PUDDING" Soak over night in cold water 3 even tablespoonfuls of pearl tapioca. In the morning add tapioca to one quart of milk, 3 tablespoonfuls of sugar, a pinch of salt. Grate nutmeg over top. Bake in a moderate oven about three hours, stirring occasionally. "GOTTERSPEISE" Partly fill an earthenware pudding dish with pieces of sponge cake or small cakes called "Lady Fingers;" cut up with them a few macaroons. Place one pint of wine over fire to heat, add to the wine the following mixture, composed of 1 spoonful of cornstarch mixed smooth with a little water, 3 yolks of eggs and 3 spoonfuls of sugar. Mix all together and stir until thickened. Pour the thickened mixture over the cake. When cooled cover with the stiffly-beaten whites of the 3 eggs, spread sliced almonds thickly over top and brown in oven a few minutes. Serve cold. SPANISH CREAM Half a box of Knox gelatine, 1 quart of milk, 4 eggs. Put gelatine in milk, let stand 1 hour to dissolve. Set over fire to boil, then add beaten yolks of eggs with 1 cup granulated sugar. Remove from fire while adding this. Stir well. Return to range and let boil. Stand aside to cool. Beat whites of eggs to a froth and beat into custard when cooled. Pour into a glass dish in which it is to be served. Stand in a cold place and serve with cream. GRAHAM PUDDING One cup of molasses, 1 egg, 1 cup sweet milk, 1/2 teaspoonful soda, 1 teaspoonful of salt, 1 tablespoonful brown sugar, 1 cup raisins, 2-1/2 cups Graham flour. Mix all ingredients together. Steam three hours. "PENNSYLVANIA" PLUM PUDDING (FOR THANKSGIVING DAY) One cup milk, 2 eggs, 1 cup molasses, 1/2 teaspoonful nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoonful salt, 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder, 1 cup bread crumbs, 1/2 cup corn meal, 1 cup chopped beef suet, 1/4 cup finely minced citron, 1 cup seeded raisins, 1/2 cup currants. Flour to make a stiff batter. Steam fully three hours, turn from the mold, strew chopped almonds over top. Serve pudding hot with sauce for which recipe is given. Aunt Sarah invariably served this pudding on Thanksgiving Day, and all preferred it to old-fashioned "English Plum Pudding." SAUCE FOR PUDDING. Cream together 1 cup of pulverized sugar, scant 1/2 cup of butter, beat whites of 2 eggs in, one at a time, and one teaspoonful of lemon flavoring; stand on ice a short time before serving. Serve sauce very cold. "SLICE" BREAD PUDDING Line the sides of a pudding dish holding two quarts with seven slices of stale bread from which crust had been removed. Beat together 3 eggs, 3 tablespoonfuls of sugar and 3 cups of sweet milk (and add the juice and grated rind of one lemon, or half a grated nutmeg). Pour in the centre of pudding dish. With a spoon dip some of the custard over each slice of bread. Bake about 30 minutes and serve hot with the following sauce: One cup of water, 1/2 cup milk, 1 teaspoonful butter, scant tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little water before adding it. Sweeten to taste, add grated nutmeg or vanilla to flavor. Cook all together, then add the yolk of one egg. Place on stove a minute to heat. Add a pinch of salt. Serve hot over the pudding in individual dishes. CEREALS--OATMEAL PORRIDGE Oatmeal to be palatable and wholesome should be thoroughly cooked, that is, steamed over a hot fire two hours or longer. Use a double boiler of agateware. Place in the upper half of the boiler about 5 cups of water and stand directly over the hottest part of the range. When the water boils furiously, and is full of little bubbles (not before), stir into the boiling water about 2 cups of oatmeal (if porridge is liked rather thick), and about 1 teaspoonful of salt. (Tastes differ regarding the thickness of porridge.) Let stand directly on the front of the range, stirring only enough to prevent scorching, and cook ten minutes, then stand upper part of double boiler over the lower compartment, partly filled with boiling water; cover closely and let steam from two to three hours. In order to have the oatmeal ready to serve at early breakfast the following morning, put oatmeal on to cook about five o'clock in the evening, while preparing supper, and allow it to stand and steam over boiling water until the fire in the range is dampened off for the night. Allow the oatmeal to stand on range until the following morning, when draw the boiler to front part of range, and when breakfast is ready (after removing top crust formed by standing), turn the oatmeal out on a dish and serve with rich cream and sugar, and you will have a good, wholesome breakfast dish with the flakes distinct, and a nutty flavor. Serve fruit with it, if possible. A good rule for cooking oatmeal is in the proportion of 2-1/2 cups of water to 1 cup of oatmeal. The cereals which come ready prepared are taking the place of the old-time standby with which mothers fed their growing boys. If you wish your boys to have muscle and brawn, feed them oats. To quote an old physician, "If horses thrive on oats, why not boys who resemble young colts?" For example, look at the hardy young Scot who thrives and grows hearty and strong on his oatmeal "porritch." Chopped almonds, dates or figs may be added to oatmeal to make it more palatable. Use cup measuring 1/2 pint for measuring cereals as well as every other recipe calling for one cup in this book. COOKED RICE Boil 1 cup of whole, thoroughly cleansed, uncoated rice in 3 quarts of rapidly boiling water (salted) about 25 minutes, or until tender, which can be tested by pressing a couple of grains of rice between the fingers. Do not stir often while boiling. When the rice is tender turn on to a sieve and drain; then put in a dish and place in the oven, to dry off, with oven door open, when the grains should be whole, flaky, white and tempting, not the soggy, unappetizing mass one often sees. Serve rice with cream and sugar. Some prefer brown sugar and others like crushed maple sugar with it. Or rice may be eaten as a vegetable with salt and butter. Rice is inexpensive, nutritious and one of the most easily digested cereals, and if rightly cooked, an appetizing looking food. It is a wonder the economical housewife does not serve it oftener on her table in some of the numerous ways it may be prepared. As an ingredient of soup, as a vegetable, or a pudding, croquettes, etc., the wise housekeeper will cook double the amount of rice needed and stand half aside until the day following, when may be quickly prepared rice croquettes, cheese balls, etc. On the day following that on which rice has been served, any cold boiled rice remaining may be placed in a small bake dish with an equal quantity of milk, a little sugar and flavoring, baked a short time in oven and served with a cup of stewed, seeded raisins which have slowly steamed, covered with cold water, on the back of the range, until soft and plump. CORN MEAL MUSH Place on the range a cook-pot containing 9 cups of boiling water (good measure). Sift in slowly 2 cups of yellow granulated corn meal, stirring constantly while adding the meal, until the mixture is smooth and free from lumps. Add 1-1/4 level teaspoonfuls of salt and 1/4 teaspoonful of sugar, and cook a short time, stirring constantly, then stand where the mush will simmer, or cook slowly for four or five hours. Serve hot, as a porridge, adding 1/2 teaspoonful of butter to each individual bowl of hot mush and serve with it cold milk or cream. Should a portion of the mush remain after the meal, turn it at once, while still hot, in an oblong pan several inches in depth, stand until quite cold. Cut in half-inch slices, sift flour over each slice and fry a golden brown in a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter. Or dip slices of mush in egg and bread crumbs and fry brown in the same manner. Some there are who like maple syrup or molasses served with fried mush. This proportion of corn meal and water will make porridge of the proper consistency and it will be just right to be sliced for frying when cold. Long, slow cooking makes corn meal much more wholesome and palatable, and prevents the raw taste of cornmeal noticeable in mush cooked too quickly. The small quantity of sugar added is not noticed, but improves the flavor of the mush. MACARONI In early spring, when the family tire of winter foods and it is still too early for vegetables from the home garden, and the high price of early forced vegetables in the city markets prevent the housewife, of limited means from purchasing, then the resourceful, economical housewife serves macaroni and rice in various ways and makes appetizing dishes of the fruits she canned and preserved for Winter use, combined with tapioca and gelatine. Milk and eggs tide her over the most difficult time of the year for young, inexperienced cooks. When the prices of early vegetables soar beyond the reach of her purse, then she should buy sparingly of them and of meat, and occasionally serve, instead, a dish of macaroni and cheese, or rice and cheese, and invest the money thus saved in fruit; dried fruits, if fresh fruits are not obtainable. Macaroni is such a nutritious food that it should be used frequently by the young housewife as a substitute for meat on the bill of fare. Also occasionally serve a dish of baked beans or a dish composed of eggs, or milk combined with eggs, instead of the more expensive meat dish, all equally useful as muscle-builders, and cheaper than meat. The wise housewife will learn which foods furnish heat for the body and those which produce fat and energy, and those which are muscle-builders, and endeavor to serve well-balanced meals of the foods belonging to the three classes and thus with fruit and vegetables she will make wise provision for her family. BAKED MACARONI AND CHEESE Put 2 cups or 1/2 pound of macaroni (either the long sticks broken in pieces or the "elbow" macaroni, as preferred) in a kettle holding several quarts of rapidly boiling, salted water, and cook about 25 minutes, or until tender. Drain in a colander and allow cold water to run over it for several seconds. This prevents the macaroni sticking together. Place the macaroni in a buttered baking dish and pour over a hot "cream sauce" composed of 1 cup of milk and 1 cup of water, 2 tablespoonfuls of flour, 2 even tablespoonfuls of butter and a pinch of salt. (Too much salt is apt to curdle the milk.) Spread over the top of macaroni about 3 tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, or, if preferred, sprinkle over the top 3 tablespoonfuls of well-seasoned dried bread crumbs and small bits of butter. Stand the bake-dish containing the macaroni in a hot oven ten or fifteen minutes, until lightly browned on top. Serve hot in the dish in which it was baked. Stewed tomatoes are a nice accompaniment to this dish. Double the quantity of macaroni may be cooked at one time and a part of it kept on ice; the following day serve in tomato sauce, thus utilizing any left-over tomatoes. The macaroni may be cooked while the housewife is using the range, early in the morning. Drain the macaroni in a colander and stand aside in a cool place. It may be quickly prepared for six o'clock dinner by pouring over a hot cream sauce and grated cheese and quickly browning in the oven. Or the macaroni, when cooked tender in salt water, may be quickly served by pouring over it a hot cream sauce, before the macaroni has become cold. Serve at once. Housewives should be particular when buying macaroni to get a brand made from good flour. CAKES--CAKE-MAKING Sift flour and baking powder together several times before adding to cake batter. Aunt Sarah usually sifted flour and baking powder together four times for cakes. Flour should always be sifted before using. Baking powder should be sifted through the flour dry. Salaratus (or baking soda) should, usually, be dissolved before using in a teaspoonful of hot water, unless stated otherwise. Cream of tartar should be sifted with the flour. Flour should be added gradually and batter stirred as little as possible afterwards, unless directions are given to the contrary. Much beating after flour has been added is apt to make cake tough. Cake will be lighter if baked slowly at first After it has raised increase heat slowly so it will brown nicely on top. The batter, if heated slowly, will rise evenly. This does not mean a cool oven. To prevent cakes sticking to pans, grease pans well with lard, and sift a little flour lightly over pan. Use baking powder with sweet milk. Saleratus is always used with sour milk. Use 1 teaspoonful of saleratus to 1 pint of sour milk. Cream of tartar and saleratus combined may be used with sweet milk instead of baking powder. One heaping teaspoonful of Royal baking powder is equivalent to 1 teaspoonful of cream of tartar and 1/2 teaspoonful of saleratus combined. Either baking powder or a combination of saleratus and cream of tartar may be used in a cake in which sweet milk is used. Usually take 1-1/2 to 2 scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder to two cups of flour. Saleratus should be used alone with sour milk. Put baking molasses in a stew-pan over fire and allow it to just come to boil; cool before using it. It will not sour as quickly in warm weather, and the cake baked from it will have a better flavor. The cup used in measuring ingredients for cakes holds exactly one-half pint. All cakes are improved by the addition of a pinch of salt. When lard is used instead of butter, beat to a cream and salt well. In mixing cakes, beat butter and sugar together until light and creamy, then add the beaten yolks of eggs, unless stated otherwise as for angel cake, etc., then the flavoring, then mix in the flour and liquid alternately. The baking powder, flour and salt should have been sifted together three or four times before being added. Lastly, fold in lightly the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Fruit well dredged with flour should be added last, if used. Cool the oven if too hot for baking cakes by placing a pan containing cold water in the top rack of oven. Sponge cake particularly is improved by doing this, as it makes the cake moist. Stir sponge cake as little as possible after adding flour, as too much stirring then will make cake tough. Sift flour several times before using for sponge cake, as tins causes the flour to become lighter. Layer cake, and most small cakes, require a quick oven. The oven door should not be opened for 12 minutes after cake has been placed in oven. Rich cakes, loaf cakes and fruit cakes must bake long and slowly. The richer the cake, the slower the heat required in baking. To test the oven, if the hand can bear the heat of the oven 20 or 25 seconds, the oven then is the right temperature. After placing a loaf cake in oven do not open the oven door for 20 minutes. If oven be not hot enough, the cake will rise, then fall and be heavy. Angel cake, sunshine cake and sponge cake require a moderate oven. Raisins and dried currants should be washed and dried before using in cake. All fruit should be dredged with flour before being added to cake. Citron may be quickly and easily prepared by cutting on a slaw cutter or it may be grated before being added to cake. When a recipe calls for butter the size of an egg it means two tablespoonfuls. A tablespoonful of butter, melted, means the butter should be measured first, then melted. Aunt Sarah frequently used a mixture of butter and lard in her cakes for economy's sake, and a lesser quantity may be used, as the shortening quality of lard is greater than that of butter. When substituting lard for butter, she always beat the lard to a cream before using it and salt it well. If raisins and currants are placed in oven of range a few minutes to become warmed before being added to cake, then rolled in flour, they will not sink to bottom of cake when baked. FRAU SCHMIDT'S LEMON CAKE 1-1/2 cups sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard. 3 small eggs or 2 large ones. 1/2 cup sweet milk. 2 cups flour. 1/2 teaspoonful saleratus. 1 teaspoonful cream of tartar. Grated yellow rind and juice of half a lemon. Beat sugar and butter to a cream and add the yolks of eggs. Add the milk, then the flour and cream of tartar and saleratus; and the flavoring. Lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. This makes one loaf cake. The original of this recipe was a very old one which Frau Schmidt had used many years. Every ingredient in the old recipe was doubled, except the eggs, when five were used. Mary thought this cake fine and from the recipe, when she used half the quantity of everything, she baked a fine loaf cake, and from the original recipe was made one good sized loaf and one layer cake. Thinly sliced citron added to this cake is a great improvement. FINE "KRUM KUCHEN" One cup sugar, 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed; 2 cups flour and 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup sweet milk. Crumb together with the hands the sugar, butter, flour and baking powder sifted together. Take out 1/2 cup of these crumbs to be scattered over top of cake. To the remainder add the yolks of the eggs, well beaten, and the sweet milk, and lastly the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Put the mixture in a well-greased pan (a deep custard pie tin will answer), scatter the half cup of crumbs reserved over top of cake and bake about 3/4 of an hour in a rather quick oven. When cake is baked, sprinkle over 1 teaspoonful of melted butter and dust top with cinnamon. AUNT SARAH'S "QUICK DUTCH CAKES" She creamed together 1 cup of sugar, 1 tablespoonful of lard, 1 tablespoonful of butter and added 1-1/2 cups of luke-warm milk. Add 3 cups flour (good measure), sifted with three scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Add a half cup of raisins, seeded and cut in several pieces, if liked, but the cakes are very good without. Spread in two pans and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top and press about five small dabs of butter on top of each cake. Put in oven and bake at once. These are a very good substitute for "raised Dutch cakes," and are much more quickly and easily-made and, as no eggs are used, are quite cheap and very good. A RELIABLE LAYER CAKE 1-1/4 cups granulated sugar. 3 eggs. 1/2 cup butter and lard mixed. (Use all butter if preferred.) 1/2 cup sweet milk. 2 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls Royal baking powder. Cream together sugar and shortening. Add yolks of eggs, beating well, as each ingredient is added. Then add milk and flour alternately, and lastly the stiffly beaten white of eggs. Stir all together. Bake in two square layer pans, and put together with chocolate or white icing. Or ice the cakes when cold and cut in squares. BOILED ICING Boil together 1 cup of granulated sugar and 5 tablespoonfuls boiling water ten or twelve minutes, or until a small quantity dropped from spoon spins a thread. Stir this into the stiffly-beaten white of one egg until thick and creamy. Flavor with lemon, almond or vanilla flavoring and spread on cake. Dip knife in hot water occasionally when spreading icing on cake. A delicious icing is composed of almonds blanched and pounded to a paste. Add a few drops of essence of bitter almonds. Dust the top of the cake lightly with flour, spread on the almond paste and when nearly dry cover with ordinary icing. Dry almonds before pounding them in mortar, and use a small quantity of rose water. A few drops only should be used of essence of bitter almonds to flavor icing or cake. A pinch of baking powder added to sugar when making boiled icing causes the icing to become more creamy, or add a pinch of cream of tartar when making boiled icing. Or, when a cake iced with "boiled icing" has become cold, spread on top of icing unsweetened, melted chocolate. This is a delicious "cream chocolate icing." A DELICIOUS "SPICE LAYER CAKE" 2 cups light brown sugar. 1 cup chopped raisins. 2 eggs. 1 cup sour milk. 1/2 cup butter. 2 cups flour. 1 teaspoonful each of soda, cloves, cinnamon, allspice and a little grated nutmeg. Cream sugar and butter together, add yolks of eggs, then the sour milk in which the soda has been dissolved, flour and spices, and lastly stir in the stiffly beaten white of eggs. Bake in two-layer pans. ICING Two cups sugar, 3/4 cup of milk or cream, 2 tablespoonfuls of butter. Boil until it forms a soft ball when a small quantity is dropped in water, and flavor with vanilla. Beat until cold and spread between layers of cake. Also on top and sides. AN INEXPENSIVE COCOA CAKE This is a decidedly good cake and no eggs are required. Cream together 1 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup butter. Add 1 cup of sour milk, 1-3/4 cups flour, then sift over 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of cocoa. Add 1 level teaspoonful saleratus, dissolved in a little of the sour milk, and 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Bake in a small loaf. Use the following icing: 1/4 cup of grated chocolate, 3/4 cup milk, 1/2 cup sugar, boiled together until thick, and spread on cake. AUNT SARAH'S WALNUT GINGERBREAD 1/2 cup of New Orleans molasses. 1 cup of light brown sugar. 1/2 cup of shortening (composed of butter, lard and sweet drippings). 1/2 teaspoonful of ginger, cinnamon and cloves each. 2 teaspoonfuls of baking soda (saleratus), sifted with 3-1/2 cups flour. 1 cup boiling water. 2 eggs. Beat to a cream the sugar and shortening in a bowl; add molasses, then pour over all one cup of boiling water. Beat well. Add flour, soda and spices, all sifted together. Beat into this the two unbeaten eggs (one at a time), then add about 3/4 of a cup of coarsely chopped _black walnut_ meats or the same quantity of well-floured raisins may be substituted for the walnut meats. The cakes may be baked in muffin pans. In that case fill pans about two-thirds full. The above quantity makes eighteen. They can also be baked in a pan as a loaf cake. This cake is excellent, and will keep fresh several days. These cakes taste similar to those sold in an Atlantic City bake-shop which have gained a reputation for their excellence. AUNT SARAH'S "GERMAN CRUMB CAKES" BAKED IN CRUSTS 3 cups flour. 2-1/2 heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. 2 cups sugar (soft A or light brown). 1/2 cup lard and butter mixed. 2 eggs. 1 cup sweet milk. Pinch of salt. Flavoring--vanilla or grated orange rind. Line three small pie tins with pie crust. Sift together into a bowl the flour and baking powder and add light brown or A sugar, and the butter, lard and salt. Rub this all together with the hands until well mixed and crumbly. Take out 1 cupful of these crumbs and stand aside. Add to the rest of the mixture the yolks of eggs, whites being beaten separately and added last. Add slowly 1 cup of sweet milk. Mix it in gradually until the mixture is creamed, then add a small quantity of grated orange peel, lemon or vanilla flavoring. Lastly, stir in the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Pour the mixture into each one of the three unbaked crusts, then sprinkle the cup of crumbs thickly over the tops. Bake in a moderate oven. These are very good, cheap cakes for breakfast or lunch. "SOUR CREAM" MOLASSES CAKE 1/2 cup molasses. 1 cup sugar. 1/2 cup thick sour cream. 1/2 cup sour milk. 1/2 cup finely chopped peanuts. 1 egg. 1 teaspoonful soda dissolved in little hot water. 2-3/4 cups flour. 1 cup seeded raisins. Mix together like ordinary cake. Bake in a fruit cake pan in a slow oven about forty minutes. This excellent cake requires no shortening, as cream is used. ECONOMY CAKE 1 egg. 1 cup sweet milk. 1 cup granulated sugar. 2 cups flour. 1/4 cup butter. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Cream together sugar and yolk of egg, then beat into this mixture the butter and add the milk. Then stir the flour, a small quantity at a time, into the mixture, keeping it smooth and free from lumps. Add the stiffly beaten white of egg. Use any flavoring or spice preferred. Bake in a quick oven. This is not simply a very cheap cake, but a decidedly good one, and made from inexpensive materials. Follow the recipe exactly or the cake may be too light and too crumbly if too much baking powder is used, or heavy if too much butter is used. By varying the flavor and baking in different forms it is as good as a number of more expensive recipes. It makes three layers of any kind of layer cake, or bake in Gem pans. GINGER CAKE 1/2 cup brown sugar. 1 egg. 1/2 cup lard. 2 large cups flour. 1/2 cup New Orleans molasses. 1 tablespoonfnl of ginger. 1 teaspoonful soda dissolved in half cup lukewarm water. Beat sugar and lard to a cream, then beat in the yolk of egg, molasses and flour and soda dissolved in water. Lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. Bake 45 minutes in hot oven. A VERY ECONOMICAL GERMAN CLOVE CAKE Place in a stew-pan the following ingredients: 1 cup brown sugar. 1 cup cold water. 2 cups seeded raisins. 1/3 cup sweet lard, or a mixture of lard and butter. 1/4 grated nutmeg. 2 teaspoonfuls cinnamon. 1/2 teaspoonful ground cloves. Pinch of salt. Boil all together three minutes. When cold add I teaspoonful of soda dissolved in a little hot water. Add about 1-3/4 cups flour sifted with 1/2 teaspoonful of baking powder. Bake in a loaf in a moderately hot oven about thirty minutes. This cake is both good and economical, as no butter, eggs or milk are used in its composition. The recipe for making this excellent, cheap cake was bought by Aunt Sarah at a "Cake and Pie" sale. She was given permission to pass it on. ICING. 1 small cup pulverized sugar. 2 tablespoonfuls of cocoa. Mix smooth with a very little boiling water. Spread over cake. CAKE ICING FOR VARIOUS CAKES Cook together 2 cups of granulated sugar, 1-1/4 cups of water a little less than 12 minutes. Just before it reaches the soft ball stage, beat in quickly 25 marshmallows; when dissolved and a thick, creamy mass, spread between layers and on top of cake. This is a delicious creamy icing when made according to directions. If sugar and water be cooked one minute too long, the icing becomes sugary instead of creamy. One-half the above quantity will ice the top of a cake nicely. MARY'S RECIPE FOR "HOT MILK" SPONGE CAKE For this cake was used: 2 cups granulated sugar. 4 eggs. 2-1/8 cups flour. 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. 1 cup boiling hot milk. Separate the eggs, place yolks in a bowl, add the sugar and beat until creamy. Add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs alternately with the sifted flour and baking powder; lastly add the cup of boiling hot milk; should the milk not be rich, add one teaspoon of butter to the hot milk. The cake batter should be thin as griddle cake batter, pour into a tube pan and place at once in a _very moderate_ oven; in about 15 minutes increase the heat and in about 25 minutes more the cake, risen to the top of pan, should have commenced to brown on top. Bake from 15 to 20 minutes more in a moderately hot oven with steady heat; when baked the top of the cake should be a light fawn color and texture of cake light and fine grained. Mary was told by her Aunt that any sponge cake was improved by the addition of a teaspoon of butter, causing the sponge cake to resemble pound cake in texture. CHEAP "MOLASSES GINGER BREAD" 1 cup New Orleans molasses. 1 cup sugar. 1/2 cup shortening (lard and butter mixed). 1 cup hot water. 1 large teaspoonful soda dissolved in the one cup of hot water. 1 teaspoonful of ginger. 1/2 teaspoonful of cinnamon. 1 quart of flour. Stir sugar and shortening together. Add molasses, beat all thoroughly, then add hot water and flour. Stir hard. Bake in two layer pans in quick oven about 30 minutes. Use cake while fresh. AUNT SARAH'S EXTRA FINE LARGE SPONGE CAKE 2 cups granulated sugar. 2-1/4 cups of flour. 3/4 cup of boiling water. 4 large eggs. 2 even teaspoonfuls baking powder. 1 teaspoonful lemon juice. Put whites of eggs in a large mixing bowl and beat very stiff. Add sugar (sifted 3 times), then add the well-beaten yolks, flour (sifted 3 times with baking powder), add lemon juice. Lastly, add the hot water. Bake about 50 minutes in a tube pan in a moderately hot oven with a steady heat. Stand a pan of hot water in the upper rack of oven if the oven is quite hot. It improves the cake and causes it to be more moist. This is an excellent sponge cake and easily made, although the ingredients are put together the opposite way cakes are usually mixed, with the exception of angel cake. When this cake was taken from oven, powdered sugar was sifted thickly over the top. Use cup holding 1/2 pint, as in all other cake recipes. ANGEL CAKE--AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE Mary was taught by her Aunt, when preparing a dish calling for yolks of eggs only, to place the white of eggs not used in a glass jar which she stood in a cold place or on ice. When she had saved one even cupful she baked an angel cake over the following recipe: One heaping cup of pulverized sugar (all the cup will hold), was sifted 8 times. One cup of a mixture of pastry flour and corn starch (equal parts) was also sifted 8 times. The whole was then sifted together 4 times. The one cupful of white of eggs was beaten very stiff. When about half beaten, sprinkle over the partly-beaten eggs one scant teaspoonful of cream of tartar, then finish beating the whites of eggs. Flavor with almond or vanilla. Then carefully sift into the stiffly beaten whites of eggs sugar, flour and corn starch. Fold into the whites of eggs rather than stir. Aunt Sarah always baked this cake in a small, oblong bread pan. This cake should be baked in a _very_ moderate oven, one in which the hand might be held without inconvenience while counting one hundred; the oven should be just hot enough for one to know there was fire in the range. Do not open the oven door for 15 minutes, then increase the heat a little; if not too hot, open the oven door a moment to cool and bake slowly for about 55 minutes. AUNT SARAH'S GOOD AND CHEAP "COUNTRY FRUIT CAKE" 1 cup butter and lard, mixed. 4 eggs. 1 cup New Orleans molasses. 1 cup sour milk. 1 pound dried currants. 1/4 pound thinly sliced citron. 2 teaspoonfuls baking soda. 4 cups flour. 2 pounds raisins, seeded. A little grated nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and a very small quantity of cloves. Bake in one large fruit cake pan or in two good sized pans about 1-3/4 hours. This cake should not be kept as long a time as a more expensive fruit cake, but may be kept several weeks. This was Aunt Sarah's best recipe for an excellent, inexpensive fruit cake. A "SPONGE CUSTARD" CAKE 4 eggs. 2 cups granulated sugar. 3 cups flour. 1 teaspoonful baking soda. 1 cup cold water. Juice of 1 lemon. 2 teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar and pinch of salt. Beat eggs well, then sift in sugar and half of flour in which cream of tartar has been mixed. Dissolve the soda in a little water and add also the lemon juice and lastly add the balance of flour. Bake in layer cake pans two inches deep. CUSTARD Boil 1 pint of sweet milk and add to it, stirring constantly, the following mixture: Two tablespoonfuls corn starch, mixed with a little water before boiling, 1 cup of sugar and 1 well-beaten egg. Allow all to cook a few minutes in a double boiler about 15 minutes. Split the sponge cakes when baked and put custard between when cooled. GRANDMOTHER'S EXCELLENT "OLD RECIPE" FOR MARBLE CAKE LIGHT PART. 1-3/4 cups granulated sugar. 1 scant cup butter or a mixture of butter and lard. Whites of 6 eggs. 1 cup milk. 3 scant cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoons of baking powder. Flavor with essence of lemon. DARK PART. Yolks of 4 eggs. 1/2 cup of a mixture of butter and lard. 3/4 cup milk (scant measure). 1/2 cup brown sugar. 1 tablespoon of molasses. 2 tablespoons of cinnamon. 1 tablespoon of cloves. One cup or a little more flour sifted with one teaspoon of baking powder. Place spoonfuls of the dark and light batter alternately in a cake pan until all has been used. Bake in a moderately hot oven from 45 to 50 minutes. From this recipe may be made two good sized cakes. I should advise using one-half the quantity for both dark and light part of cake called for in recipe, which would make one good sized cake. Should this whole recipe be used, the cake baked from it would be of the size of a very large fruit cake. MARY'S MOLASSES CAKES She creamed together 1 cup of light brown sugar and 2 tablespoonfuls of butter. Then added 1 cup of New Orleans molasses. The molasses had been allowed to come to a boil, then cooled. She sifted into the mixture 4 cups of flour alternately with 1 cup of sweet milk in which 2 even teaspoonfuls of soda had been dissolved. She beat all well together, then added yolk of one large egg, and lastly the stiffly beaten white of the egg. Beat the mixture again and bake in 2 square layer cake pans in a hot oven about 25 minutes. This is an excellent cake if directions are closely followed. CHOCOLATE ICING FOR MOLASSES CAKE. Boil 1 scant half cup water with 1 cup sugar until it spins a thread, or forms a soft, firm ball in cold water. Pour slowly over the stiffly beaten white of egg, beating while it is being poured. Melt 2 squares or 2 ounces of unsweetened chocolate by standing the bowl containing it in hot water. Add 1 teaspoonful hot water to chocolate. Stir the egg and sugar mixture slowly into the melted chocolate. Beat until stiff enough to spread on cake. HICKORY NUT CAKE 1-1/2 cups sugar. 1/2 cup butter. 3/4 cup milk. Whites of 4 eggs. 1 cup hickory nut meats, chopped. 2 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Mix together as ordinary cake. Bake in a loaf. "LIGHT BROWN" SUGAR CAKE Three cupfuls of light brown sugar, 1/2 cup of sweet lard and yolk of one egg creamed together until light. Then add 1-1/2 cups sour milk alternately with 4 cups of flour and 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls of cinnamon; 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls of ginger, 1/2 teaspoonful of cloves and half of a grated nutmeg, 1 tablespoonful of thinly shaved or grated citron is an improvement to cake, but may be omitted. Beat all together, then add 1 teaspoonful of soda dissolved in a small quantity of the sour milk. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of one egg and one cup seeded raisins dredged with a little flour. Put the cake batter in a large, well-greased fruit cake pan, lined with paper which had been greased and a trifle of flour sifted over, and bake in an oven with a steady heat about one hour and fifteen minutes. This is a very good, _inexpensive_ cake and will keep moist some time if kept in a tin cake box. The fruit might be omitted, but it improves the cake. "ANGEL FOOD" LAYER CAKE 1 cup and 2 tablespoonfuls granulated sugar. 1-1\2 cups flour. 1 cup and 2 tablespoonfuls scalded milk. 3 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Pinch of salt. Whites of 2 eggs. Place milk in top part of double boiler and heat to boiling point. Sift dry ingredients together four times and then pour in the hot milk and stir well together. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Fold them in lightly, but do not beat. The batter will be quite thin. Do not grease the tins. No flavoring is used. Bake in two square layer tins, put together with any icing preferred. Bake in a moderate oven. This is a good, economical cake to bake when yolks of eggs have been used for other purposes. MARY'S CHOCOLATE CAKE One-half cup of brown sugar, 1/2 cup of sweet milk and 1/2 cup of grated, unsweetened chocolate. Boil all together until thick as cream; allow it to cool. Mix 1/2 cup of butter with 1/2 cup of brown sugar. Add two beaten eggs, 2/3 of a cup of sweet milk and vanilla flavoring to taste. Beat this into the boiled mixture and add 2 cups of flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Bake in three layers and put together with chocolate icing, or cocoa filling. COCOA FILLING. 1-1/2 cups pulverized sugar. 1 tablespoonful butter, melted. 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls cocoa. Place all the ingredients in a bowl and mix to a smooth paste with cold coffee. Flavor with vanilla and spread on cake. Tins cocoa filling should not be boiled. A CHEAP ORANGE CAKE 2 eggs. 1-1/2 cupfuls sugar. 1 large tablespoonful butter. 1 cup milk. 2 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Juice and grated yellow rind of half an orange. Bake in moderate oven in loaf or layers. If a loaf cake, ice top and sides with the following icing: 1-1/2 cupfuls pulverized sugar, 1 tablespoonful warm water and grated rind and juice of half an orange. Mix all together to a cream and spread over cake. FRAU SCHMIDT'S MOLASSES CAKE 1 pint of New Orleans molasses. 3/4 cup butter and lard, mixed. 4 eggs. 1 cup sour milk 2 good teaspoonfuls soda. 4 cups flour. Grated rind of 1 orange. Bake in a long dripping pan, cut out in square pieces, or it may be baked in a large pan used for fruit cake. It will fill two medium sized cake pans. APPLE SAUCE CAKE 1/4 cup butter (generous measure). 1 cup light brown sugar. 1 cup apple sauce (not sweetened). 1 level teaspoonful soda. 2 cups flour. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. 1/2 teaspoonful cloves. 1 small nutmeg, grated. Pinch of salt. 1 cup raisins. Cream together butter, sugar and spices. Add apple sauce and flour. (Dissolve the soda in apple sauce.) Add a cup of seeded raisins or raisins and currants, if preferred. This recipe may be doubled when it makes a very good, cheap fruit cake, as no eggs are required, and it both looks and tastes like a dark fruit cake. ICING. One cup pulverized sugar, piece of butter size of a walnut. Moisten with a little water and spread on cake. "SCHWARZ" CAKE This delicious black chocolate or "Schwarz" cake, as Aunt Sarah called it, was made from the following recipe: 1-1/2 cups of sugar. 1/2 cup butter. 1/2 cup sweet milk. 1 even teaspoon of soda (saleratus). 3 eggs. 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. 2 cups flour. 1-1/2 teaspoon of Royal baking powder. Before mixing all the above ingredients place in a stewpan on the range 1/2 cup of grated chocolate and 1/2 cup sweet milk; allow them to come to a boil, then stand this mixture aside to cool and add to the cake mixture later. Cream together sugar and butter, add yolk of eggs; soda dissolved in the milk, then add flour and baking powder sifted together alternately with the stiffly beaten white of eggs. Then beat in last the chocolate and milk mixture which has cooled. Bake in layer cake pans. Use the following chocolate filling: 1/2 cup sugar. 1/2 cup milk. Yolk of one egg. 1/2 teaspoon of corn starch (good measure). 1/4 cake of Baker's unsweetened chocolate. Boil all together until quite thick and spread between layers of cake. APPLE CREAM CAKE 2 cups Sugar. 2 tablespoonfuls butter. 1 cup sweet milk. 3 cups flour. 3 eggs. 2 teaspoonfuls Royal baking powder. Add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs last and bake in two layers. Flavor with lemon or vanilla. APPLE CREAM FILLING FOR CAKE. Beat white of 1 egg very stiff. Add 1 cup of granulated sugar and beat well. Quickly grate one raw apple into the egg and sugar, add the juice of 1/4 lemon and beat 20 minutes, when it will be light and foamy. This icing is soft and creamy. Coarsely chopped nut meats may be added if liked. Cake must be eaten with a fork, but is delicious. A "HALF POUND" CAKE Cream together 1/2 pound of sugar and 1/2 pound of butter. Beat into this the eggs separately, until five eggs have been used. Add flour and 1 small teaspoonful of baking powder. Bake in a moderate oven about 55 minutes; 1/2 pound of flour is used in this cake. This cake is extra fine. A DELICIOUS ICING (NOT CHEAP). Stir to a cream a half cup butter, 1-1/2 cups pulverized sugar, 1 tablespoonful milk and 1 teaspoonful vanilla. It is then ready to use for icing a cake. COCOANUT LAYER CAKE 2 cups sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed. 3 eggs (yolks only). 1 cup milk. 3 cups flour, sifted several times with the 2 teaspoonfuls cream of tartar and 1 teaspoonful soda (saleratus). Mix like an ordinary cake. THE FILLING. To the stiffly beaten whites of 3 eggs add 1 cup of pulverized sugar. Spread this on each one of the layers of the cake and on top. Strew a half of a grated cocoanut over. To the other half of grated cocoanut add 4 tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and strew over top of the cake. GOLD LAYER CAKE Yolks of 6 eggs. 1/2 cup butter. 1 large cup granulated sugar. 1/2 cup sweet milk. 2-1/2 cups flour. 2 heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. Cream sugar and butter, add yolks. Beat well, then add milk and flour. Stir all together and bake in square pans in a hot oven. SUNSHINE SPONGE CAKE 1 cup granulated sugar. Whites of 7 small fresh eggs and 5 yolks. 2/3 cup of flour, or scant cup of flour. 1/3 teaspoonful cream of tartar and a pinch of salt. Beat the yolks of eggs thoroughly, then beat the whites about half; add cream of tartar and beat until very stiff. Stir in sugar sifted lightly through your flour sifter. Then add beaten yolks, stir thoroughly, sift the flour five times. The last time sift into the batter, stirring only enough to incorporate the flour. Bake in a tube pan from 40 to 50 minutes in a very moderate oven. This is a particularly fine cake, but a little difficult to get just right. Place cake in a cool oven; when cake has risen turn on heat. This cake should be baked same as an angel cake. AN INEXPENSIVE DARK "CHOCOLATE LAYER CAKE" 1 cup sugar. 1/2 cup butter. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup sweet milk. 2 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. 1/2 cup chocolate. Grate the chocolate, mix with 1/4 cup of milk and yolk of 1 egg, sweeten to taste; cook the chocolate; when cooled add to the above mixture. Bake in three layer tins. Put white boiled icing between the layers. The boiled icing recipe will be found on another page. ANGEL CAKE 11 eggs (whites only). 1-1/2 cups granulated sugar (sifted 3 times). 1 cup flour (sifted 5 times). 1 teaspoonful cream of tartar. 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Place white of eggs in a large bowl and beat about half as stiff as you wish them to be when finished beating. Add cream of tartar, sprinkle it over the beaten whites of eggs lightly, and then beat until very stiff. Sift in sugar, then flour very lightly. Fold into the batter, rather than stir, with quick, even strokes with spoon. Put quickly in tube pan, bake in moderate oven from 35 to 50 minutes. Do not open oven door for first 15 minutes after cake has been placed in oven. If cake browns before it rises to top of pan open oven door two minutes; when cake has risen to top of pan finish baking quickly. The moment cake shrinks back to level of pan remove from oven. This is an old, reliable recipe given Mary by her Aunt, who had baked cake from it for years. MARY'S CHOCOLATE LOAF (MADE WITH SOUR MILK) 2 cups brown sugar. 3/4 cup lard and butter, mixed. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup Baker's chocolate, melted. 1/2 cup sour milk. 1/2 cup warm water. 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Pinch of salt. 1 teaspoonful saleratus. 3 cups flour. Dissolve the saleratus in a little vinegar or warm water. Mix as an ordinary loaf cake. INEXPENSIVE SUNSHINE CAKE 5 eggs. 1 cup granulated sugar. 1 cup sifted flour. Beat whites of eggs very stiff and stir in thoroughly, then fold the flour, stirring only just enough to mix it in. If stirred too much, the cake will be tough. Bake in a tube pan. This is a delicious cake if carefully made according to directions. No butter or baking powder is used. Bake in a very moderate oven at first, gradually adding more heat until cake is baked. MARY'S RECIPE FOR ORANGE CAKE Grate outside rind of 1 orange into a bowl; 1-1/2 cups sugar and 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed. Cream all together. Add yolks of three eggs, 1 cup of sweet milk, 2-1/2 cups flour, sifted with 2-1/4 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of the eggs. Bake in two layers. FILLING FOR ORANGE CAKE. Grated rind and juice of half an orange, half the white of one egg, beaten stiff. Add pulverized sugar until stiff enough to spread between cakes and on top. (About two cups of sugar were used.) ROLL JELLY CAKE 1 cup granulated sugar. 1-1/4 cups flour. 4 egg yolks. Pinch of salt. 1/2 cup boiling water. 1 large teaspoonful baking powder. The yolks of eggs left from making "Pennsylvania Dutch Kisses" may be used for this cake by the addition of an extra yolk of egg. Beat the yolks quite light, then add the sugar and beat until light and frothy. Add the flour sifted with the baking powder and salt. Lastly, add the half cup of boiling water. Bake in a rather quick oven from 25 to 30 minutes in two square layer cake pans. Cover cakes first ten minutes until they have risen. When baked turn cakes out of pans on to a cloth. Take one at a time from the oven, spread as quickly as possible with a tart jelly, either currant or grape, and roll as quickly as possible, as when the cakes become cool they cannot be rolled without breaking. Roll up in a cloth and when cool and ready to serve slice from end of roll. These cakes are very nice when one is successful, but a little difficult to get just right. AUNT SARAH'S CINNAMON CAKE 1 cup sugar. 2 cups flour. 1 egg. 1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder Piece of butter the size of egg. Pinch of salt. 1 cup milk. A little grated nutmeg. Beat the butter to a cream and gradually add the sugar. Then add the unbeaten egg and beat all together thoroughly. Add milk and flour and beat hard for five minutes. Add baking powder, salt and nutmeg. Pour into two small greased pie-tins and before putting in oven sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over top. This is an excellent breakfast cake, easily and quickly made. "GELB KUCHEN" Mary's Aunt taught her to make this exceptionally fine cake, yellow as gold, in texture resembling an "angel cake," from the following ingredients: The whites of 6 eggs, yolks of 3 eggs, 3/4 cup of fine, granulated sugar, 1/2 cup of high-grade flour, 1/2 teaspoonful of cream of tartar (good measure), a few drops of almond extract or 1/2 teaspoonful of vanilla. Mix ingredients together in the following manner: Sift sugar and flour separately 3 times. Beat yolks of eggs until light, add sugar to yolks of eggs and beat to a cream. The whites of eggs were placed in a separate bowl and when partly beaten the cream of tartar was sifted over and the whites of eggs were then beaten until dry and frothy. The stiffly beaten whites of eggs were then added alternately with the flour to the yolks and sugar. Carefully fold in, do not beat. Add flavoring, pour batter in a small, narrow bread tin, previously brushed with lard, over which flour had been dusted. The cake when baked may be readily removed from the tin after it has cooled. Bake cake in a very moderate oven about 60 minutes. After cake has been in oven 15 or 20 minutes increase heat of oven. An extra fine, large cake may be baked from this recipe if double the quantity of ingredients are used. DEVIL'S FOOD CAKE 2 cups brown sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup boiling water. 2 ounces Baker's chocolate. 2 cups flour. 1 teaspoonful soda. 1/2 cup sour cream or milk. Cream butter and sugar and add yolks of eggs; then sour milk into which the soda has been dissolved. Add hot water, then the eggs. Bake in layers or loaf. Ice with boiled chocolate icing. If a little of the sour milk is saved until last, the soda dissolved in that, and then added to the cake batter, it will give a brick red appearance. This is an excellent cake. A CHEAP COCOANUT LAYER CAKE Cream together 1 cup sugar, 1/4 cup butter, 1 egg (white of egg beaten separately), add 3/4 cup milk, 2 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. The stiffly beaten white of egg added last. Bake in two layers. For the filling, to put between layers, beat the white of one egg to a stiff, dry froth; add one tablespoonful of sugar, mix together, spread between layers of cake and on top and over this strew freshly grated cocoanut Grate cocoanut intended for cake the day before using. After it has been grated toss up lightly with a fork and stand in a cool place to dry out before using. LADY BALTIMORE CAKE 1 cup butter. 2 cups sugar. 3-1/2 cups flour. 1 cup sweet milk. Whites of 6 eggs. 2 level teaspoonfuls baking powder sifted with the flour. 1 teaspoonful rosewater. Mix in the usual way and bake in three layers. ICING FOR CAKE. Dissolve 3 cups of sugar in a cup of boiling water. Cook until it spins a thread, about ten or twelve minutes. Take from fire and pour over three stiffly beaten whites of eggs, then add a cup of nut meats (blanched and chopped almonds). One cup of chopped raisins may also be added if liked. Stir until thick and creamy. Allow cake to get cold before icing. One-half this recipe for icing will be sufficient for an ordinary cake. AN INEXPENSIVE "WHITE FRUIT CAKE" 3 cups sugar. 3 eggs. 1 lb. seeded raisins. 1 cup milk. 1 cup butter. 1 lb. currants. 1 lb. chopped almonds. Flavor with almond extract. 4 cups flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of Royal baking powder. 1/2 lb. figs. 1/4 lb. citron. Beat to a cream sugar, butter and yolks of eggs. Then add milk and flour alternately and fruit and almonds. Lastly, add stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Flour fruit before adding. Chop figs. Cut citron fine or shave it thin. This is a cheaper recipe than the one for a "Christmas fruit cake," but this is a very good cake. A GOOD AND CHEAP "WHITE CAKE" 2 cups sugar. 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed. 1 cup milk. Add a few drops of almond flavoring. 3 cups flour. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Whites of five eggs. Cream together the butter and sugar, add flour sifted with baking powder alternately with the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. The five yolks of eggs left from baking white cake may be used when making salad dressing. Use five yolks instead of three whole eggs, as called for in recipe for salad dressing. CHOCOLATE ICING (VERY GOOD) One-quarter cup grated, unsweetened chocolate, 1/4 cup milk, half a cup sugar. Boil all together until thick and creamy. This quantity will be sufficient to ice the top of one ordinary cake. Spread icing on cake before icing cools. When this icing is used for layer cake, double the recipe. TIP-TOP CAKE 1 lb. granulated sugar. 1 cup butter. 1 cup milk. 4 eggs. 1 lb. chopped raisins. (Citron may be used instead of raisins.) 1/2 a nutmeg, grated. 5 scant cups of flour. 5 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Mix together same as ordinary cake and bake in a loaf. This Aunt Sarah considered one of her finest cake recipes. She had used it for years in her family. The friend who gave this recipe to Aunt Sarah said: "A couple of tablespoonfuls of brandy will improve the cake." ORANGE CAKE Grate the yellow outside rind of 1 orange into a bowl. Add 1-1/2 cups sugar and 3/4 cups butter and beat to a cream. Then add yolks of 3 eggs. Then stir in 1 cup milk, 2-1/2 cups flour with 2 heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of 3 eggs. Bake in three layers. FILLING. Use the white of one egg, the grated rind and juice of large orange and enough pulverized sugar to stiffen. Spread between layers. CHEAP SPONGE CAKE 1-1/4 cups granulated sugar. 4 eggs. 1-1/2 cups flour. 4 tablespoonfuls boiling water. 1-1/4 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Pinch of salt; flavor to suit taste. Cream yolks and sugar thoroughly, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, then flour, then boiling water. Bake in a tube pan about 40 minutes. This is a very easily made cake, which seldom fails and was bought with a set of "Van Dusen cake pans," which Aunt Sarah said: "She'd used for many years and found invaluable." CARAMEL CAKE AND ICING 1-1/2 cups pulverized sugar, 1 cup of butter, 2 cups flour, 1/2 cup of corn starch, 2 teaspoons of baking powder sifted through flour and corn starch, 1 cup of milk, the whites of 4 eggs. Mix like ordinary cake. Bake as a loaf cake. Ice top the following: 1 cup of light brown sugar, 1/4 cup milk, 1/2 tablespoonful of butter, 1/4 teaspoonful of vanilla. Cook all together until a soft ball is formed when dropped in water. Beat until creamy and spread on top of cake. A WHITE CAKE Sift together, three times, the following: 1 cup of flour. 1 cup of sugar (granulated). 3 even teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Scald one cup of milk and pour hot over the above mixture. Beat well. Fold into the mixture, carefully, the stiffly beaten whites of 2 eggs. Flavor with a few drops of almond extract. Bake in a _moderate oven_, exactly as you would bake an angel cake. This is a delicious, light, flaky cake, if directions are closely followed, but a little difficult to get just right. "DUTCH" CURRANT CAKE (NO YEAST USED) 4 eggs. 2 cups sugar. 1 cup butter. 1 cup milk. 1/2 teaspoonful baking soda. 1 teaspoonful cream of tartar. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. 1/4 teaspoonful grated nutmeg. 1 cup dried currants. 4 to 4-1/2 cups flour. Make about as stiff as ordinary cake mixture. The butter, sugar and yolks of eggs were creamed together. Cinnamon and nutmeg were added. Milk and flour added alternately, stirring flour in lightly; sift cream of tartar in with the flour. Add the baking soda dissolved in a very little water, then add the well-floured currants, and lastly add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Bake in a large cake pan, generally used for fruit cake or bake two medium-sized cakes. Bake slowly in a moderately hot oven. These cakes keep well, as do most German cakes. AN "OLD RECIPE" FOR COFFEE CAKE 5 cups flour. 1 cup sugar. 1 cup raisins. 1 cup of liquid coffee. 1 cup lard. 1 cup molasses. 1 tablespoonful saleratus. Spices to taste. Mix like any ordinary cake. This is a very old recipe of Aunt Sarah's mother. The cup used may have been a little larger than the one holding a half pint, used for measuring ingredients in all other cake recipes. A CHEAP BROWN SUGAR CAKE 1 cup brown sugar. I tablespoonful lard. 1 cup cold water. Pinch of salt. 2 cups raisins. 1/2 teaspoonful cloves. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. Boil all together three minutes, cool, then add 1 teaspoonful of soda and 1/2 teaspoonful of baking powder sifted with 2 cups of flour. FRAU SCHMIDT'S "GERMAN CHRISTMAS CAKE" Cream together in a bowl half a pound of pulverized sugar and half a pound of butter; then add yolks of five eggs, 1 grated lemon rind, 1 pint of milk, 1-1/2 pounds of flour sifted with 4 teaspoonfuls of baking powder, 2 teaspoonfuls of vanilla extract. Bake at once in a moderately hot oven. Mary baked an ordinary-sized cake by using one-half of this recipe. The cake was fine grained, similar to a pound cake, although not quite as rich, and she added a couple tablespoonfuls of thinly shaved citron to the batter before baking. This is a particularly fine cake. "AUNT SARAH'S" SHELLBARK LAYER CAKE 1-1/2 cups sugar. 1/2 cup butter. 3/4 cup water. 3 eggs. 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Flour to stiffen. Save out white of one egg for icing. Bake cake in three layers. Chop 1 cup of hickory nut meats and add to the last layer of cake before putting in pan to bake. Use the cake containing nut meats for the middle layer of cake. Put layers together with white boiled icing. IMPERIAL CAKE (BAKED FOR MARY'S WEDDING) 1 pound sugar. 1 pound butter. 3/4 pound flour. 1 pound raisins, seeded. 1 pound almonds. 1/2 pound thinly shaved citron. 1 lemon. 1 nutmeg. 12 eggs. Mix ingredients as for pound cake. A fine cake, but expensive. A LIGHT FRUIT CAKE (FOR CHRISTMAS) 1 pound butter, scant measure. 1 pound pulverized sugar. 1 pound flour (full pound). 10 eggs. 1 pound English walnut kernels. 1 pound raisins. 3/4 lb. citron, candied orange and lemon peel. 1 cup brandy. 1 teaspoonful baking powder. Bake 2-1/2 to 3 hours. This is an excellent cake. ENGLISH CAKE (SIMILAR TO A WHITE FRUIT CAKE) 5 eggs. The weight of 5 eggs in sugar. The weight of 4 eggs in flour. 1 cup raisins. 1 cup currants. The weight of 3 eggs in butter. 1/2 teaspoonful baking powder. 2 tablespoonfuls of brandy. 1/2 cup finely shaved citron. 1/2 cup English walnut or shellbark meats. Small quantity of candied orange and lemon peel. This recipe was given Mary by an English friend, an excellent cook and cake-baker, who vouches for its excellence. GRANDMOTHER'S FRUIT CAKE (BAKED FOR MARY'S WEDDING) 1 pound butter. 1 pound sugar. 1 pound flour. 2 pounds raisins. 2 pounds currants. Spices of all kinds. 1/4 pound thinly sliced citron. 8 eggs. 1 tablespoonful molasses. 1 cup sour milk. 1 teaspoonful soda. Mix together in ordinary manner. Cream butter and sugar, add yolks of eggs, sour milk and soda; add flour alternately with stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Lastly, the well-floured fruit. Bake two hours in a moderate oven. This quantity makes one very large cake, or two medium sized ones, and will keep one year. Line inside of pan with well-greased heavy paper to prevent bottom of cake baking too hard. Aunt Sarah never cut this cake until one month from time it was baked, as it improves with age and may be kept one year. AN OLD RECIPE FOR POUND CAKE Cream together 3/4 pound butter and 1 pound sugar and yolks of 10 eggs. Then add 10 whites of eggs well beaten alternately with 1 pound of sifted flour. Bake in a moderate oven with a steady heat. The bottom of pan should be lined with well-greased paper. "BUCKS COUNTY" MOLASSES CAKES (BAKED IN PASTRY) Place in a bowl 1 cup of New Orleans molasses and 3/4 of a cup of sweet milk. Add 1 teaspoonful of baking _soda_. (For this cake Aunt Sarah was always particular to use the _Cow_-brand soda), dissolved in a very little hot water. Aunt Sarah always used B.T. Babbitt's saleratus for other purposes. Stir all ingredients together well, then add gradually three even cups of flour, no more, and beat hard. The cake mixture should not be very thick. Pour into three medium-sized pie-tins lined with pastry and bake in a moderately hot oven. These are good, cheap breakfast cakes, neither eggs nor shortening being used. BROD TORTE (BREAD TART) Six yolks of eggs and 1 cup sugar, creamed together. Beat about 15 minutes. Add 1 teaspoonful allspice, 1 teaspoonful cloves, 1 cup Baker's chocolate, which had been grated, melted and cooled; 1 cup stale rye bread crumbs, crushed fine with rolling-pin. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of 6 eggs, a pinch of salt and 1/2 teaspoonful of baking powder sifted over the batter. Put into a small cake pan and bake half an hour in a moderate oven. When eggs are cheap and plentiful this is an economical cake, as no flour is used. It is a delicious cake and resembles an ordinary chocolate cake. A DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE CAKE 1/2 cake of Baker's unsweetened chocolate (grated). 1 cup granulated sugar. 1/2 cup milk. 1 teaspoonful vanilla. 1/2 cup butter. 1-1/2 to 2 cups flour. 2 eggs. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Boil together chocolate, sugar and milk. Add butter and when cool add yolk of eggs; then the flour, flavoring and stiffly beaten whites of 2 eggs. Beat all thoroughly and bake in a loaf or layers. CHOCOLATE ICING Boil together 5 tablespoonfuls grated chocolate, 3/4 cup granulated sugar, 2 tablespoonfuls milk, 1 egg. When the mixture begins to thicken and look creamy, spread on cake. If baked in layers, ice on top and between the two layers. A WHITE COCOANUT CAKE Cream together 3/4 cup butter and 2 cups sugar. Add whites of 5 eggs, 1 cup milk, 1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, 1/2 teaspoonful soda sifted with 3 cups flour and 1 grated cocoanut. Bake in a loaf. This is an excellent old recipe of Aunt Sarah's. A POTATO CAKE (NO YEAST REQUIRED) Cream together: 1 cup of sugar. 1/2 cup lard and butter, mixed. Yolk of 2 eggs. 1/2 cup pulverized cocoa. 1/2 cup of creamed mashed potatoes, cold. A little ground cinnamon and grated nutmeg. A few drops of essence of vanilla. 1/4 cup of sweet milk. 1/2 cup finely chopped nut meats. One teaspoonful of baking powder sifted with one cup of flour added to the batter alternately with the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Bake in two layers, in a moderately hot oven. Ice top and put layers together with white icing. This is a delicious, if rather unusual cake. A CITRON CAKE 1/2 cup butter. 1 cup sugar. 4 eggs. 2 tablespoonfuls water. 1/4 pound of thinly shaved citron. 1-1/2 cups flour. 1-1/4 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Several drops of almond flavoring. Bake in a loaf in a moderate oven about 45 minutes after mixing ingredients together as for any ordinary cake. This is a very good cake. AUNT AMANDA'S SPICE "KUCHEN" 1 cup butter. 2 cups granulated sugar. 1 cup of a mixture of sour milk and cream. 4 eggs. 1 teaspoonful soda. 1/2 teaspoonful cloves. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon. 1/2 teaspoonful nutmeg. 1 teaspoonful vanilla extract. 2 tablespoonfuls cocoa. 3 cups flour. Mix all like any ordinary cake. From one-half this recipe was baked an ordinary sized loaf cake. A GOOD, CHEAP CHOCOLATE CAKE One cup of flour, 1 teaspoonful of baking powder and 1 cup of granulated sugar were sifted together. Two eggs were broken into a cup, also 1 large tablespoonful of melted butter. Fill up the cup with sweet milk, beat all ingredients well together. Flavor with vanilla and add 2 extra tablespoonfuls of flour to the mixture. Bake in two layer cake pans. Place the following mixture between the two layers: 1/2 cup of grated chocolate, 1/2 cup sugar and 1/4 cup of liquid coffee. Cook together a short time until the consistency of thick cream, then spread between layers. AN ICE CREAM CAKE Two cups of pulverized sugar, 1 cup of butter, 1 cup sweet milk, whites of 8 eggs, 1 teaspoonful soda, 2 teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar, 3 cups of flour. From same proportions of everything, only using the 8 yolks instead of whites of eggs, may be made a yellow cake, thus having two good sized layer cakes with alternate layers of white and yellow. Put cakes together with white icing. This was an old recipe of Aunt Sarah's mother, used when cream of tartar and soda took the place of baking powder. SMALL SPONGE CAKES For these small cakes take 6 eggs, 1 cup of sugar and 3/4 cup of flour and 1/2 teaspoonful of baking powder, a pinch of salt, flavor with lemon. Beat yolks of eggs separately, then add sugar and beat to a cream, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs alternately with the sifted flour and baking powder; add a pinch of salt and flavoring. Bake in small muffin tins in a very moderate oven. SMALL CAKES AND COOKIES--"AUNT SARAH'S" LITTLE LEMON CAKES 2 cups granulated sugar. 3 eggs (not separated, but added one at a time to the sugar and shortening which had been creamed together). 1 scant cup butter and lard, mixed. 2 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Pinch of salt 1 tablespoonful sweet milk. Grated rind of 2 lemons and juice of one. Stiffen the dough with about 3-1/2 cups flour and use about 1 extra cup of flour to dredge the bake-board when rolling out dough and for sifting over the greased baking sheets so the cakes will come off readily. Roll dough very thin and cut in any desired shape. From this recipe may be made 100 small cakes. The baking sheet (for which I gave measurements in bread recipe) holds 20 of these small round cakes. Do all young housewives know that if dough for small cakes be mixed the day before baking and stood in a cool place, the cakes can be cut out more easily and the dough may be rolled thinner, and as less flour may then be used, the cakes will be richer? Aunt Sarah always cut these cakes with a small round or heart-shaped cutter and when all were on the baking sheet she either placed a half of an English walnut meat in the centre of each cake or cut out the centre of each small cake with the top of a pepper box lid before baking them. OATMEAL CRISPS 2-1/2 cups rolled oats (oatmeal). 1 tablespoonful melted butter. 3/4 cup sugar. 1 teaspoonful baking powder. 2 large eggs. Pinch of salt. Beat eggs, add salt and sugar, mix baking powder with oats and stir all together. Drop from a teaspoon on to flat pan or sheet iron, not too close together, as they spread. Flatten very thin with a knife dipped in cold water and bake in a moderate oven a light brown. These cakes are fine and easily made. Did you not know differently, you would imagine these cakes to be macaroons made from nuts, which they greatly resemble. AUNT SARAH'S GINGER SNAPS 1 cup molasses, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup of a mixture of lard and butter, 1 egg, 1 teaspoonful of ginger, 1 teaspoonful of cinnamon, 1/2 a grated nutmeg, 1 teaspoonful of soda dissolved in 1 teaspoonful of vinegar. About 3 cups of flour should be added. Dough should be stiff enough to roll out very thin, and the cakes may be rolled thinner than would be possible otherwise, should the cake-dough stand aside over night, or on ice for several hours, until thoroughly chilled. Cut cakes small with an ordinary cake cutter and bake in a quick oven. These are excellent and will remain crisp some time if kept in a warm, dry place. GERMAN "LEBKUCHEN" This is a recipe for good, old-fashioned "German Christmas cakes," from which Aunt Sarah's mother always baked. She used: 1 pound dark brown sugar. 3 whole eggs and yolks of 3 more. 1/4 pound citron finely shaved on a "slaw-cutter." 1/2 pound English walnut meats (chopped fine). 1 quart flour sifted with 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Mix well together. Do not roll thin like ginger snaps, but about a half inch thick. Cut out about size of a large coffee cup. Bake in a moderate oven and when cold ice the cakes with the following icing: ICING FOR GERMAN LEBKUCHEN. Boil 2 cups of sugar and 1/2 cup of water seven minutes. Pour over the stiffly beaten whites of three eggs; ice the cakes. Place cakes in a tin box when icing has become cold and these will keep quite a long time. I have eaten high-priced, imported Lebkuchen no better than those made from this recipe. GRANDMOTHER'S MOLASSES CAKES One quart of New Orleans molasses, 3 eggs, butter size of an egg. Place all together in a stew-pan on range, allow it to come to boil, stirring constantly, and when cool stir in one tablespoonful of saleratus dissolved in a very little vinegar, and about 3 pounds of flour. Do not have cake dough too stiff. Dough should stand until the following day. Roll out at least 1/2 inch thick. Cut cakes as large around as an ordinary coffee cup or cut with a knife into small, oblong pieces, a little larger than half a common soda cracker. Bake in a moderate oven. Should too much flour be used, cakes will be hard and dry instead of soft and spongy. This very old and excellent recipe had belonged to the grandmother of Sarah Landis. Cakes similar to the ones baked from this recipe, also those baked from recipe for "honey cakes," were sold in large sheets marked off in oblong sections, seventy years ago, and at that time no "vendue," or public sale, in certain localities throughout Bucks County, was thought complete unless in sound of the auctioneer's voice, on a temporary stand, these cakes were displayed on the day of "the sale," and were eagerly bought by the crowd which attended such gatherings. ANGEL CAKES (BAKED IN GEM PANS) The whites of four eggs should be beaten very stiff and when partly beaten sprinkle over 1/2 teaspoonful of cream of tartan Finish beating egg whites and sift in slowly 1/2 cup of fine granulated sugar, then sift 1/2 cup of flour (good measure). Flavor with a few drops of almond flavoring. Bake in small Gem pans, placing a tablespoonful of butter in each. Sift pulverized sugar over tops of cakes. Bake 20 minutes in a _very_ moderate oven. The recipe for these dainty little cakes was given Mary by a friend who, knowing her liking for angel cake, said these were similar in taste. "ALMOND BROD" Three-fourths cup sugar, 3 eggs, 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls olive oil 2 cups flour, 1/2 teaspoonfuls baking powder, 1/2 cup sweet almonds, pinch of salt. A couple of drops of almond extract. In a bowl place 3/4 cup of granulated sugar. Add 3 well-beaten eggs, 2 cups of flour sifted with 1-1/2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder and a pinch of salt. Mix all well together. Add 1 cup whole (blanched) almonds and 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of good olive oil. Knead the dough thoroughly. Do not have dough too stiff. Divide the dough into four equal parts, roll each portion of dough on a _well-floured_ bake board into long, narrow rolls. Place the four rolls on a baking sheet over which flour had been previously sifted. Place the rolls a short distance apart and bake in a quick oven about twenty minutes or until light brown on top. On removing the baking sheet from the oven cut rolls at once, while the almonds are still warm, into two-inch pieces. From this recipe was made thirty pieces of almond bread. The olive oil, used as shortening, is not tasted when baked. These are a very good little cake, and not bread, as their name would lead one to suppose. "GROSSMUTTER'S" HONEY CAKES One quart of boiled honey (if possible procure the honey used by bakers, as it is much cheaper and superior for this purpose than the clear, strained honey sold for table use). Add to the warm honey two generous tablespoonfuls of butter, yolks of four eggs, two ounces of salaratus (baking soda), dissolved in a very small quantity of vinegar, just enough to moisten the salaratus. Add just enough flour to enable one to stir well with a spoon. Work the dough a half hour and allow it to stand until the following day, when cut cakes from the dough which had been rolled out on the bake-board one-half inch thick. The dough should be only just stiff enough to roll out, as should the dough be _too soft_ the cakes will become hard and crisp, instead of light and spongy, and if too great a quantity of flour is added the cakes will not be good. As the thickening qualities of flour differ, the exact amount required cannot be given. When about to cut out cakes, the bake-board should be well-floured. Cut the cakes the size of the top of a large coffee-cup, or roll out in one-half inch thick on a well-floured baking sheet and mark in small, oblong sections with a knife, they may then be easily broken apart when baked. These cakes should he baked in a moderately hot oven and not a _hot oven_. These are the real, old-time honey cakes as made by Aunt Sarah's grandmother on a "Bucks County" farm, and Mary's Aunt informed her she still remembered in her earlier days having bought these cakes at "Bucks County" sales or "vendues," as they were then designated. LEMON WAFERS OR DROP CAKES 2 eggs. 1/2 pound butter. 1/2 pound sugar. 1/2 pound flour. Pinch of salt. Flavor with lemon essence. Mix the same as other small cakes. Drop spoonfuls quite a distance apart on the cold pan or tin on which they are to be baked as the dough spreads. These are very thin, delicious wafers when baked. FRAU SCHMIDT'S SUGAR COOKIES 1 cup lard and butter, mixed. 2 cups granulated sugar, and 2 eggs, all creamed together; then add 1 teaspoon soda (mix with a little sour milk). Flavor with vanilla. Beat all well together. Add flour enough that they may be rolled out, no more. Flour bake-board well; cut dough with cake cutter into small round cakes and bake in a rather quick oven. This recipe will make a large number of cakes if dough be rolled thin as a wafer. Frau Schmidt was able to keep these cakes some time--under lock and key. If cake dough be mixed one day and allowed to stand over night, cakes may be rolled out much more easily and cut thinner. ALMOND MACAROONS (AS PREPARED BY MARY) Three eggs (whites only), 3/4 pound of pulverized sugar, 1/2 pound of almond paste (which may be bought ready prepared). Beat eggs very stiff, add other ingredients. Drop teaspoonfuls on a baking sheet and bake in a moderate oven 15 or 20 minutes. Macaroons prepared from this recipe are delicious and resemble those sold by confectioners. "HONIG KUCHEN" (HONEY CAKES) Two pounds of flour, 1/2 pound of butter, 2/3 pound of almonds, 2 pounds of honey in liquid form, the grated yellow rind of one lemon, 1/2 teaspoonful of cloves, 1/2 teaspoonful of cinnamon, 1 ounce of hartshorn, dissolved in a small quantity of water. Boil together honey and butter, remove from fire, and when mixture has cooled add the hartshorn, coarsely chopped almonds and flour. Allow this mixture to stand several days, roll out 1/3 inch thick. Cut in small round cakes, place a whole almond in centre of each cake. Bake a light brown in a moderate oven. FRAU SCHMIDT'S MOLASSES SNAPS Two cups of New Orleans molasses, 1 cup of lard, 1 tablespoonful of ginger, 1 teaspoonful of cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoonful of cloves, 1/2 a grated nutmeg, 1 tablespoonful of saleratus dissolved in a small quantity of hot water. Add enough flour to form a _very_ stiff dough. Stand dough aside until the following day, when roll out very thin on a well-floured bake-board. Cut with a small round cake cutter and bake in a hot oven. These are good, cheap small cakes. HICKORY NUT CAKES One cup of hickory nut meals, 1 cup of pulverized sugar, 1 egg, a pinch of salt, 2 teaspoons of flour. Mix all ingredients together. Drop small pieces on a sheet-iron and bake. "LEBKUCHEN" (AS THE PROFESSOR'S WIFE MADE THEM) Two pounds of sugar, 8 large eggs, 3/4 pound of almonds (shelled), 1/4 pound of citron, 1/4 of a pound each of candied orange and lemon peel, the grated yellow rind of one lemon, 4 teaspoonfuls of cinnamon, 1 teaspoonful allspice, about 2 pounds flour. Separate the eggs. Cream the yolks of eggs and sugar well together. Then add the almonds (which have been blanched by pouring boiling water over them, when the skins may be readily removed), the citron and lemon peel chopped fine. Then add 1 level teaspoonful of different spices. Then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, alternately, with the sifted flour. The recipe called for two pounds of flour, but "Frau" Schmidt said; "She was never able to use the whole amount, so she added just enough flour to prevent the mixture spreading when dropped on the baking sheet by tablespoonfuls." FRUIT JUMBLES Two cups sugar, 3 eggs (beaten separately), 1 cup butter, 1 cup milk, 3-1/2 cups flour, 3 teaspoonfuls baking powder, 1/4 of nutmeg, grated, 1 cup currants. Mix all together and bake in a broad, shallow pan. This is similar to Spanish Bun. When cake is cooled, but not cold, cut in two-inch squares or diamonds before removing from the pan in which the cake was baked. BROWN "PFEFFERNUSSEN" For these German cakes Frau Schmidt used the following: 3 pounds of flour, 2 pounds of sugar syrup, 1/8 teaspoonful of black pepper, 1/4 pound of lard, 1/4 teaspoon of cardamom powder, 1/4 pound of butter, 1/2 teaspoonful of cloves, 1/2 pound of brown sugar and 2 eggs. Use as much "Hirschhorn Salz" as can be placed on the point of a knife ("Hirschhorn Salz" translated is carbonate of ammonia and is used for baking purposes). Allow the syrup to heat on the range. Skim off the top. When syrup has cooled mix all ingredients together and stand aside for one week or longer, when form the dough into small balls size of a hickory nut. Place on greased pans and bake half hour in a slow oven. SMALL OATMEAL CAKES Cream together 1-1/2 cups of light brown sugar, 1/2 cup of lard and butter, mixed, and the yolk of one egg. Add 1/2 cup of hot water and 3/4 teaspoonful of saleratus (baking soda) dissolved in a little boiling water; add 2-1/2 cups of oatmeal the stiffly beaten white of egg and 2-1/2 cups of white flour. Mix all together. Dredge the bake board with flour, roll thin. Cut out with a small round cake cutter. Sift a little flour over the well-greased baking sheets, on which place cakes and bake in a moderately hot oven. FRAU SCHMIDT'S RECIPE FOR "GERMAN" ALMOND SLICES 1/2 pound sugar, 1/2 pound butter. 1/2 pound of seeded raisins (chopped). 1/2 pound blanched and chopped almonds. 1 teaspoonful cinnamon, 1 teaspoonful of allspice. Grated rind and juice of 1 lemon. 2 cakes German sweet chocolate, grated. 3 whole eggs and 2 extra whites of eggs. 2 teaspoons baking powder, 3 cups flour. 1 tablespoon vanilla, 2 tablespoons of brandy. Cream butter and sugar, add eggs, one at a time. Then add all the ingredients. Mix with flour. Flour bake board and take a handful of dough and roll with the hands in shape of a sausage roll. This quantity of dough makes eight rolls. Place on greased baking sheets a short distance apart, so they will not touch when being baked. Bake them in a _warm_, not hot, oven. Take from the oven when baked and cut while still warm into small slices across the roll. Slices should be about three-quarters of an inch wide. Cover the three sides with the following icing: Beat together until smooth and creamy 1 cupful of sweet cream, adding enough confectioners' sugar to make it spread. You may expedite the work by preparing raisins and almonds the day before. The Professor's wife always served these almond cakes with coffee when she gave a "kaffee klatch" to her country friends. "JULY ANN'S" GINGER SNAPS Two cups of molasses (New Orleans), 1 cup of light brown sugar, 1 egg, 1 tablespoonful of soda, 2 tablespoonfuls of vinegar, 1 tablespoonful of ginger and about 5-1/2 cups of flour. Place molasses and sugar in a sauce-pan on the range, cook together until sugar is dissolved, no longer. Mix the soda and vinegar and when foamy add to the sugar and molasses with a portion of the required amount of flour; then add the egg and the flour remaining. Turn dough out on a well-floured bake-beard, roll out into a thin sheet and cut out small cakes with a tin cutter. Bake in a moderately hot oven. No shortening of any kind was used in these cakes. One hundred cakes were baked from the above ingredients. COCOANUT COOKIES Three cups of sugar, 1 cup of butter, 2 eggs, 1 cup of sweet milk, 1 cup of grated cocoanut, 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Mix all together, sift flour with baking powder, add flour to form a dough just stiff enough to roll out, no more. Cut with a small tin cake cutter into round cakes and bake. CHOCOLATE COOKIES Two cups of white sugar, 1 cup of grated, unsweetened chocolate, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup of butter, 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Flavor with vanilla. Mix together sugar, butter and eggs, add melted chocolate and flour to stiffen, just enough flour being used to allow of their being cut with a cake cutter. The baking powder should have been sifted with a small amount of flour before adding. SMALL "BELSNICKEL" CHRISTMAS CAKES 2 cups "A" sugar. Pinch of salt. 1 cup melted butter. 1 teaspoonful baking soda. 4 eggs. About 3 cups of flour. Mix in just enough flour so the cake dough may be rolled out quite thin on a floured board, using as little flour as possible. Cut out small cakes and bake lightly in a moderately hot oven. The butter, when melted, should fill one cup; pour it over the two cups of sugar in a bowl and beat until smooth and creamy; add the eggs, beating one at a time into the mixture. Sift the teaspoonful of baking soda several times through the flour before adding to the cake mixture. Stand this dough in a cold place one hour at least before cutting out cakes. No flavoring is used. Sift granulated sugar thickly over cakes before placing them in oven to bake. From these ingredients were made over one hundred cakes. One-half this recipe might be used for a small family. The cakes keep well in a dry, cool place. This old recipe of Aunt Sarah's mother derived its name "Belsnickel" from the fact that the Belsnickels, who invariably visited the houses of "Bucks County" farmers on Christmas Eve, were always treated to some of these delicious little Christmas cakes. "PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH" KISSES One cup of pulverized sugar, whites of 3 eggs, 1 heaping cup of nut meats (Mary used hickory nut meats), a pinch of salt. To the very stiffly beaten whites of eggs add sugar, salt and lastly the nut meats. Drop teaspoonfuls of this batter on a greased, floured baking tin. Bake in a moderate oven. LITTLE CRUMB CAKES For these small cakes Aunt Sarah creamed together 1/2 cup of granulated sugar, 1/4 cup butter. One quite large egg was used. The egg yolk was added to the creamed sugar and butter and thoroughly beaten, then scant 1/2 cup of milk was added, and one heaping cup of fine dried bread crumbs sifted with 3/4 teaspoonful of baking powder and 1/4 cup of finely chopped or rolled _black_ walnut meats. Lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of egg. Flavor with grated nutmeg. Bake in small muffin pans in a moderate oven. This makes nine small cakes. No flour is used in these cakes, but, instead of flour, bread crumbs are used. DELICIOUS VANILLA WAFERS (AS MARY MADE THEM) 1/4 pound of butter. 1/4 pound of flour. 1/4 pound of sugar. 2 eggs. Cream together butter and sugar, add yolks of eggs, beat well, then add stiffly beaten whites of eggs and flour alternately. Flavor with essence of vanilla, drop from spoon on to _cold_ iron pan, not too close together, as the cakes will spread. Bake quickly in a hot oven until outer edge of cakes have browned. MACAROONS (AS AUNT SARAH MADE THEM) One-half pound of almonds, blanched and chopped fine, 1/2 pound of pulverized sugar, whites of 4 eggs. Place sugar and almonds in a pan on the range, until colored a light yellow-brown. Beat whites of eggs very stiff, mix all ingredients together, then drop with a spoon on tins waxed with bees' wax, and bake in a quick oven. "SPRINGERLES" (GERMAN CHRISTMAS CAKES) 4 eggs. 1 pound sifted pulverized sugar 2 quarts flour, sifted twice. 2 small teaspoonfuls baking powder. Beat whites and yolks of eggs separately, mix with sugar and beat well. Add flour until you have a smooth dough. Roll out pieces of dough, which should be half an inch thick. Press the dough on a floured form or mold, lift the mold, cut out the cakes thus designed and let lie until next day on a floured bread board. The next day grease pans well, sprinkle anise seed over the pans in which the cakes are to be baked; lay in cakes an inch apart and bake in a moderate oven to a straw color. The form used usually makes six impressions or cakes 1-1/2 inches square, leaving the impression of a small figure or flower on surface when dough is pressed on form. OATMEAL COOKIES 1 cup sugar. 1 cup butter and lard, mixed (scant measure). 1 cup chopped nut meats. 1 cup chopped raisins. 2 eggs, beaten separately, whites added last. 1 teaspoonful baking soda dissolved in 4 tablespoonfuls sour milk. 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Little grated nutmeg. 2 cups oatmeal (uncooked). 2 cups white flour. Drop with tablespoon on well-greased baking sheet over which has been sifted a little flour. Bake in rather quick oven. This recipe makes 65 small cakes. PEANUT BISCUITS Sift together 2 cups flour and 3 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Add 1 egg, 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup peanuts and pecan nut meats, mixed (run through food-chopper), 1/2 cup sweet milk, 1/2 teaspoonful salt. Beat sugar and yolk of egg together add milk, stiffly beaten white of egg, chopped nut meats and flour, alternately. Add salt. Place a large spoonful in each of 12 well-greased Gem pans. Allow to stand in pans about 25 minutes. Bake half an hour. PLAIN COOKIES 1/2 cup butter. 4 tablespoonfuls milk. 1 cup sugar. 1/2 teaspoonful grated nutmeg. 2 eggs. 1/2 cup chopped walnut meats. 3 cups flour. 3 teaspoonfuls baking powder. Cream butter and sugar, add milk slowly, add well-beaten eggs. Beat well, add flour and baking powder, sifted together. Roll thin. Cut with a small cake cutter any desired. WALNUT ROCKS Cream together 1-1/2 cups of sugar, 1/2 cup of butter, a small teaspoonful of salt. Dissolve 1 teaspoonful of soda in 4 tablespoonfuls of warm water, two eggs. Sift 3 cups of flour, add 1 teaspoonful of ginger, 1 teaspoonful of cloves, 1/2 teaspoonful of grated nutmeg, 1 pound of English walnuts, 1 pound of seeded raisins. Drop by teaspoon on a cold sheet iron and bake in a moderate oven. These are excellent. CINNAMON WAFERS (AS MADE BY AUNT SARAH) 10 eggs 3/4 pound sugar. 3/4 pound butter. 1 pound flour. Mix like ordinary cake. Divide this into three parts. Flavor one part with vanilla, 1 with chocolate and the other with cinnamon. These latter will be darker than the first. Place a piece of dough as large as a small marble in a small hot, well-greased waffle or wafer iron. Press two sides of iron together, which flattens out cake, and hold by a long handle over fire, turning it over occasionally until cakes are baked. The cake, when baked, is a delicious, thin, rich wafer, about the size of half a common soda cracker. I have never eaten these Christmas cakes at any place excepting at Aunt Sarah's. The wafer iron she possessed was brought by her Grandmother from Germany. The waffle or wafer irons might be obtained in this country. ZIMMET WAFFLES (AS MADE BY FRAU SCHMIDT) 1/2 pound butter. 1/2 ounce cinnamon. 1/2 pound sugar. 3 eggs. Flour. Work together and form into small balls. Place in hot buttered wafer irons, hold over fire and bake. This is an old German recipe which Frau Schmidt's grandmother used. "BRAUNE LEBKUCHEN" 2 pounds sugar syrup. 1/4 pound granulated sugar. 1/4 pound butter. 1/4 pound coarsely chopped almonds. Grate yellow part of one lemon rind. 1/4 ounce cinnamon. 1/4 ounce cloves. 1 drachm of powdered cardamom. 1 ounce of hartshorn, dissolved in a little milk. Place syrup in stew-pan on range to heat, add butter, almonds, spices, etc. Remove from range, stir in flour gradually. Use about 10 cups of flour. When cool add the dissolved hartshorn. Allow the cake dough to stand in a warm place eight to ten days before baking. Then place a portion of the cake dough on a greased baking sheet which has been sprinkled lightly with flour, roll cake dough out on the sheet about 1/3 inch in thickness; place in a _very moderate_ oven. When well dried out and nicely browned on top cut the sheets into small squares, the size of ordinary soda crackers. This is a very old recipe given Mary by Frau Schmidt. PEANUT COOKIES One pint of roasted peanuts, measured, after being shelled. Rub off the brown skin, run through a food-chopper. Cream together 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, 1 cup of sugar. Add 3 eggs, 2 tablespoonfuls of milk, 1/4 teaspoonful of salt and the chopped peanuts. Add flour to make a soft dough. Roll out on a floured board, cut with a small cake cutter and bake in a moderate oven. This recipe was given Mary by a friend living in Allentown. PIES--FLAKY PIE CRUST Have all the materials cold when making pastry. Handle as little as possible. Place in a bowl 3-1/2 cups flour, 3/4 teaspoonful salt and 1 cup good, sweet lard. Cut through with a knife into quite small pieces and mix into a dough with a little less than a half cup of cold water. Use only enough water to make dough hold together. This should be done with a knife or tips of the fingers. The water should be poured on the flour and lard carefully, a small quantity at a time, and never twice at the same place. Be careful that the dough is not too moist. Press the dough with the hands into a lump, but do not knead. Take enough of the dough for one pie on the bake board, roll lightly, always in one direction, line greased pie tins and fill crust. If fruit pies, moisten the edge of the lower crust, cover with top crust, which has been rolled quite thin. A knife scraped across the top crust several times before placing over pie causes the crust to have a rough, flaky, rich-looking surface when baked. Cut small vents in top crust to allow steam to escape. Pinch the edges of fruit pies well together to prevent syrup oozing out. If you wish light, flaky pie crust, bake in a hot oven. If a sheet of paper placed in oven turns a delicate brown, then the oven is right for pies. The best of pastry will be a failure if dried slowly in a cool oven. When baking a crust for a tart to be filled after crust has been baked, always prick the crust with a fork before putting in oven to bake. This prevents the crust forming little blisters. Aunt Sarah always used for her pies four even cups of flour, 1/4 teaspoonful baking powder and one even cup of sweet, _rich, home-made lard_, a pinch of salt with just enough cold water to form a dough, and said her pies were rich enough for any one. They certainly were rich and flaky, without being greasy, and she said, less shortening was necessary when baking powder was used. To cause her pies to have a golden brown color she brushed tops of pies with a mixture of egg and milk or milk and placed immediately in a hot oven. Mary noticed her Aunt frequently put small dabs of lard or butter on the dough used for top crust of pies before rolling crust the desired size when she wished them particularly rich. Aunt Sarah always used pastry flour for cake and pie. A smooth flour which showed the impression of the fingers when held tightly in the hand (the more expensive "bread flour") feels like fine sand or granulated sugar, and is a stronger flour and considered better for bread or raised cakes in which yeast is used, better results being obtained by its use alone or combined with a cheaper flour when baking bread. AUNT SARAH'S LEMON PIE This is a good, old-fashioned recipe for lemon pie, baked with two crusts, and not expensive. Grate the yellow outside rind from one lemon, use juice and pulp, but not the white part of rind; mix with 2 small cups of sugar, then add 1 cup of water and 1 cup of milk, and 1 large tablespoonful of corn starch, moistened with a little of the one cup of water. The yolks of 2 eggs were added. Mix all ingredients and add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. This quantity will fill three small pastry crusts. The mixture will measure nearly one quart. Pour into the three crusts, moisten edges of pies, place top crusts on each pie. Pinch edges of crust together and bake in hot oven. THE PROFESSOR'S WIFE'S SUPERIOR PASTRY For superior pastry use 1-1/2 cups flour, 1 cup lard, 1/2 teaspoonful salt and about 1/4 cup of cold water, or three scant tablespoonfuls. Put 1 cup of flour on the bake board, sprinkle salt over, chop 1/4 cup of sweet lard through the flour with a knife, until the pieces are about the size of a cherry. Moisten with about 1/4 cup of ice cold water. Cut through the flour and lard with a knife, moistening a little of the mixture at a time, until you have a soft dough, easily handled. Roll out lightly the size of a tea plate. Take 1/3 of the lard remaining, put small dabs at different places on the dough (do not spread the lard over), then sprinkle over 1/3 of the remaining half cup of flour and roll the dough into a long, narrow roll, folding the opposite ends in the centre of the roll. Roll out lightly (one way), then add lard and flour; roll and repeat the process until flour and lard have all been used. The pastry may be set aside in a cold place a short time before using. If particularly fine pastry is required, the dough might be rolled out once more, using small dabs of butter instead of lard, same quantity as was used of lard for one layer, then dredged thickly with flour and rolled over and over, and then ends folded together, when it should be ready to use. When wanted to line pie-tins, cut pieces off one end of the roll of dough and roll out lightly. The layers should show plainly when cut, and the pastry should puff nicely in baking, and be very rich, crisp and flaky. When preparing crusts for custards, lemon meringues and pies having only one crust, cut narrow strips of pastry about half an inch wide, place around the upper edge or rim of crust and press the lower edge of the strip against the crust; make small cuts with a knife about 1/3 inch apart, all around the edge of this extra crust, to cause it to look flaky when baked. This makes a rich pie crust. A very good crust may be made by taking the same proportions as used for superior pastry, placing 1-1/2 to 2 cups flour on the bake board, add salt, cut 1/2 cup lard through the flour, moistening with water. Roll out crust and line pie-tins or small patty pans for tarts. This pastry is not quite as fine and smooth as the other, but requires less time and trouble to make. The Professor's wife taught Mary to make this pastry, but Mary never could learn from her the knack of making a dainty, crimped, rolled-over edge to her pies, which she made easily with a deft twist of her thumb and forefinger. MARY'S LEMON MERINGUE (MADE WITH MILK) Line two large pie-tins with pie crust, prick with a fork before placing crusts in oven to bake. When baked stand aside to cool while you prepare the following filling: The juice and grated rind of 1 lemon, 1 pint sweet milk, 1 cup sugar, yolks of three eggs, 3 tablespoonfuls flour, butter size of a walnut. Cream together sugar, flour, yolks of eggs, then add lemon, mix well then add to the scalded milk on the range and cook until thick. Let cool, but do not allow to become quite cold, spread on the two crusts, which have been baked. When quite cold add 3 tablespoonfuls of sugar to the stiffly beaten whites of the three eggs, spread on top of pies, sift 1 tablespoonful pulverized sugar on top of meringue and set in a quick oven until fawn color. Serve cold. When mixing pie dough, should you have mixed more than needed at one time, line _agate_ pie-tins with crust (never stand away in tin). They may be kept several days in a cool place and used later for crumb cakes or custards. Or a crust might be baked and used later for lemon meringues, etc. APPLE TART Line pie-tins with rich pie crust, sift over each 1 tablespoonful flour and 2 tablespoonfuls sugar. Place on the crust enough good, tart baking apples, which have been pared, cored, halved and placed (flat surface down) on the crust. Put bits of butter over the top and between the apples, about 1 large tablespoonful altogether, and sprinkle about 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar over, add about 1 tablespoonful of cold water when pies are ready to place in oven. These pies should be baked in a very hot oven. When apples are soft take pies from oven and serve one pie, hot; stand the other one aside until quite cold. To the stiffly beaten white of one egg add one tablespoonful sugar. Stir together and place a spoonful on the top of each half of apple and place in oven until meringue has browned and serve pie cold. Peach tarts may be made in a similar manner, omitting the meringue and substituting peaches for apples. RAISIN OR "ROSINA" PIE "Rosina" pie, as Aunt Sarah called it, was composed of 1 lemon, 1 egg, 1 cup sugar, 1 tablespoonful flour, 1 cup large, blue, seeded raisins. Cover the raisins with one cup of cold water; let soak two hours. Cream egg and sugar together, add juice and grated rind of one quite small lemon, or half a large one. Mix the tablespoonful of flour smooth with a little cold water, add to the mixture, then add raisins and to the water in which they were soaked add enough water to fill the cup and cook until the mixture thickens. When cool fill pie-tins with the mixture, bake with upper and under crust about 20 minutes in hot oven. Aunt Sarah used a _generous_ tablespoonful of flour for this pie. "SNITZ" PIE Cover a bowlful of well-washed dried apples with cold water and allow to soak over night. The following morning cook until tender and mash through a colander. If quite thick a small quantity of water should be added. Season with sugar to taste. Some apples require more sugar than others. Add cinnamon, if liked. Aunt Sarah never used any spices in these pies. Bake with two crusts or place strips cross-wise over the pie of thinly rolled dough, like lattice work. These are typical "Bucks County" pies. MARY'S RECIPE FOR PLAIN PUMPKIN PIE Line a pie-tin, one holding 3 cups of liquid, with rich pastry. For the filling for pie mix together the following: 1 cup of steamed pumpkin, which had been mashed through a colander, 1 egg, beaten separately, 1 tablespoonful of flour, 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of sugar, 1/8 teaspoonful of salt, 1/2 teaspoonful of grated nutmeg, same of ginger, 1-1/2 cups of milk (scant measure). The mixture should measure exactly 3 cups, after adding milk. Pour this mixture into the pastry-lined pie-tin and bake in a moderate oven until top of pie is a rich brown. CHOCOLATE PIE Melt one square of Baker's unsweetened chocolate, or 1/4 cup of powdered cocoa, mix with this 1/2 cup of granulated sugar and 1/4 cup of corn starch. When well mixed add yolks of 3 eggs, a pinch of salt, 2 cups of milk; cook all together in a double boiler until thickened. When cool flavor with vanilla. Fill pastry-lined pie crust with the mixture. Beat the 3 whites of eggs to a froth, mix with a couple tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar, spread on top of pie, stand in oven until light brown. "PEBBLE DASH" OR SHOO-FLY PIE Aunt Sarah made these to perfection and called them "Pebble Dash" pie. They are not really pies, they resemble cakes, but having a crust we will class them with pies. She lined three small sized pie-tins with rich pie crust. For the crumbs she placed in a bowl 3 cups of flour, 1 cup brown sugar and 3/4 cup of butter and lard, mixed and rubbed all together with the hands, not smooth, but in small rivels. For the liquid part she used 1 cup baking molasses, 1 cup hot water, 1 teaspoonful baking soda dissolved in a few drops of vinegar and stirred this into the molasses and water. She divided the liquid among the three pans, putting one-third in each crust, over which she sprinkled the crumbs. Bake one-half hour in a moderate oven. These have the appearance of molasses cakes when baked. VANILLA CRUMB "CRUSTS" Cook together a short time 1/2 cup molasses, 1 egg, 1 tablespoonful flour, 1 cup sugar, 2 cups cold water. Moisten the flour with a little cold water before adding to the other ingredients. When cooled add 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. Pour this mixture in the bottom of each of four common sized pie-tins, lined with pastry, and sprinkle over the following crumbs: THE CRUMBS (FOR VANILLA CRUMB CRUSTS). Two cups flour, 1/2 cup butter and lard, mixed, 1/2 teaspoonful soda and 1 cup sugar, rubbed together with the hands to form crumbs. Scatter these crumbs over the four pies. These are not thick pies, but simply what the recipe calls them--vanilla "crusts." "KASHA KUCHEN" OR CHERRY CAKE Aunt Sarah sometimes filled the bottom crusts of two small pies (either cheese pie or plain custard) with a layer of fresh cherries and poured the custard over the top of the cherries and baked same as a plain custard pie. Aunt Sarah might be called extravagant by some, but she always made egg desserts when eggs were cheap and plentiful, in the Spring. In Winter she baked pies and puddings in which a fewer number of eggs were used and substituted canned and dried fruits for fresh ones. In summer she used fresh fruit when in season, ice cream and sherbets. She never indulged in high-priced, unseasonable fruits--thought it an extravagance for one to do so, and taught Mary "a wise expenditure in time means wealth." For banana custard pie she substituted sliced banana for cherries on top of pie. "RIVEL KUCHEN" Place in a bowl 1 cup flour, 1/2 cup sugar (good measure), 1/2 cup butter and lard, or all butter is better (scant measure). Some like a little grating of nutmeg, especially if part lard is used. Mix or crumb the ingredients well together with the hands to form small lumps, or rivels. Line pie-tins with a rich pastry crust and strew the rivels thickly over and bake in a quick oven. A couple tablespoons of molasses spread over the crumbs is liked by some. This is a favorite pie or cake of many Pennsylvania Germans. AUNT SARAH'S LEMON MERINGUE Two cups of water, 1-1/2 cups of sugar, 2 rounding tablespoonfuls of corn starch, 4 eggs, 1 tablespoonful of butter, 2 small lemons. Mix the water, sugar and corn starch dissolved in a little cold water, pour in sauce-pan, place on range and stir mixture until thickened. Beat separately the yolks of 4 eggs and the whites of 2, then add both to the above mixture. Remove from the fire, add the juice of two small lemons and grated rind of one; add butter. Fill two previously baked pastry shells with the cooled mixture. Beat the remaining whites of egg (another white of an egg added improves the appearance of the pie.) Add one tablespoonful of pulverized sugar to each egg used; place the stiffly beaten whites of egg rockily over tops of pies stand in oven until a delicate shade of brown. This is a delicious pie. A COUNTRY BATTER PIE Line two medium-sized pie-tins with pastry crust in which pour the following mixture, composed of 1/2 cup of granulated sugar and one egg, creamed together; then add 1/2 cup of cold water and the grated yellow rind and juice of one lemon. For the top of pies: Cream together 1 cup of sugar, 1/4 cup of lard and 1 egg, then add 1/2 cup of sour milk alternately with 1-1/2 cups of flour, sifted with 1/2 teaspoonful of baking soda and 1/2 teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Place 1/2 of this mixture on top of each pie. Bake in oven. PUMPKIN PIE (AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE) The best pumpkin for pie is of a deep orange yellow with a rough, warty surface. Remove the soft, spongy pulp and seeds of the pumpkin, pare and cut into small pieces. Steam until tender. Put in a colander to drain, then mash through colander with wooden potato masher. For one deep pie allow one pint of the stewed pumpkin, beat in 2 eggs, one at a time, 1/2 teaspoonful salt, 1 teaspoonful ginger, 1/2 teaspoonful grated nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoonful cinnamon, 2/3 cup sugar, 1 scant pint milk. Beat all together. This mixture should barely fill a quart measure. Pour in a deep pie-tin lined with rich crust, grate nutmeg over the top of pie and bake from 45 to 50 minutes in a moderate oven. Have the oven rather hot when the pie is first put in to bake and then reduce the heat, else the filling in the pie will boil and become watery. If liked, two tablespoonfuls of brandy may be added to the mixture before filling the crust. In that case, use two tablespoonfuls less of milk. WHITE POTATO CUSTARD (AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE) Boil one medium-sized potato, mash fine, add 1 large tablespoonful of butter and a generous 1/2 cup sugar. Beat to a cream. When the mixture has cooled add yolks of 2 eggs, 1/2 cup sweet milk and grated rind and juice of half a lemon. Lastly, stir in the stiffly beaten whites of the two eggs. Bake in a medium-sized pie-tin with one crust in a moderately hot oven about 25 minutes, until a rich brown on top. This is a delicious pie and would puzzle a "Bucks County lawyer" to tell of what it is composed. "RHUBARB CUSTARD" PIE Two cups of rhubarb, uncooked, do not skin it, cut in half-inch pieces. Cream together 1 cup of sugar, 1 tablespoonful of cornstarch, 2 eggs (reserve white of one egg). Add the 2 cups of rhubarb to this mixture and place all in a pie-tin lined with pastry. Place in oven and bake until rhubarb is tender. Remove from oven and when pie has cooled spread over it the stiffly beaten white of the egg, to which had been added one tablespoonful of sugar. Place pie in oven and brown a light fawn color. "LEMON APPLE" PIE Grate the yellow rind from a lemon (discard the white part of rind), grate the remainder of the lemon, also pare and grate 1 apple. Add 1-1/2 cups of sugar, then add 2 well-beaten eggs. Pour this mixture into 1 large pie-tin lined with rich pastry; place on a top crust, pinch edges, moistened with water, together; bake in an oven with a steady heat. When pie has baked sift pulverized sugar thickly over top and serve cold. From these materials was baked a fair sized pie. GREEN CURRANT PIE Line a pie-tin with rich pastry; place oil this crust 2 tablespoonfuls of flour and 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar; then add 2 cups of well-washed and stemmed green currants, previously mixed with 1 tablespoonful of cornstarch, moistened with a small quantity of cold water. Add 1 cup of sugar (from which had been taken the 2 tablespoonfuls placed on crust;) add 2 tablespoonfuls of water; cover with a top crust, cut small vents in crust, bake in a moderate oven. When crust loosens from side of pan the pie should be sufficiently baked. A COUNTRY "MOLASSES" PIE Place in a mixing bowl 3/4 cup flour (generous measure), 1/2 cup granulated sugar, 1 generous tablespoonful of butter. Crumble all together with the hands until quite fine. Then to 1/4 cup of New Orleans (baking) molasses add 1/4 cup of boiling water and 1/4 teaspoonful of soda (saleratus). Beat together the molasses, water and soda until the mixture is foamy and rises to top of cup. Then pour into a medium-sized pie-tin, lined with pie crust (the pie-tin should not be small or the mixture, when baking, will rise over top of pan). Sprinkle the prepared crumbs thickly over the molasses mixture and with a spoon distribute the crumbs well through the mixture. Bake in a moderate oven from 25 to 30 minutes and you will have the old-fashioned pie your Grandmother used to bake. When her baking finished, she had dough remaining for an extra crust. Children always called this "molasses candy pie," as 'twas quite different from the "molasses cake batter" usually baked in crusts. A MOCK CHERRY PIE This pie was composed of 3/4 cup of chopped cranberries, 3/4 cup of seeded and chopped raisins, 3/4 cup of sugar, 3/4 cup of cold water, 1 tablespoonful of flour, 1 teaspoonful of vanilla all together and bake with two crusts. AUNT SARAH'S CUSTARD PIE Line an agate pie-pan (one used especially for custards two inches in depth, holding exactly one quart) with a rich pastry. Break five large eggs in a bowl, heat lightly with an egg-beater and add 1/2 cup of sugar. Boil 3 cups of sweet milk, pour over the eggs and sugar, add 1 teaspoonful of butter and a pinch of salt, 1/2 teaspoonful of vanilla. The mixture should fill a one-quart measure. When the custard has cooled, pour either into the deep pie-pan, lined with pastry, holding one quart, or into two ordinary pie-tins holding one pint each. Place the custard pie in a quick oven, that the crust may bake before the custard soaks into the crust; then allow oven to cool and when the custard is "set" (which should be in about 35 minutes) remove from the oven and serve cold. The custard should be the consistency of thick jelly. Scalding the milk produces a richer custard. PLAIN RHUBARB PIE Line a pie-tin with rich crust, skin rhubarb and cut into half-inch pieces a sufficient quantity to fill 3 cups. Mix together 1 cup of sugar and 1/4 cup of flour. Place a couple tablespoonfuls of this on the bottom crust of pie. Mix sugar and flour remaining with 3 cups of rhubarb and fill the crust. Moisten the edge of crust with water, place on top crust, press two edges of crust together (having cut small vents in top crust to allow steam to escape). Bake in a moderate oven about 30 minutes, when top crust has browned pie should be baked. MARY'S CREAM PIE Bake crusts in each of two pie-tins. For filling, 1 pint of milk, 1 generous tablespoonful of corn starch, 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar, 2 yolks of eggs (well beaten), 1 teaspoonful of vanilla. Cook all together until mixture thickens and when cooled put in the two baked crusts. Mix the stiffly beaten whites of two eggs with two tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and spread over cream filling in pies and brown lightly in oven. Always prick the lower crust of a pie carefully with a fork to allow the air to escape; this will prevent blisters forming in the crusts baked before filling crusts with custards. APPLE CUSTARD PIE To 1 cup of hot apple sauce (unsweetened) add a tiny pinch of baking soda, 1 tablespoonful of butter, 1 cup of sugar, grated rind and juice of half a lemon or orange, 2 egg yolks, 1/2 cup of sweet cream and 1 large teaspoonful of corn starch. Line a pie-tin with pastry, pour in this mixture and bake. When the pie has cooled spread over top a meringue composed of the two stiffly beaten whites of eggs and two tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar flavored with a little grated orange or lemon peel. Brown top of pie in oven. LEMON PIE WITH CRUMBS Place in a bowl 1 cup (good measure) of soft, crumbled stale bread. Pour over this one cup of boiling water, add 1 teaspoonful (good measure) of butter and beat until smooth, then add 1 cup of sugar, the grated rind and juice of 1 lemon and the beaten yolks of 2 eggs. This mixture should measure about 1 pint. Pour into a pie-tin lined with rich pastry and bake. When cold spread over a meringue made of the stiffly beaten whites of the 2 eggs and 3 tablespoonfuls of granulated sugar. Place in the oven until the meringue is a light fawn color and serve cold. AUNT SARAH'S BUTTER SCOTCH PIE Boil together 1 cup brown sugar and 2 tablespoons butter until a soft, wax-like consistency. Mix together 2 heaping teaspoons flour, yolk of 1 egg and 1 cup of milk. Beat until smooth; stir this into the sugar and butter mixture and cook until thick. Flavor with lemon or vanilla, pour into baked crust and spread over top the beaten white of 1 egg to which has been added tablespoon sugar and brown in oven. GREEN TOMATO MINCE MEAT One peck of green tomatoes, chopped fine; 3 lemons, 2 seeded raisins, 5 pounds of granulated sugar, 1 cup of vinegar, 1 teaspoonful of cloves, 1-1/2 tablespoonfuls of nutmeg, 1 tablespoonful of cinnamon. Cook tomatoes 3-3/4 hours, then add the other ingredients and cook all together 30 minutes. A small quantity of grated orange peel, finely minced citron, cider, brandy or canned fruit juice may be added to improve the flavor of the mince meat. Fill air-tight jars with the hot mixture and screw on jar-tops. This mince meat may be prepared in season when tomatoes are plentiful; is both good and cheap and is a splendid substitute for old-fashioned mince meat. ORANGE MERINGUE (A PIE) Into a bowl grate the yellow outside rind of a large, juicy orange; add the juice and pulp, but not any of the tough part enclosing sections. Add 1 tablespoonful of lemon juice, 1 cup of granulated sugar, which had been beaten to a cream with 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, the yolks of 3 eggs, 2 large tablespoonfuls of corn starch, mixed smoothly with a little cold water, and 1 cup of boiling water. Cook all together until thickened and when cool spread on a rather large pie-tin, lined with a baked crust of superior pastry. Add to the stiffly beaten whites of 3 eggs 3 tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar. Place meringue over top of pie and place in oven until a light fawn color. GRANDMOTHER'S RECIPE FOR "MINCE MEAT" The day preceding that on which mince meat is to be prepared, boil 5 pounds of beef. To the well-cooked, finely-chopped meat add 10 pounds of tart apples, chopped into coarse bits; 2 pounds of finely-chopped suet, 2 pounds of large blue raisins, seeded; 2 pounds of dried, cleaned currants, 1/2 pound of finely-shaved citron, 2 tablespoonfuls of cinnamon, 1 tablespoonful of cloves, 1 tablespoonful of grated nutmeg, 1 small tablespoonful of salt, 1 pint of baking molasses, 1 pint of brandy or cider which had been boiled down. Mix all well together, add more spices, if liked, also juice of 1 orange or lemon. Place all ingredients in a large preserving kettle, allow the mixture to heat through. Fill glass jars, seal and stand away until used. Add more cider, should it he required, when baking pies. "TWENTIETH CENTURY" MINCE MEAT Two pounds lean beef (uncooked), chopped fine, 1/2 pound beef suet, shredded. Put the beef and suet in a large stone jar, pour over it 2/3 of a quart of whiskey. Let stand covered with a lid for a week, then add 2 pounds large, seeded raisins, 2 pounds Sultana raisins, 2 pounds currants, 1/2 pound citron, juice and grated rind of 2 oranges and of 2 lemons, 1 teaspoonful salt, 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon, 2 grated nutmegs, 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice, 1 pound sugar. Let stand two weeks, then it is ready to use. When you wish to bake pies take out as much of the mince meat as you wish to use and add chopped apples, two parts of mince meat to one part chopped apples, and add more sugar if not as sweet as liked. If too thick, add a little sherry wine and water, mixed. Fill bottom crust with some of the mixture, cover with top crust and bake. There must be just enough liquor in the jar to cover the meat, as that preserves it. This seems like a large quantity of liquor to use, but much of the strength evaporates in baking, so that only an agreeable flavor remains; that is, to those who like liquor in mince meat; some people do not. Others there are who think mince meat not good unless made with something stronger than cider. Mince pies made by this recipe are excellent. This recipe was given Mary by a friend, a noted housekeeper and cook. A "DUTCH" RECIPE FOR PUMPKIN PIE Line a medium-sized pie-tin with pastry. Cover the crust thickly with thinly-sliced, uncooked pumpkin, cut in inch lengths. Place on the pumpkin 1 tablespoonful of syrup molasses, 1 tablespoonful of vinegar, 1 tablespoonful flour and sweeten with sugar to taste, dust over the top a little ground cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg; cover pie with a top crust and bake in a moderately hot oven. When baked the pumpkin filling in the pie should resemble diced citron and the pie have somewhat the flavor of green tomato pie. (The vinegar may be omitted and the result be a very good pie.) MARY'S COCOANUT CUSTARD PIE Line two medium-sized pie-tins with rich pastry and bake. For the custard filling: 3 egg yolks, 2 cups granulated sugar, 1 quart of milk. Cook all together, then add 1 tablespoonful of corn starch and one of flour (moistened with a little cold water before adding). Cook all together until the mixture thickens. Flavor with one teaspoonful of vanilla. Allow the mixture to cool. Grate one good-sized cocoanut, mix half of it with the custard and fill into the two crusts. Spread over the tops of the two pies the stiffly beaten whites of the three eggs to which you have added a small quantity of sugar. Over this sprinkle the remaining half of the grated cocoanut, stand in the oven a few minutes, until top of pie is lightly browned. GRAPE PIE Pulp the grapes. Place pulp in a stew-pan and cook a short time. When tender mash pulp through a sieve to remove seeds. Add skins to pulp. Add one scant cup of sugar and rounded teaspoonful of butter. Line a pie plate with rich pastry, sprinkle over one tablespoonful of flour. Pour in the grape mixture and sift another tablespoonful of flour over the top of mixture and cover with a top crust in which vents have been cut, to allow the steam to escape, and bake in a hot oven. Allow two small cups of grapes to one pie. SOUR CHERRY PIE One quart of cherries, 1/2 cup of flour for juicy sour cherries, (scant measure of flour), 1-1/2 cups sugar. Pit the cherries, saving cherry juice. Mix together sugar and flour and place about 1/3 of this on a pie-tin lined with pastry. Fill with cherries and juice and sprinkle remaining sugar and flour over. Bake with an upper crust, having vents cut in to allow steam to escape. AUNT SARAH'S STRAWBERRY PIE Make a rich crust, line a pie-tin and fill with clean, hulled strawberries. Allow one quart to each pie. Sweeten to taste; sprinkle a generous handful of flour over the berries, having plenty of flour around the inside edge of pie. Use 1/2 cup of flour all together. Cut a teaspoonful of butter into small bits over top of berries, cover with top crust with vents cut in to allow steam to escape, pinch edges of crust together to prevent juice escaping from pie, and bake. FLORENDINE PIE To 2 apples, cooked soft and mashed fine (after having been pared and cored) add the yolk of one egg (well beaten) one minute before removing the cooked apple from the range. Then add 1 small cup of sugar, a piece of butter the size of a hickory nut, 1 teaspoonful of flour; flavor with either lemon or vanilla. Line a pie-tin with rich pastry crust. Pour in the mixture and bake in a quick oven. This makes a delicious old-fashioned dessert. AUNT SARAH'S CHEESE CAKE Prepare the following for one cheese cake, to be baked in a pie-tin lined with pastry crust: One heaping cup of rich, creamy "smier kase," or cottage cheese, was placed in a bowl, finely mashed with a spoon until free from lumps. Then mixed smooth with 2 tablespoonfuls of sweet milk, 1 tablespoonful of softened butter was added, a pinch of salt, about 3/4 cup of sugar, 1-1/4 table spoonfuls of flour (measure with an ordinary silver tablespoon). One large egg was beaten into the mixture when it was smooth and creamy, 1 cup of milk was added. After adding all the different ingredients the mixture should measure about 3-3/4 cups and should be very thin. Pour the mixture into a pastry-lined pie-tin. This is one of the most delicious pies imaginable, if directions given are closely followed. Bake in a moderately hot oven until cheese custard is "set" and nicely browned on top, then allow the oven door to remain open about five minutes before removing the "pie," as I should call it, but Bucks County farmers' wives, when speaking of them, invariably say "cheese cakes." Should the housewife possess "smier kase," _not_ rich and creamy, use instead of the one tablespoonful of sweet milk, one tablespoonful of sweet cream. "FRAU SCHMIDT'S" LEMON PIE Grated yellow rind and juice of one lemon, 1 cup of sugar, 1 cup of molasses, 1 egg, butter, size of a walnut; 1 tablespoonful of corn starch, 3/4 cup of water. Cream together the butter, sugar and egg, add the corn starch moistened with a little cold water, add grated rind and juice of one lemon, molasses, and lastly add water. Cook all ingredients together. When cool fill 2 or 3 small pie-tins lined with rich pastry; cover with top crust and bake. PICKLES--SPICED CUCUMBERS 24 medium-sized cucumbers. 6 medium-sized onions. 3 red peppers. 3 green peppers. Pare cucumbers, then cut in inch lengths. Slice onions and peppers quite thin. Place all in a large earthenware bowl and sprinkle over about 1/2 cup of table salt; mix all well together, let stand four or five hours, when place in a colander; cover with a plate and drain off all the salt water possible or squeeze through a cheese-cloth bag. Boil together for 10 minutes the following; 1 quart of vinegar, 1 tablespoonful of cloves, 1 teaspoonful of turmeric powder (dissolved in a little of the vinegar) and 1 scant cup of sugar. Add the cucumbers, peppers and onions to the hot vinegar. Let come to a boil and allow all to boil two minutes, then place in sterilised jars and seal. MIXED SAUCE TO SERVE WITH MEATS Yolks of 4 eggs. 1/2 cup sugar. 1 tablespoonful mixed yellow mustard. 1 tablespoonful olive oil. 1 teaspoonful salt. 1 tablespoonful vinegar with flavor of peppers. Thin with vinegar and boil until thick. Add 1 teaspoonful of grated horseradish. To flavor vinegar cover finely-cut green and red peppers with vinegar and allow all to stand about 24 hours, then strain and use the vinegar. PEPPER RELISH Chop fine 12 sweet red peppers, 12 sweet green peppers and 8 small onions. Put all in a bowl and cover with boiling water and let stand five minutes. Drain off, cover again with boiling water and let stand ten minutes. Then place in an agate colander or muslin bag and let drain over night. The following morning add 1 quart of good sour vinegar, 1-1/2 cups sugar, 2 even teaspoonfuls salt and boil 20 minutes. While hot fill air-tight jars. This is excellent. PICKLED RED CABBAGE Shred red cabbage, not too fine, and sprinkle liberally with salt. Stand in a cool place 24 hours. Then press all moisture from the cabbage, having it as dry as possible; stand the earthen bowl containing the cabbage in the sun for a couple of hours. Take a sufficient quantity of vinegar to cover the cabbage. A little water may be added to the vinegar if too sour. Add 1 cup sugar to a gallon of vinegar and a small quantity of celery seed, pepper, mace, allspice and cinnamon. Boil all about five minutes and pour at once over the cabbage. The hot vinegar will restore the bright red color to the cabbage. Keep in stone jar. MUSTARD PICKLES 24 cucumbers, 1 quart of small onions, 6 peppers, 2 heads of cauliflower, 4 cups of sugar, or less; celery or celery seed, 3 quarts of good vinegar, 1/2 pound of ground yellow mustard, 1 tablespoonful turmeric powder, 3/4 cup of flour. The seeds were removed from the cucumbers and cucumbers were cut in inch-length pieces, or use a few medium-sized cucumbers cut in several pieces and some quite small cucumbers. (The quantity of cucumbers when measured should be the same as if the larger ones had been used.) One quart of small whole onions, 6 peppers, red, green and yellow, two of each, cut in small pieces. Place all together in an agate preserving kettle and let stand in salt water over night. In the morning put on the range, the vegetables in agate kettle, let boil a few minutes, then drain well. Take three quarts of good vingar, 4 cups of sugar, if liked quite sweet; 2 teaspoons of either celery seed or celery cut in small pieces. Put the vinegar, sugar and celery in a preserving kettle, stand on stove and let come to a boil; then add the other ingredients. When boiling have ready a half pound of ground mustard, 3/4 cup of flour, 1 tablespoon of turmeric powder, all mixed to a smooth paste with a little water. Cook until the mixture thickens. Add all the other ingredients and boil until tender. Stir frequently to prevent scorching. Can while hot in glass air-tight jars. AUNT SARAH'S CUCUMBER PICKLES Always use the cucumbers which come late in the season for pickles. Cut small green cucumbers from vine, leaving a half-inch of stem. Scrub with vegetable brush, place in a bowl and pour over a brine almost strong enough to float an egg; 3/4 cup of salt to seven cups of cold water is about the right proportion. Allow them to stand over night in this brine. Drain off salt water in the morning. Heat a small quantity of the salt water and pour over small onions which have been "skinned." Use half the quantity of onions you have of cucumbers, or less. Allow the onions to stand in hot salt water on back of range a short time. Heat 1 cup of good sharp cider vinegar, if too sour, add 1/2 cup of water, also add 1 teaspoonful of sugar, a couple of whole cloves; add cucumbers and onions (drained from salt water, after piercing each cucumber several times with a silver fork). Place a layer at a time in an agate stew-pan containing hot vinegar. Allow them to remain a few minutes until heated through, when fill heated glass jars with cucumbers and onions; pour hot vinegar over until jars are quite full. Place rubbers on jars and screw on tops. These pickles will be found, when jars are opened in six months' time, almost as crisp and fine as when pickles are prepared, when taken fresh from the vines in summer. Allow jars to stand 12 hours, when screw down tops again. Press a knife around the edge of jar tops before standing away to be sure the jars are perfectly air-tight. "ROT PFEFFERS" FILLED WITH CABBAGE Cut the tops from the stem end of twelve sweet (not hot) red peppers or "rot pfeffers," as Aunt Sarah called them. Carefully remove seeds, do not break outside shell of peppers. Cut one head of cabbage quite fine on a slaw-cutter; add to the cabbage 1 even tablespoonful of fine salt, 2 tablespoonfuls of whole yellow mustard seed (a very small amount of finely shredded, hot, red pepper may be added if liked quite peppery). Mix all together thoroughly, fill peppers with this mixture, pressing it rather tightly into the shells; place tops on pepper cases, tie down with cord. Place upright in stone jar, in layers; cover with cold vinegar. If vinegar is very strong add a small quantity of water. Tie heavy paper over top of jar and stand away in a cool place until used. These may be kept several months and will still be good at the end of that time. AN OLD RECIPE FOR SPICED PICKLES 500 small cucumbers. 2 oz. of allspice. 3 gallons vinegar. 1/4 pound of black pepper. 3 quarts salt. 1 oz cloves. 6 ounces of alum. Horseradish to flavor. Add sugar according to strength of vinegar. Place cucumbers and pieces of horseradish in alternate layers in a stone jar, then put salt over them and cover with boiling water. Allow pickles to stand 24 hours in this brine, then pour off brine and wash pickles in cold water. Boil spices and vinegar together and pour over the pickles. In two weeks they will be ready to use. Pickles made over this recipe are excellent. AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE FOR CHILI SAUCE 18 large red tomatoes. 10 medium-sized onions. 10 sweet peppers (green or red). 1 cup sugar. 3 scant tablespoonfuls salt. 1-1/2 cups vinegar (cider vinegar). Tie in a small cheese cloth bag the following: 1 large teaspoonful whole allspice. 1 large teaspoonful whole cloves. About the same quantity of stick cinnamon. Chop tomatoes, onions and peppers rather finely; add vinegar, sugar and salt and the bag of spices and cook slowly about 2-1/2 hours. Fill air-tight glass jars with the mixture while hot. This is a particularly fine recipe of Aunt Sarah's. This quantity will fill five pint jars. Canned tomatoes may be used when fresh ones are not available. TOMATO CATSUP 1-1/2 peck ripe tomatoes, washed and cut in small pieces; also four large onions, sliced. Stew together until tender enough to mash through a fine sieve, reject seeds. This quantity of tomato juice should, when measured, be about four good quarts. Put tomato juice into a kettle on range, add one pint of vinegar, 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper, 1-1/2 tablespoons sugar, 1-1/2 tablespoons salt; place in a cheese cloth bag 1 ounce of whole black pepper, 1 ounce whole cloves, 1 ounce allspice, 1 ounce yellow mustard seed and add to catsup. Boil down one-half. Bottle and seal while boiling hot. Boil bottles and corks before bottling catsup. Pour melted sealing-wax over corks to make them air-tight, unless self-sealing bottles are used. PICKLED BEETS One cup of sharp vinegar, 1 cup of water, 2 tablespoonfuls of sugar, 8 whole cloves and a pinch of black, and one of red pepper. Heat all together and pour over beets which have been sliced after being boiled tender and skins removed, and pack in glass jars which have been sterilized and if jars are air-tight these keep indefinitely. MARMALADES, PRESERVES AND CANNED FRUITS Young housewives, if they would be successful in "doing up fruit," should be very particular about sterilizing fruit jars, both tops and rubbers, before using. Heat the fruit to destroy all germs, then seal in air-tight jars while fruit is scalding hot. Allow jars of canned fruit or vegetables to stand until perfectly cold. Then, even should you think the tops perfectly tight, you will probably be able to give them another turn. Carefully run the dull edge of a knife blade around the lower edge of jar cap to cause it to fit tightly. This flattens it close to the rubber, making it air-tight. To sterilize jars and tops, place in a pan of cold water, allow water to come to a boil and stand in hot water one hour. For making jelly, use fruit, under-ripe. It will jell more easily, and, not being as sweet as otherwise, will possess a finer flavor. For jelly use an equal amount of sugar to a pint of juice. The old rule holds good--a pound of sugar to a pint of juice. Cook fifteen to twenty minutes. Fruit juice will jell more quickly if the sugar is heated in the oven before being added. For preserving fruit, use about 3/4 of a pound of sugar to 1 pound of fruit and seal in air-tight glass jars. For canning fruit, use from 1/3 to 1/2 the quantity of sugar that you have of fruit. When making jelly, too long cooking turns the mixture into a syrup that will not jell. Cooking fruit with sugar too long a time causes fruit to have a strong, disagreeable flavor. Apples, pears and peaches were pared, cut in quarters and dried at the farm for Winter use. Sour cherries were pitted, dried and placed in glass jars, alternately with a sprinkling of granulated sugar. Pieces of sassafras root were always placed with dried apples, peaches, etc. "FRAU" SCHMIDT'S RECIPE FOR APPLE BUTTER For this excellent apple butter take 5 gallons of cider, 1 bucket of "Schnitz" (sweet apples were always used for the "Schnitz"), 2-1/2 pounds of brown sugar and 1 ounce of allspice. The cider should be boiled down to one-half the original quantity before adding the apples, which had been pared and cored. Cider for apple butter was made from sweet apples usually, but if made from sour apples 4 pounds of sugar should be used. The apple butter should be stirred constantly. When cooked sufficiently, the apple butter should look clear and be thick as marmalade and the cider should not separate from the apple butter. Frau Schmidt always used "Paradise" apples in preference to any other variety of apple for apple butter. CRANBERRY SAUCE A delicious cranberry sauce, or jelly, was prepared by "Aunt Sarah" in the following manner: Carefully pick over and wash 1 quart of cranberries, place in a stew-pan with 2 cups of water; cook quickly a few moments over a hot fire until berries burst open, then crush with a potato-masher. Press through a fine sieve or a fruit press, rejecting skin and seeds. Add 1 pound of sugar to the strained pulp in the stew-pan. Return to the fire and cook two or three minutes only. Long, slow cooking destroys the fine flavor of the berry, as does brown sugar. Pour into a bowl, or mold, and place on ice, or stand in a cool place to become cold before serving, as an accompaniment to roast turkey, chicken or deviled oysters. PRESERVED "YELLOW GROUND CHERRIES" Remove the gossamer-like covering from small yellow "ground cherries" and place on range in a stew-pan with sugar. (Three-fourths of a pound of sugar to one pound of fruit.) Cook slowly about 20 minutes, until the fruit looks clear and syrup is thick as honey. Seal in pint jars. These cherries, which grow abundantly in many town and country gardens without being cultivated, make a delicious preserve and a very appetizing pie may be made from them also. Aunt Sarah said she preferred these preserved cherries to strawberries. Frau Schmidt preferred the larger "purple" ground cherries, which, when preserved, greatly resembled "Guava" jelly in flavor. "WUNDERSELDA" MARMALADE This was composed of 2 quarts of the pulp and juice combined of ripe Kieffer pears, which had been pared and cored, (Measured after being run through a food chopper.) The grated yellow rind and juice of five medium-sized tart oranges, and 6-1/2 cups granulated sugar. Cook all together about forty minutes, until a clear amber colored marmalade. Watch closely and stir frequently, as the mixture scorches easily. This quantity will fill about twenty small jelly tumblers. If the marmalade is to be kept some time, it should be put into air-tight glass jars. The recipe for this delicious jam was original with the Professor's wife, and Fritz Schmidt, being particularly fond of the confection, gave it the name "Wunderselda," as he said "'twas not 'served often.'" AUNT SARAH'S SPICED PEARS Bartlett pears may be used, pared and cut in halves and core and seeds removed, or small sweet Seckel pears may be pared. Left whole, allow stems to remain, weigh, and to 7 pounds of either variety of pear take one pint of good cider vinegar, 3 pounds granulated sugar, a small cheese cloth bag containing several tablespoonfuls of whole cloves and the same amount of stick cinnamon, broken in pieces; all were placed in a preserving kettle and allowed to come to a boil. Then the pears were added and cooked until tender. The fruit will look clear when cooked sufficiently. Remove from the hot syrup with a perforated spoon. Fill pint glass jars with the fruit. Stand jars in a warm oven while boiling syrup until thick as honey. Pour over fruit, in jars, and seal while hot. PEACH MARMALADE Thinly pare ripe peaches. Cut in quarters and remove pits. Place peaches in a preserving kettle with 1/2 cup of water; heat slowly, stirring occasionally. When fruit has become tender mash not too fine and to every three pounds of peaches (weighed before being cooked) allow 1-1/2 pounds of granulated sugar. Cook sugar and fruit together about three-quarters of an hour, stirring frequently, until marmalade looks clear. Place in pint glass, air-tight jars. Aunt Sarah always preferred the "Morris White," a small, fine flavored, white peach, which ripened quite late in the fall, to any other variety from which to make preserves and marmalade. AUNT SARAH'S GINGER PEARS 4 pounds of fruit. 2 lemons. 1/4 pound of ginger root. 4 pounds of sugar. 1 cup water. Use a hard, solid pear, not over ripe. Pare and core the fruit and cut into thin slivers. Use juice of lemons and cut the lemon rind into long, thin strips. Place all together in preserving kettle and cook slowly one hour, or until the fruit looks clear. Should the juice of fruit not be thick as honey, remove fruit and cook syrup a short time, then add fruit to the syrup. When heated through, place in pint jars and seal. This quantity will fill four pint jars and is a delicious preserve. PEAR AND PINEAPPLE MARMALADE 2 ripe pineapples, 4 quarts Kieffer pears. 4 pounds granulated sugar. Both pears and pineapples should be pared and eyes removed from the latter. All the fruit should be run through food-chopper using all the juice from fruit. Mix sugar with fruit and juice and cook, stirring constantly until thick and clear. (Watch closely, as this scorches easily if allowed to stand a minute without stirring.) Pour into glass pint jars and seal while hot. Any variety of pear may be used, but a rather hard, solid pear is to be preferred. A recipe given Mary which she found delicious. GRAPE BUTTER Separate pulp and skins of grapes. Allow pulp to simmer until tender, then mash through a sieve and reject seeds. Add pulp to skins. Take 1/2 pound of sugar to one pound of fruit. Cook until thick, seal in air-tight jars. CANNED SOUR CHERRIES FOR PIES Pit cherries and cover with cold water and let stand over night. Drain in the morning. To 6 heaping cups of pitted cherries take 2 level cups of sugar, 1/2 cup water. Put all together into stew-pan on range, cook a short time, then add 1 teaspoonful of corn starch mixed with a little cold water and stir well through the cherries; let come to a boil, put in jars and seal. This quantity fills five pint jars. This is the way one country housekeeper taught Mary to can common _sour_ cherries for pies and she thought them fine. CANDIED ORANGE PEEL Cut orange peel in long, narrow strips, cover with cold water and boil 20 minutes. Pour off water, cover with cold water and boil another 20 minutes, then drain and take equal weight of peel and sugar. Let simmer 1 hour, then dip slices in granulated sugar. Stand aside to cool. AUNT SARAH'S "CHERRY MARMALADE" Pitted, red sour cherries were weighed, put through food-chopper, and to each pound of cherries and juice add 3/4 pound of granulated sugar. Cook about 25 minutes until syrup is thick and fruit looks clear. Fill marmalade pots, cover with parafine when cool, or use pint glass jars and seal. One is sure of fruit keeping if placed in air-tight jars. AUNT SARAH'S QUINCE HONEY Pour 1 quart of water, good measure, in an agate stew-pan on the range with three pounds of granulated sugar. When boiling add 3 large, grated quinces, after paring them. Grate all but the core of quinces. Boil from 20 to 25 minutes, until it looks clear. Pour into tumblers. When cold, cover and stand away until used. PICKLED PEACHES Twelve pounds of peaches, 1 quart of vinegar, 3 pounds brown sugar. Rub the fuzz from the peaches. Do not pare them. Stick half a dozen whole cloves in each peach. Add spices to taste, stick-cinnamon, whole doves and mace. Put spices in a small cheese cloth bag and do not remove the bag, containing spices, when putting away the peaches. Scald sugar, vinegar and spices together and pour over the peaches. Cover closely and stand away. Do this twice, one day between. The third time place all together in a preserving kettle. Cook a few minutes, then place fruit in jars, about three-quarters filled. Boil down the syrup until about one-quarter has boiled away, pour over the peaches, hot, and seal in air-tight jars. This is an old and very good recipe used by "Aunt Sarah" many years. CURRANT JELLY Always pick currants for jelly before they are "dead ripe," and never directly after a shower of rain. Wash and pick over and stem currants. Place in a preserving kettle five pounds of currants and 1/2 cup of water; stir until heated through then mash with a potato masher. Turn into a jelly bag, allow drip, and to every pint of currant juice add one pound of granulated sugar; return to preserving kettle. Boil twenty minutes, skim carefully, pour into jelly glasses. When cold cover tops of glasses with melted parafine. PINEAPPLE HONEY Pineapple honey was made in a similar manner to quince honey, using one large grated pineapple to one quart of cold water and three pounds of sugar. Boil 20 minutes. PRESERVED PINEAPPLE Pare the pineapples, run through a food chopper, weigh fruit, and to every pound of fruit add three-quarters of a pound of sugar. Mix sugar and fruit together and stand in a cool place over night. In the morning cook until fruit is tender and syrup clear; skim top of fruit carefully; fill jars and seal. GRAPE CONSERVE Wash and drain ten pounds of ripe grapes, separate the skins from the pulp, stew pulp until soft, mash through a sieve, reject seeds. Place pulp and skins in a preserving kettle, add a half pound of seeded raisins and juice and pulp of 4 oranges. Measure and add to every quart of this 3/4 of a quart of sugar. Cook slowly, until the consistency of jam. A cup of coarsely-chopped walnut meats may be added, if liked, a few minutes before removing jam from the range. Fill pint jars and seal. MARY'S RECIPE FOR RHUBARB JAM Skin and cut enough rhubarb in half-inch pieces to weigh three pounds. Add 1/2 cup cold water and 2 pounds of granulated sugar, and the grated yellow rind and juice of 2 large oranges. Cook all together, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching, a half hour, or until clear. This is a delicious jam. APPLE SAUCE When making apple sauce, cut good, tart apples in halves after paring them, cut out the cores, then cook, quickly as possible, in half enough boiling water to cover them. Cover the stew-pan closely. This causes them to cook more quickly, and not change color. Watch carefully that they do not scorch. When apples are tender, turn into sieve. Should the apples be quite juicy and the water drained from the apples measure a half pint, add a half pound of sugar, cook 15 or 20 minutes, until it jells, and you have a glass of clear, amber-colored jelly. Add 1 teaspoonful of butter and sugar to taste to the apple sauce, which has been mashed through the sieve. Apple sauce made thus should be almost the color of the apples before cooking. If the apple sauce is not liked thick, add some of the strained apple juice instead of making jelly; as some apples contain more juice than others. RHUBARB MARMALADE (AS FRAU SCHMIDT MADE IT) Cut rhubarb into small pieces, put in stew-pan with just enough water to prevent sticking fast. When cooked tender, mash fine with potato masher, and to three cups of rhubarb, measured before stewing, add 1 cup of granulated sugar, also 1 dozen almonds which had been blanched and cut as fine as possible, and stewed until tender, then added to hot rhubarb and sugar. Cook all together a short time. Serve either hot or cold. A large quantity may be canned for Winter use. The addition of almonds gave the marmalade a delicious flavor A good marmalade may be made by adding the juice and thinly shaved outside peel of several lemons to rhubarb. Put all together in kettle on range with sugar. Cook over a slow fire until proper consistency. Turn into jars and leave uncovered until day following, when cover and seal air-tight. GRAPE FRUIT MARMALADE For this marmalade take 1 large grape fruit, 2 large oranges and 1 lemon. After thoroughly washing the outside of fruit, slice all as thinly as possible, rejecting the seeds. Measure and add three times as much water as you have fruit. Let all stand over night. The next morning boil 15 minutes, stand over night again, in a large bowl or agate preserving kettle. The next morning add 1 pound (scant measure) of sugar to each pint of the mixture and boil until it jells. This is delicious if you do not object to the slightly bitter taste of the grape fruit. Put in tumblers, cover closely with paraffin. This quantity should fill 22 tumblers, if a large grape fruit is used. ORANGE MARMALADE Slice whole oranges very thin and cut in short pieces after washing them. Save the seeds. To each pound of sliced oranges add 3 pints of cold water and let stand 24 hours. Then boil all together until the chipped rinds are tender. All the seeds should be put in a muslin bag and boiled with the oranges. Allow all to stand together until next day, then remove the bag of seeds, and to every pound of boiled fruit add a half pound of sugar. Boil continuously, stirring all the time, until the chips are quite clear and the syrup thick as honey on being dropped on a cold dish. The grated rind and juice of 2 lemons will improve the taste of marmalade if added at last boiling. When cooked sufficiently the marmalade should be clear. Pour at once into glass jars and cover closely. CHERRY RELISH After sour cherries have been pitted, weigh them and cover with vinegar and let stand 24 hours. Take from the vinegar and drain well, then put into stone crocks in layers, with sugar, allowing 1 pound of sugar to 1 pound of cherries. Stir twice each day for ten days, then fill air-tight jars and put away for Winter use. These are an excellent accompaniment to a roast of meat. CANNED PEACHES When canning peaches make a syrup composed of 1 cup of sugar to 2 cups of water. Place in preserving kettle and when sugar has dissolved cook thinly pared peaches, either sliced or cut in halves, in the hot syrup until clear, watching closely that they do not cook too soft. Place carefully in glass jars, pour hot syrup over and seal in jars. Aunt Sarah also, occasionally, used a wash-boiler in which to can fruit. She placed in it a rack made of small wooden strips to prevent the jars resting on the bottom of the boiler; filled the jars with uncooked fruit or vegetables, poured over the jars of fruit hot syrup and over the vegetables poured water, placed the jars, uncovered, in the boiler; water should cover about half the height of jars. Boil until contents of jars are cooked, add boiling syrup to fill fruit jars and screw the tops on tightly. PEAR CONSERVE Use 5 pounds of pears, not too soft or over-ripe, cut like dice. Cover with water and boil until tender, then add 5 pounds of sugar. Peel 2 oranges, cut in dice the night before using; let diced orange peel stand, covered with cold water until morning. Then cook until orange peel is tender. Add this to the juice and pulp of the two oranges. Add one pound of seeded raisins and cook all together until thick honey. Put in glass jars and seal. LEMON HONEY The juice of 3 lemons, mixed with 3 cups of sugar. Add 3 eggs, beating 1 in at a time. Add 2 cups of water and 2 tablespoonfuls of butter. Cook all together 20 minute, until thick as honey. CANNED STRING BEANS Aunt Sarah used no preservative when canning beans. She gathered the beans when quite small and tender, no thicker than an ordinary lead-pencil, washed them thoroughly, cut off ends and packed them into quart glass jars, filled to overflowing with cold water. Placed jar tops on lightly, and stood them in wash boiler in the bottom of which several boards had been placed. Filled wash boiler with luke warm water about two-thirds as high as tops of jars, cooked continuously three to four hours after water commenced to boil. Then carefully lifted jars from wash boiler, added boiling water to fill jars to overflowing, screwed on cover and let stand until perfectly cold, when give jar tops another turn with the hand when they should be air-tight. A good plan is to run the dull edge of a knife around the outer edge of the jar to be sure it fits close to the rubber, and will not admit air. Beans canned in this manner should keep indefinitely. PRESERVED "GERMAN PRUNES" OR PLUMS After washing fruit, piece each plum several times with a silver fork, if plums be preserved whole. This is not necessary if pits are removed. Weigh fruit and to each pound of plums take about 3/4 pound of granulated sugar. Place alternate layers of plums and sugar in a preserving kettle, stand on the back of range three or four hours, until sugar has dissolved, then draw kettle containing sugar and plums to front of range and boil so minutes. Remove scum which arises on top of boiling syrup. Place plums in glass jars, pour boiling syrup over and seal. A good rule is about four pounds of sugar to five pounds of plums. Should plums cook soft in less than 20 minutes, take from syrup with a perforated skimmer, place in jars and cook syrup until as thick as honey; then pour over fruit and seal up jars. BUCKS COUNTY APPLE BUTTER A genuine old-fashioned recipe for apple butter, as "Aunt Sarah" made it at the farm. A large kettle holding about five gallons was filled with sweet cider. This cider was boiled down to half the quantity. The apple butter was cooked over a wood fire, out of doors. The cider was usually boiled down the day before making the apple butter, as the whole process was quite a lengthy one. Fill the kettle holding the cider with apples, which should have been pared and cored the night before at what country folks call an "apple bee," the neighbors assisting to expedite the work. The apples should be put on to cook as early in the morning as possible and cooked slowly over not too hot a fire, being stirred constantly with a long-handled "stirrer" with small perforated piece of wood on one end. There is great danger of the apple butter burning if not carefully watched and constantly stirred. An extra pot of boiling cider was kept near, to add to the apple butter as the cider boiled away. If cooked slowly, a whole day or longer will be consumed in cooking. When the apple butter had almost finished cooking, about the last hour, sweeten to taste with sugar (brown sugar was frequently used). Spices destroy the true apple flavor, although Aunt Sarah used sassafras root, dug from the near-by woods, for flavoring her apple butter, and it was unexcelled. The apple butter, when cooked sufficiently, should be a dark rich color, and thick like marmalade, and the cider should not separate from it when a small quantity is tested on a saucer. An old recipe at the farm called for 32 gallons of cider to 8 buckets of cider apples, and to 40 gallons of apple butter 50 pounds of sugar were used. Pour the apple butter in small crocks used for this purpose. Cover the top of crocks with paper, place in dry, cool store-room, and the apple butter will keep several years. In olden times sweet apples were used for apple butter, boiled in sweet cider, then no sugar was necessary. Small brown, earthen pots were used to keep this apple butter in, it being only necessary to tie paper over the top. Dozens of these pots, filled with apple butter, might have been seen in Aunt Sarah's store-room at the farm at one time. CANNED TOMATOES When canning red tomatoes select those which ripen early in the season, as those which ripen later are usually not as sweet. Wash the tomatoes, pour scalding water over, allow them to stand a short time, when skins may be easily removed. Cut tomatoes in several pieces, place over fire in porcelain-lined preserving kettle and cook about 25 minutes, or until an orange-colored scum rises to the top. Fill perfectly clean sterilised jars with the hot tomatoes fill quickly before they cool. Place rubber and top on jar, and when jars have become perfectly cold (although they may, apparently, have been perfectly air-tight), the tops should be given another turn before standing away for the Winter; failing to do this has frequently been the cause of inexperienced housewives' ill success when canning tomatoes. Also run the dull edge of a knife blade carefully around the top of jar, pressing down the outer edge and causing it to fit more closely. Aunt Sarah seldom lost a jar of canned tomatoes, and they were as fine flavored as if freshly picked from the vines. She was very particular about using only new tops and rubbers for her jars when canning tomatoes. If the wise housewife takes these precautions, her canned tomatoes should keep indefinitely. Aunt Sarah allowed her jars of tomatoes to stand until the day following that on which the tomatoes were canned, to be positively sure they were cold, before giving the tops a final turn. Stand away in a dark closet. EUCHERED PEACHES Twelve pounds of pared peaches (do not remove pits), 6 pounds of sugar and 1 gill of vinegar boiled together a few minutes, drop peaches into this syrup and cook until heated through, when place peaches in air-tight jars, pour hot syrup over and seal. AUNT SARAH'S METHOD OF CANNING CORN Three quarts of sweet corn cut from the cob, 1 cup of sugar 3/4 cup of salt and 1 pint of cold water. Place these ingredients together in a large bowl; do this early in the morning and allow to stand until noon of the same day; then place all together in a preserving kettle on the range and cook twenty minutes. Fill glass jars which have been sterilized. The work of filling should be done as expeditiously as possible; be particular to have jar-tops screwed on tightly. When jars have become cool give tops another turn, to be positive they are air-tight before putting away for the Winter. When preparing this canned corn for the table, drain all liquid from the corn when taken from the can, pour cold water over and allow to stand a short time on the range until luke-warm. Drain and if not _too_ salt, add a small quantity of fresh water, cook a few minutes, season with butter, add a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet milk; serve when hot. This canned corn possesses the flavor of corn freshly cut from the cob. Sarah Landis had used this recipe for years and 'twas seldom she lost a can. DRIED SWEET CORN In season when ears of sweet corn are at their best for cooking purposes, boil double the quantity necessary for one meal, cut off kernels and carefully scrape remaining pulp from cob. Spread on agate pans, place in a hot oven a short time (watch closely) and allow it to remain in a cooled oven over night to dry. When perfectly dry place in bags for use later in the season. When the housewife wishes to prepare dried corn for the table, one cup of the dried corn should be covered with cold water and allowed to stand until the following day, when place in a stew-pan on the range and simmer slowly several hours; add 1/2 teaspoonful of sugar, 1 tablespoonful of butter, salt and pepper. This corn Aunt Sarah considered sweeter and more wholesome than canned corn and she said "No preservatives were used in keeping it." When chestnuts were gathered in the fall of the year, at the farm, they were shelled as soon as gathered, then dried and stored away for use in the Winter. Aunt Sarah frequently cooked together an equal amount of chestnuts and dried corn; the combination was excellent. The chestnuts were soaked in cold water over night. The brown skin of the chestnuts may be readily removed after being covered with boiling water a short time. PRESERVED CHERRIES Aunt Sarah's preserved cherries were fine, and this was her way of preparing them: She used 1 pound of granulated sugar to 1 quart of pitted cherries. She placed the pitted cherries on a large platter and sprinkled the sugar over them. She allowed them to stand several hours until the cherries and sugar formed a syrup on platter. She then put cherries, sugar and juice all together in a preserving kettle, set on range, and cooked 10 minutes. She then skimmed out the cherries and boiled the syrup 10 minutes longer, then returned the cherries to syrup. Let come to a boil. She then removed the kettle from the fire, spread all on a platter and let it stand in the hot sun two successive days, then put in glass air-tight jars or in tumblers and covered with paraffin. A combination of cherries and strawberries preserved together is fine, and, strange to say, the flavor of strawberries predominates. A fine flavored preserve is also made from a combination of cherries and pineapple. FROZEN DESSERTS--AUNT SARAH'S FROZEN "FRUIT CUSTARD" One tablespoonful of granulated gelatine soaked in enough milk to cover. Place 2 cups of sugar and 3/4 cup of milk in a stew-pan on the range and boil until it spins a thread; that is, when a little of the syrup is a thread-like consistency when dripped from a spoon. Allow it to cool. Add dissolved gelatine and 1 quart of sweet cream. One box of strawberries, or the same amount of any fruit liked, may be added to the mixture; freeze as ordinary ice cream. This dessert as prepared by Aunt Sarah was delicious as any ice cream and was used by her more frequently than any other recipe for a frozen dessert. SHERBET Frau Schmidt gave Mary this simple recipe for making any variety of sherbet: 2 cups of sugar, 1 tablespoonful of flour, mixed with the sugar and boiled with 1 quart of water; when cold, add 1 quart of any variety of fruit. Freeze in same manner as when making ice cream. ICE CREAM--A SIMPLE RECIPE GIVEN MARY When preparing this ice cream Mary used the following: Three cups of cream and 1 cup of milk, 1 egg and 1 cup of pulverized sugar (were beaten together until light and creamy). This, with 1 teaspoonful of vanilla flavoring, was added to the milk and cream. The cream should be scalded in warm weather. The egg and sugar should then be added to the scalded milk and cream, stirring them well together. When the mixture has cooled, strain it into the can of the freezer. Three measures of cracked ice to one of salt should be used. The ice and salt, well-mixed, were packed around the freezer. The crank was turned very slowly the first ten minutes, until the mixture had thickened, when it was turned more rapidly until the mixture was frozen. FRAU SCHMIDT'S ICE CREAM This recipe for ice cream is simple and the ice cream is good. A boiled custard was prepared, consisting of 1 quart of milk, 4 eggs, between 3 and 4 cups of granulated sugar. When the custard coated the spoon she considered it cooked sufficiently. Removed from the fire. When cold she beat into the custard 1 quart of rich cream and 1 teaspoonful of vanilla, turned the mixture into the freezer, packed outside tub with ice and salt. It was frozen in the ordinary manner. MAPLE PARFAIT For this rich, frozen dessert Mary beat 4 eggs lightly, poured slowly over them 1 cup of hot maple syrup, cooked in a double boiler, stirring until very thick. She strained it, and when cold added 1 pint of cream. She beat all together, poured into a mold, packed the mold in ice and salt, and allowed it to stand 3 hours. This is a very rich frozen dessert, too rich to be served alone. It should be served with lemon sherbet or frozen custard with a lemon flavoring, as it is better served with a dessert less rich and sweet. ICE CREAM MADE BY BEATING WITH PADDLE This recipe for a delicious and easily prepared ice cream was given Mary by a friend living in Philadelphia and is not original. She found the ice cream excellent and after having tried the recipe used no other. A custard was made of 1 quart of scalded milk, 6 eggs, 3 cups of sugar. The eggs were beaten light, then sugar was added, then the hot milk was poured over and all beaten together. She put all in a double boiler and stirred about ten minutes, until thick and creamy. A small pinch of soda was added to prevent curdling. When the custard was perfectly cold she stirred in three cups of sweet, cold cream, flavored with either vanilla or almond flavoring, and beat all together five minutes, then turned the mixture into the freezer, packed well with pounded ice and coarse salt. She covered the freezer with the ice and salt and threw a heavy piece of old carpet or burlap over the freezer to exclude the air. She let it stand one hour, then carefully opened the can containing the cream, not allowing any salt to get in the can. With a long, thin-handled knife she scraped down the frozen custard from the sides of the freezer, and with a thin wooden paddle beat it hard and fast for about five minutes. This made the cream fine and smooth. Any fruit may now be added, and should be mixed in before the cream is covered. The cream should be beaten as quickly as possible and covered as soon as the fruit has been added. Aunt Sarah usually made peach ice cream when peaches were in season. Fine ripe peaches were pared and pitted, then finely mashed, 2 small cups of sugar being added to a pint of mashed peaches. She allowed the peach mixture to stand one hour before adding to the beaten cream. When the mashed peaches had been added to the cream, she fastened the lid and drained off part of the water in outer vessel, packed more ice and salt about the can in the freezer, placed a weight on top to hold it down, covered closely with a piece of old carpet to exclude the air, left it stand three or four hours. The beating was all the labor required. The dasher or crank was not turned at all when making the ice cream, and when frozen it was delicious. Mary was told by her Aunt of a friend in a small town, with a reputation for serving delicious ice cream, who always made ice cream by beating with a paddle, instead of making it by turning a crank in a freezer. AUNT SARAH'S RECIPE FOR FROZEN CUSTARD One quart of rich, sweet milk, 2 tablespoons of corn starch, 4 eggs, 1 cup of sugar, small tablespoon of vanilla. Cook the milk in a double boiler, moisten corn starch with a little milk. Stir it into the hot milk until it begins to thicken. Beat sugar and eggs together until creamy, add to the hot milk, cook a minute, remove from fire, add the vanilla, and when cool freeze. Crush the ice into small pieces, for the finer the ice the quicker the custard will freeze, then mix the ice with a fourth of the quantity of coarse rock salt, about 10 pounds ice and 2 pounds salt will be required to pack sides and cover top of a four-quart freezer. Place can in tub, mix and fill in ice and salt around the can, turn the crank very slowly until the mixture is thoroughly chilled. Keep hole in top of tub open. When mixture is cold, turn steadily until it turns rather hard. When custard is frozen, take out inside paddle, close the freezer, run off the salt water, repack and allow to stand several hours. At the end of that time it is ready to serve. PINEAPPLE CREAM This is a delicious dessert, taught Mary by Aunt Sarah. She used 1 quart sweet cream, 1-1/2 cups sugar, beaten together. It was frozen in an ice cream freezer. She then pared and cut the eyes from one ripe pineapple and flaked the pineapple into small pieces with a silver fork, sprinkled sugar over and let it stand until sugar dissolved. She then stirred this into the frozen cream and added also the beaten white of one egg. Packed ice and salt around freezer and allowed it to stand several hours before using. Mary's Aunt always cooked pineapple or used canned pineapple with a rich syrup when adding fruit before the cream was frozen. MARY'S RECIPE FOR PEACH CREAM Mary made ice cream when peaches were plentiful; she used 1 quart of sweet cream, sweetened to taste (about 2 cups sugar) and 2 quarts of ripe peaches mashed and sweetened before adding to cream. Freeze in ordinary manner. If peaches were not fine flavored, she added a little almond flavoring. LEMON SHERBET This is the way Frau Schmidt taught Mary to make this dessert. She used for the purpose 1 quart of water, 5 lemons, 2 tablespoons gelatine, 2 large cups sugar. She soaked the gelatine in about 1 cup of water. She squeezed out the juice of lemons, rejecting seeds and pulp. She allowed a cup of water out of the quart to soak the gelatine. This mixture was put in an ice cream freezer and frozen. FRAU SCHMIDT'S FROZEN CUSTARD 1-1/2 quarts milk. 2 cups sugar. 5 eggs. 2-1/2 tablespoonfuls of flour. Scald the milk in a double boiler. Moisten flour (she preferred _flour_ to corn starch for this purpose) with a small quantity of cold milk, and stir into the scalded milk. Beat together egg yolks and sugar until light and creamy, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs and stir all into the boiling milk. Cool thoroughly, flavor with vanilla and freeze as you would ice cream. When partly frozen crushed strawberries or peaches may be added in season. A little more sugar should then he added to the fruit, making a dessert almost equal to ice cream. In Winter one cup of dried currants may be added, also one tablespoonful of sherry wine, if liked. CARAMEL ICE CREAM Scald one pint of sweet milk in a double boiler. Stir into it one cup of sugar and one rounded tablespoonful of flour, which had been mixed smoothly with a small quantity of the milk before scalding. Add two eggs which had been beaten together until light and creamy. At the same time the milk was being scalded, a fry-pan containing one cup of granulated sugar was placed on the range; this should be watched carefully, on account of its liability to scorch. When sugar has melted it will be brown in color and liquid, like molasses, and should then be thoroughly mixed with the foundation custard. Cook the whole mixture ten minutes and stand aside to cool; when perfectly cold add a pinch of salt, one quart of sweet cream, and freeze in the ordinary manner. CHERRY SHERBET Aunt Sarah taught Mary to prepare this cheap and easily made dessert of the various berries and fruits as they ripened. Currants, strawberries, raspberries and cherries were used. They were all delicious and quickly prepared. The ice for freezing was obtained from a near-by creamery. The cherries used for this were not the common, sour pie cherries, so plentiful usually on many "Bucks County Farms," but a fine, large, red cherry, not very sour. When about to prepare cherry sherbet, Mary placed over the fire a stew-pan containing 1 quart of boiling water and 1 pound of granulated sugar. Boiled this together 12 minutes. She added 1 tablespoonful of granulated gelatine which had been dissolved in a very little cold water. When the syrup had cooled, she added the juice of half a lemon and 1 quart of pitted cherries, mixed all together. Poured it in the ice cream freezer, packed around well with coarse salt and pounded ice. She used 1 part salt to 3 parts ice. She turned the crank slowly at first, allowed it to stand a few minutes, then increased the speed. When the mixture was firm she removed the dasher. She allowed the water to remain with the ice and salt, as the ice-cold water helped to freeze it. She filled in ice and salt around the can in the freezer and on top of the can; covered the top of the freezer with a piece of old carpet and allowed it to stand a couple of hours, when it was ready to serve. Almost any fruit or fruit juice, either fresh or canned, may be made into a delicious dessert by this rule. One quart of boiling water and 1 pound of sugar boiled together to form a syrup, then add 1 quart of juice or fruit and juice to measure exactly one quart. Mix together according to directions and freeze. GRAPE SHERBET Grape sherbet was made in this manner: The grapes were washed, picked from the stems and placed in a stew-pan over the fire. When hot remove from the fire and mash with a potato-masher and strain through a jelly bag, as if preparing to make jelly. Boil together 1 pound of granulated sugar and 1 quart of water, about 12 minutes. While hot add 1 pint of grape juice and 1 teaspoonful of granulated gelatine, which had been dissolved in a very little cold water, to the hot syrup. When the mixture was partly frozen add the stiffly beaten white of 1 egg and 1 tablespoonful of pulverized sugar, beaten together. All were stirred together, covered and stood away until cold. Then placed in a freezer, iced as for ice cream, and frozen in the same manner as for cherry sherbet. The juice of all berries or fruits may be extracted in the same manner as that of grapes. WINES AND SYRUPS--UNFERMENTED GRAPE JUICE To 6 pounds of stemmed Concord grapes add 1 quart of water, allow them to simmer on range until grapes have become soft. Strain through a piece of cheese-cloth, being careful to press only the juice through, not the pulp of the grapes. Return the grape juice to the preserving kettle and add 3/4 of a pound of sugar. Allow the juice to just commence to boil, as cooking too long a time spoils the flavor of the juice. Bottle at once, while juice is hot. Bottles must be sterilized and air-tight if you expect grape juice to keep. Cover corks with sealing wax. VINEGAR MADE FROM STRAWBERRIES "Aunt Sarah" Landis possessed the very finest flavored vinegar for cooking purposes, and this is the way it was made. She having a very plentiful crop of fine strawberries one season, put 6 quarts of very ripe, mashed strawberries in a five-gallon crock, filled the crock with water, covered the top with cheese-cloth and allowed it to stand in a warm place about one week, when it was strained, poured into jugs and placed in the cellar, where it remained six months, perhaps longer, when it became very sharp and sour, and had very much the appearance of white wine with a particularly fine flavor. This was not used as a beverage, but as a substitute for cider in cooking. BOILED CIDER FOR MINCE PIES In Autumn, when cider was cheap and plentiful on the farm, 3 quarts of cider was boiled down to one, or, in this proportion, for use in mince meat during the Winter. A quantity prepared in this manner, poured while hot in air-tight jars, will keep indefinitely. LEMON SYRUP Boil two cups of granulated sugar and one cup of water together for a few minutes until the sugar is dissolved, then add the juice of six well-scrubbed, medium-sized lemons; let come to a boil and add the grated yellow rind of three of the lemons. Be careful not to use any of the white skin of the lemons, which is bitter. Put in air-tight glass jars. This quantity fills one pint jar. A couple tablespoonfuls added to a tumbler partly filled with water and chipped ice makes a delicious and quickly prepared drink on a hot day. EGG NOGG Add to the stiffly beaten white of one egg the slightly beaten yolk of egg. Pour into glass tumbler, fill with cold sweet milk, sweeten with sugar to taste and a little grated nutmeg on top or a tablespoonful of good brandy. This is excellent for a person needing nourishment, and may be easily taken by those not able to take a raw egg in any other form. The egg nogg will be more easily digested if sipped slowly while eating a cracker or slice of crisply toasted bread. ROSE WINE Gather one quart of rose leaves, place in a bowl, pour over one quart of boiling water, let stand nine days, then strain, and to each quart of strained liquid add one pound of granulated sugar. Allow to stand until next day, when sugar will be dissolved. Pour into bottles, cork tightly, stand away for six months before using. Aunt Sarah had some which had been keeping two years and it was fine. DANDELION WINE Four good quarts of dandelion blossoms, four pounds of sugar, six oranges, five lemons. Wash dandelion blossoms and place them in an earthenware crock. Pour five quarts of boiling water over them and let stand 36 hours. Then strain through a muslin bag, squeezing out all moisture from dandelions. Put the strained juice in a deep stone crock or jug and add to it the grated rind and juice of the six oranges and five lemons. Tie a piece of cheese-cloth over the top of jug and stand it in a warm kitchen about one week, until it begins to ferment. Then stand away from stove in an outer kitchen or cooler place, not in the cellar, for three months. At the end of three months put in bottles. This is a clear, amber, almost colorless liquid. A pleasant drink of medicinal value. Aunt Sarah always used this recipe for making dandelion wine, but Mary preferred a recipe in which yeast was used, as the wine could be used a short time after making. DANDELION WINE (MADE WITH YEAST) Four quarts of dandelion blossoms. Pour over them four quarts of boiling water; let stand 24 hours, strain and add grated rind and juice of two oranges and two lemons, four pounds of granulated sugar and two tablespoonfuls of home-made yeast. Let stand one week, then strain and fill bottles. GRAPE FRUIT PUNCH Two cups of grape juice, 4 cups of water, 1-1/2 cups of sugar, juice of 3 lemons and 3 oranges, sliced oranges, bananas and pineapples. Serve the punch in sherbet glasses, garnished with Marachino cherries. A SUBSTITUTE FOR MAPLE SYRUP A very excellent substitute for maple syrup to serve on hot griddle cakes is prepared from 2 pounds of either brown or white sugar and 1-3/4 cups of water, in the following manner: Place the stew-pan containing sugar and water on the back part of range, until sugar dissolves, then boil from 10 to 15 minutes, until the mixture thickens to the consistency of honey. Remove from the range and add a few drops of vanilla or "mapleine" flavoring. A tiny pinch of cream of tartar, added when syrup commences to boil, prevents syrup granulating; too large a quantity of cream of tartar added to the syrup would cause it to have a sour taste. SALTED ALMONDS OR PEANUTS Blanch 2 pounds of shelled almonds or peanuts (the peanuts, of course, have been well roasted) by pouring 1 quart of boiling water over them. Allow them to stand a short time. Drain and pour cold water over them, when the skin may be easily removed. Place in a cool oven until dry and crisp. Put a small quantity of butter into a pan. When hot, throw in the nuts and stir for a few minutes, sprinkle a little salt over. Many young cooks do not know that salted peanuts are almost equally as good as salted almonds and cheaper. Peanuts should always be freshly roasted and crisp. PEANUT BUTTER When peanuts have been blanched, are cold, dry and crisp, run them through a food chopper. Do not use the _very finest_ cutter, as that makes a soft mass. Or they may be crushed with a rolling pin. Season with salt, spread on thinly-sliced, buttered bread. They make excellent sandwiches. Or run peanuts through food chopper which has an extra fine cutter especially for this purpose. The peanuts are then a thick, creamy mass. Thin this with a small quantity of olive oil, or melted butter, if preferred. Season with salt and you have "peanut butter," which, spread on slices of buttered bread, makes a delicious sandwich, and may frequently take the place of meat sandwiches. Nuts, when added to salads, bread or cake, add to their food value. A CLUB SANDWICH On a thinly-cut slice of toasted bread lay a crisp lettuce leaf and a thin slice of broiled bacon. On that a slice of cold, boiled chicken and a slice of ripe tomato. Place a spoonful of mayonnaise on the tomato, on this a slice of toasted bread. Always use stale bread for toast and if placed in a hot oven a minute before toasting it may be more quickly prepared. CANDIES-WALNUT MOLASSES TAFFY Place 2 cups of New Orleans molasses and 3/4 cup of brown sugar in a stew-pan on the range and cook; when partly finished cooking (this may be determined by a teaspoonful of the mixture forming a soft ball when dropped in water), add 1 tablespoonful of flour, moistened with a small quantity of water, and cook until a teaspoonful of the mixture becomes brittle when dropped in cold water; at this stage add 1 scant teaspoonful of baking soda (salaratus). Stir, then add 1 cup of coarsely chopped black walnut meats; stir all together thoroughly, and pour into buttered pans to become cool. COCOANUT CREAMS Grate 1 medium-sized cocoanut, place in a bowl, add 2 pounds of confectioners' sugar, mix with the cocoanut; then add the stiffly beaten white of 1 egg and 1 teaspoonful of vanilla; knead this as you would bread for 10 or 15 minutes. If the cocoanut is a large or a dry one, about 1/2 pound more sugar will be required. Shape the mixture into small balls, press halves of English walnut meats into each ball, or have them plain, if preferred. Stand aside in a cool place a half hour. Melt a half cake of Baker's unsweetened chocolate, add a half teaspoonful of paraffin, roll the small balls in this chocolate mixture until thoroughly coated. Place on waxed paper to dry. From the ingredients in this recipe was made 3 pounds of candy. FUDGE (AS MADE BY MARY) Two cups of granulated sugar, 1 cup of sweet milk, 1/4 cup of butter, 1/4 cake or 2 squares of Baker's unsweetened chocolate. Cook all together until when tried in water it forms a soft ball. Remove from fire, flavor with vanilla, beat until creamy, pour in buttered pan and when cooled cut in squares. A DELICIOUS "CHOCOLATE CREAM" CANDY Place in an agate stew-pan 2 cups of granulated sugar, 1 cup of sweet milk, butter size of an egg. Cook all together until it forms a soft ball when a small quantity is dropped into cold water. Then beat until creamy. Add a half a cup of any kind of chopped nut meats. Spread on an agate pie-tin and stand aside to cool. For the top layer take 1 cup of sugar, 1/2 cup milk and butter size of an egg, 2 small squares of a cake of Baker's unsweetened chocolate. Cook together until it forms a soft ball in water. Beat until creamy. Add half a teaspoonful of vanilla, spread over top of first layer of candy and stand away until it hardens and is quite cold. MARY'S RECIPE FOR MOLASSES TAFFY Four tablespoonfuls New Orleans molasses, 9 tablespoonfuls sugar, 3 tablespoonfuls water, 2 teaspoonfuls butter, 1 teaspoonful vanilla. Boil all together until it becomes brittle when a small quantity is dropped in water. Pour the mixture into buttered pans and when cool enough to handle, pull with the hands until a light creamy yellow shade. Pull into long, thin strips, cut into small pieces with scissors. This taffy is fine if boiled a long enough time to become crisp and brittle, and you will be surprised at the quantity this small amount of sugar and molasses will make. RECIPE FOR MAKING HARD SOAP WITHOUT BOILING To make hard soap without boiling, empty a can of "Lewis Perfumed Lye" (or any other good, reliable brand of lye) into a stone jar with 1 tablespoonful powdered borax. Add 2-1/2 pints of cold water to the lye. Stir until dissolved. Be very careful not to allow any of the lye to touch hands or face. Wear old gloves when emptying can and stirring lye. Stand the dissolved lye in a cool place. The tin cans containing the fat to be used for soap (which have accumulated, been tried out, strained, and put in empty tin cans at different times) should be placed in the oven of range for a few minutes. When warm they may be turned out readily into a large stew-pan. Put over fire and when all has dissolved and melted, strain through cheese-cloth bag into an agate dish pan. When weighed you should 5-1/2 pounds of clear fat. A recipe telling exact quantity of fat and lye usually comes with can of lye. When temperature of fat is 120 degrees by your thermometer (luke-warm), the lye should have been allowed to stand about 1 hour from the time it was dissolved. It should then be the right temperature to mix with strained, luke-warm fat or grease not over 80 degrees by thermometer. Now slowly pour the dissolved lye over the fat (a half cup of ammonia added improves soap), stir together until lye and grease are thoroughly incorporated, and the mixture drops from the stirrer like honey. The soap may be scented by adding a few drops of oil of cloves, if liked. Stir the mixture with a small wooden paddle or stick. Stir slowly from 5 to 10 minutes, not longer, or the lye and fat may separate. Pour all into a large agate dish pan lined with a piece of clean muslin. Throw an old piece of carpet over the top and stand near the range until evening, when, if made early in the morning, a solid cake of soap, weighing 8-1/2 pounds, may be turned out on a bake-board (previously covered with brown paper) and cut into 20 pieces of good hard soap. Lay the pieces of soap in a basket, cover to protect from dust, and stand in a warm room to dry thoroughly before using. Soap made according to these directions should be solid and almost as white as ivory if the fat used has not been scorched. This soap is excellent for scrubbing and laundry purposes. The greater length of time the soap is kept, the better it will become. The grease used may be clarified by adding water and cooking a short time. Stand away and when cool remove fat from top, wiping off any moisture that may appear. Soap-making is a _small economy_. Of course, the young housewife will not use for soap _any fat_ which could be utilized for frying, etc., but she will be surprised to find, when she once gets the saving habit, how quickly she will have the quantity of fat needed for a dollar's worth of soap by the small outlay of the price of a can of lye, not counting her work. The young, inexperienced housewife should be careful not to use too small a stew-pan in which to heat the fat, and should not, under any circumstance, leave the kitchen while the fat is on the range, as grave results might follow carelessness in this respect. TO IMITATE CHESTNUT WOOD Before painting the floor it was scrubbed thoroughly with the following: One-half cup of "household ammonia" added to four quarts of water. The floor, after being well scrubbed with this, was wiped up with pure, clean water and allowed to get perfectly dry before painting. For the ground color, or first coat of paint on the floor, after the cracks in floor had been filled with putty or filler, mix together five pounds of white lead, one pint of turpentine and about a fourth of a pound of yellow ochre, add 1 tablespoon of Japan dryer. This should make one quart of paint a light tan or straw color, with which paint the floor and allow it to dry twenty-four hours, when another coat of the same paint was given the floor and allowed to dry another twenty-four hours, then a graining color, light oak, was used. This was composed of one pint of turpentine, one teaspoon of graining color and two tablespoons of linseed oil, and 1 tablespoon of Japan dryer, all mixed together. This was about the color of coffee or chocolate. When the wood had been painted with this graining color, before drying, a fine graining comb was passed lightly over to imitate the grain of wood. This was allowed to dry twenty-four hours, when a coat of floor varnish was given. The room was allowed to dry thoroughly before using. The imitation of natural chestnut was excellent. MEASURES AND WEIGHTS When a recipe calls for one cup of anything, it means one even cup, holding one-half pint, or two gills. One cup is equal to four wine glasses. One wine glass is equal to four tablespoons of liquid, or one-quarter cup. Two dessertspoonfuls equal one tablespoonful. Six tablespoonfuls of liquid equal one gill. Two tablespoonfuls dry measure equal one gill. Two gills equal one cup. Two cups, or four gills, equal one pint. Four cups of flour weigh one pound and four cups of flour equal one quart. One even cup of flour is four ounces. Two cups (good measure) of granulated sugar weigh one pound and measure one pint. Two cups butter equal one pound. A pint of liquid equals one pound. A cup of milk or water is 8 ounces. Two tablespoonfuls liquid equal one ounce. One salt spoonful is 1/4 teaspoonful. Four tablespoonfuls equal one wine glass. Piece of butter size of an egg equals two ounces, or two tablespoons. A tablespoonful of butter melted means the butter should be first measured then melted. One even tablespoonful of unmelted butter equals one ounce. One tablespoonful sugar, good measure, equals one ounce. Ordinary silver tablespoon was used for measuring, not a large mixing spoon. COOKING SCHEDULE TO USE WITH THE OVEN THERMOMETER OF A GAS STOVE _To Cook_-- _Cook for_-- Bread, white 280° 40 minutes Biscuit, small 300° 30 minutes Biscuit, large 300° 30 minutes Beef, roast rare 300° 15 minutes per pound Beef, roast well done 320° 15 minutes per pound { Fruit 260° 2 hours { Sponge 300° 30 minutes Cake { Loaf 300° 40 minutes { Layer 300° 15 minutes { Cookies 300° 5 minutes Chickens 340° 2 hours Custards 260° to 300° 20 minutes Duck 340° 3 hours Fish 260° to 300° 1 hour Ginger Bread 260° to 300° 20 minutes Halibut 260° to 300° 45 minutes Lamb 300° 3 hours Mutton, rare 260° to 300° 10 minutes per pound Mutton, well done 300° 15 minutes per pound Pie crust 300° 30 minutes Pork 260° to 300° 2-1/2 hours Potatoes 300° 1 hour { Bread 260° to 300° 1 hour { Plum 260° to 300° 1 hour Puddings { Rice 260° to 300° 30 minutes { Tapioca 260° to 300° 30 minutes Rolls 260° to 300° 20 minutes Turkeys 280° 3 hours Veal 280° 2-1/2 hours When a teacher of "Domestic Science," the Professor's wife was accustomed to using a pyrometer, or oven thermometer, to determine the proper temperature for baking. She explained its advantages over the old-fashioned way of testing the oven to Mary and gave her a copy of the "Cooking Schedule," to put in her recipe book, which Mary found of great assistance, and said she would certainly have a range with an oven thermometer should she have a home of her own, and persuaded Aunt Sarah to have one placed in the oven door of her range. THE END. INDEX TO RECIPES PAGE Small Economies, "Left-Overs" or "Iverich Bleibst" 162 The Many Uses of Stale Bread 164 "Brod Grummella" 165 "Croutons" and Crumbs 165 "Zweibach" 166 German Egg Bread 166 Creamed Toast 167 Bread and Rolls 167 "Bucks County" Hearth-Baked Rye Bread 171 Frau Schmidt's Good White Bread (Sponge Method) 173 Excellent Graham Bread 173 Graham Bread (An Old Recipe) 174 "Mary's" Recipe for Wheat Bread 174 Frau Schmidt's Easily-Made Graham Bread 175 Whole Wheat Bread 176 Nut Bread 176 "Frau" Schmidt's "Quick Bread" 177 An "Oatmeal Loaf" 178 "Aunt Sarah's" White Bread (Sponge Method) 179 Recipe for Pulled Bread 180 Aunt Sarah's "Hutzel Brod" 180 Aunt Sarah's White Bread and Rolls 182 Aunt Sarah's Raised Rolls 183 Clover-Leaf Rolls 183 "Polish" Rye Bread (As Baked in Bucks County) 183 Perfect Breakfast Rolls 184 An Old Recipe for Good Bread 184 Steamed Brown Bread 186 A Wholesome Bread (Made From Bran) 186 "Frau" Schmidt's "Hutzel Brod" 186 Aunt Sarah's "Quickly Made Brown Bread" 187 "Stirred" Oatmeal Bread 187 Nut and Raisin Bread 188 "Saffron" Raisin Bread 188 Raised Rolls 189 "Grandmother's" Pine Raised Biscuits 190 "Stirred" Bread 191 Potato Biscuits 192 Aunt Sarah's Potato Yeast 192 Raised Cakes 193 "Perfection" Potato Cakes 193 Mary's Recipe for Cinnamon Buns 194 "Kleina Kaffe Kuchen" 194 "Grossmutter's" Potato Cakes 195 Aunt Sarah's "Bread Dough" Cake 196 "Good, Cheap" Dutch Cakes 196 Recipe for "Light Cakes" (Given to Mary by a Farmer's Wife) 197 Butter "Schimmel" 197 "Bucks County" Doughnuts 198 Extra Fine "Quaker Bonnet" Biscuits 198 Bucks County Cinnamon "Kuchen" 199 Moravian Sugar Cakes 200 "Mary's" Potato Cakes 200 "German" Raisin Cake 201 "Kaffee Krantz" (Coffee Wreath) 202 "Mondel Krantz" 203 The Professor's Wife's Recipe for Dutch Cakes 204 Farmer's Pound Cake 204 German "Coffee Bread" 205 "Fast Nacht Kuchen" (Doughnuts) 206 "Kaffee Kuchen" (Coffee Cake) 207 "Streusel Kuchen" 207 Muffins, Biscuits, Griddle Cakes and Waffles 208 Sally Lunn (As Aunt Sarah Made It) 208 Aunt Sarah's Recipe for "Johnny Cake" 209 "Mary's" Breakfast Muffins 209 Rice Muffins 209 Indian Pone 210 "Pfannkuchen" (Pancakes) 210 "Extra Fine" Baking Powder Biscuits 210 "Flannel" Cakes Made From Sour Milk 211 "Flannel" Cakes With Baking Powder 211 Frau Schmidt's Recipe for Waffles 211 "Crumb" Corn Cakes 212 Grandmother's Recipe for Buttermilk Waffles 212 "Bread" Griddle Cakes 212 Never Fail "Flannel" Cakes 213 Waffles Made From Sweet Milk and Baking Powder 213 "Bucks County" Buckwheat Cakes 213 Delicious Corn Cakes 214 Rice Waffles (As Aunt Sarah Made Them) 214 "German" Egg-Pancakes (Not Cheap) 215 "Frau Schmidt's" Griddle Cake Recipe 215 Mary's Recipe for Corn Cakes 215 Aunt Sarah's Delicious Cream Biscuits 216 Mary's Muffins 216 "Corn Muffins" (As Made by Frau Schmidt) 217 Strawberry Short Cake (As Frau Schmidt Made It) 217 Perfection Waffles 218 Recipe for Making "Baking Powder" 218 Fritters, Croquettes, Dumplings and Crullers 219 "Kartoffle Balla" (Potato Balls) 220 "Boova Shenkel" 220 Rice Balls With Cheese 221 "Kartoffle Klose" 221 Rice Croquets (and Lemon Sauce) 222 Corn Oysters 222 Banana Fritters 223 Parsnip Fritters 223 Aunt Sarah's "Schnita and Knopf" 224 A Very Old Recipe for "Knopf" (or Dumplings) 224 "Kartoffle Kuklein" (Potato Fritter or Boofers) 224 Rosettes, Wafers and Rosenkuehen 225 "Bairische Dampfnudein" 226 "Heller Bluther Kuklein" 226 "Apyl Kuklein" (Apple Fritters) 227 Dumplings Made From "Bread Sponge" 227 "Leber Klose" (Liver Dumplings) 228 Frau Schmidt's "Old Recipe for Schnitz and Knopf" 229 "Brod Knodel," or Bread Dumplings 230 "German" Pot Pie 230 "Zwelchen Dampfnudeln" 231 Green Corn Fritters 231 "Mouldasha" (Parsley Pies) 232 Inexpensive Drop Crullers 232 Batter Baked With Gravy 232 "German" Sour Cream Crullers 233 Grandmother's Doughnuts 233 Fine "Drop Crullers" 234 Soups and Chowders 234 Vegetable Soup 235 "Marklose" Balls for Soup 236 Egg Balls for Soup 236 "Suppee Schwangen" 236 Cream of Oyster Bouillon 237 "German" Noodle Soup 237 Cream of Celery 238 Oyster Stew 238 Clam Broth 238 Turkey Soup 239 Cream of Pea Soup 239 Tomato Soup 239 "Frau" Schmidt's Clam Soup 239 Clam Chowder 240 Brown Potato Chowder 240 Bean Chowder 241 Bouillon 241 "Farmer's" Rice 241 Philadelphia "Pepperpot" 242 "German" Vegetable Soup 243 A Cheap Rice and Tomato Soup 243 Fish, Clams and Oysters 243 Boned Shad 243 Croquettes of Cold Cooked Fish 244 Shad Roe 244 Scalloped Oysters 245 Deviled Oysters 245 Planked Shad 246 Broiled Mackerel 246 Codfish Bails 246 Fried Oysters 247 Panned Oysters 247 Oysters Steamed in the Shell 248 A Recipe Given Mary for "Oyster Cocktail" 248 Oyster Croquettes 249 Frau Schmidt's Way of Serving "Oyster Cocktails" 249 Salmon Loaf 249 Creamed Salmon 249 Oyster Canapes 250 Meat 250 "Sauergebratens" (German Pot Roast) 251 "Hungarian Goulash" 252 Broiled Steak 252 Stewed Shin of Beef 253 Hamburg Steak 253 Meat Stew With Dumplings 254 Extending the Meat Flavor 255 Preparing a Pot Roast 256 Stuffed Breast of Veal 257 "Gedampftes Rinderbrust" 257 "Paprikash" 257 Beef Stew 258 Savory Beef Roll 258 Veal Cutlets 259 Meat "Snitzel" 259 Sirloin Steaks 259 Meat Balls 260 Veal Loaf 260 Sweet Breads (Breaded) 261 Fried "Liver and Bacon" 261 Beef Steak Served With Peas 261 Creamed "Dried Beef" 262 Creamed Sweetbreads 262 Meat Croquettes 262 Stewed Rabbit 263 Roast Lamb 263 "Gefullte Rinderbrust" (Stuffed Breast of Beef) German Style 263 Fried Peppers With Pork Chops 264 Boiled Ham 264 Sliced Ham 264 Roast Pork 265 Pork Chops 265 "Home-Made" Sausage 265 Aunt Sarah's Method of Keeping Sausage 266 Souse 266 Utilizing Cold Meat "Left-Overs" 267 Fowl 267 Roast Chicken or Turkey 267 Bread Filling (As Aunt Sarah Prepared It) 268 Fried Chicken With Cream Gravy 269 Stewed or Steamed Chicken 270 Vegetables 270 White Potatoes 270 Baked Potatoes 271 Various Ways of Using Small Potatoes 271 Scalloped Potatoes 273 Candied Sweet Potatoes 273 Sweet Potato Croquettes 274 Potato Chips 274 Fried Eggplant 274 Baked Stuffed Peppers 275 Chili (As Prepared in New Mexico) 275 Baked Cabbage 275 Crimson Creamed Beets 276 Buttered Beets 276 Pickled "Mangelwurzel" 276 German Steamed Cabbage 277 Bean "Snitzel" 277 Boiled Spinach 277 Fried Onions and Potatoes 278 Steamed Asparagus (Pine) 278 Pasture Mushrooms 278 Steamed Mushrooms (Delicious) 279 Stewed Tomatoes 279 Sweet Corn 280 Fried Tomatoes With "Cream Sauce" 280 Baked "Stuffed Tomatoes" 280 "Canned Tomatoes," Fried or (Tomato Fritters) 281 "Bucks County" Baked Beans 281 Cooked Hominy 282 Grated Parsnip Cakes 282 To make "Sauer Kraut" 283 Dumplings to Serve With "Sauer Kraut" 284 Parsley Dried to Preserve Its _Green_ Color 285 Time Required to Cook Vegetables 285 Common Cream Sauce 286 Preparation of Savory Gravies 287 The Good Flavor of "Browned Flour" 287 Butter, Cheese and Suet 283 A Substitute for Butter (As Aunt Sarah Prepared It) 288 "Butter"--As It Was Made at the Farm, "By Aunt Sarah" 289 "Smier Kase," or Cottage Cheese 290 Uses of Sweet Drippings and Suet 291 Eggs 292 "Eierkuchen," or Omelette 292 Hard Boiled Eggs 292 Soft Boiled Eggs 293 An Egg and Tomato Omelette 293 Mushroom Omelette 294 A Clam Omelette 294 Deviled Eggs 294 Eggs in Cream Sauce 295 Aunt Sarah's Method of Preserving Eggs in "Water Glass" 295 To Test Fresh Eggs 296 Salads 297 Aunt Sarah's Salad Dressing 297 Dutch cucumber Salad 298 Carrot Salad 298 "An Old Recipe" for Chicken Salad 298 German Potato Salad 299 German Turnip Salad 299 "German" Salad Dressing 299 Mary's Potato Salad 300 Mary's Recipe for Salad Dressing 300 "Fruit" Salad Dressing 300 Grape Fruit Salad 300 "A Good, Inexpensive" Salad Dressing 301 Imitation "Lobster Salad" 301 "German" Horseradish Sauce 301 Mayonnaise Dressing (In Which Olive Oil is Used) 302 Mustard Dressing to Serve With Sliced Tomatoes 302 Chicken Salad 302 Pepper Hash 303 German Bean Salad 303 Meat Salads 304 Beverages 305 Coffee 305 Cocoa 305 Chocolate 306 Boiled Water 306 Tea 306 Iced Tea 307 Puddings 307 Rice Pudding 308 Frau Schmidt's Apple Dumplings 308 "Caramel Custard" as Mary Prepared It 309 Aunt Sarah's Bread Pudding 309 "Steamed" Bread Pudding 309 An Economical "Bread and Apple Pudding" 310 Cup Custards 310 Frau Schmidt's Graham Pudding 310 "Sponge" Bread Pudding (Sauce) 311 Aunt Sarah's Cottage Pudding (Sauce) 311 Apple "Strudel" 312 "Lemon Meringue" Pudding 312 Suet Pudding (Sauce) 313 Steamed Fruit Pudding (Sauce) 313 Cornmeal Pudding 314 Huckleberry Pudding 314 Tapioca Custard 314 Delicious Baked Peach Pudding 315 Caramel Custard 315 "Aunt Sarah's" Rhubarb Pudding 315 "Vanilla Sauce" for Rhubarb Pudding 316 Rice Custard 316 "Mary's" Cup Pudding (From Stale Bread) (Sauce) 316 "Buckwheat Minute" Pudding 317 Peach Tapioca 317 Aunt Sarah's Plain Boiled Pudding 317 Pudding Sauce 317 Apple Tapioca 318 Steamed Walnut Pudding 318 "Cornmeal Sponge" Pudding 318 Mary's Corn Starch Pudding 319 Apple Johnny Cake (Served as a Pudding) 319 A Good and Cheap Tapioca Pudding 319 "Gotterspeise" 320 Spanish Cream 320 Graham Pudding 320 "Pennsylvania" Plum Pudding (For Thanksgiving Day) (Sauce) 320 "Slice" Bread Pudding 321 Cereals 321 Oatmeal Porridge 321 Cooked Rice 322 Cornmeal Mush 323 Macaroni 324 Baked Macaroni and Cheese 324 Cakes 325 Cake Making 325 Frau Schmidt's Lemon Cake 327 Fine "Krum Kuchen" 328 Aunt Sarah's "Quick Dutch Cakes" 328 A Reliable Layer Cake 328 Boiled Icing 329 A Delicious "Spice Layer Cake" (Icing) 329 An Inexpensive Cocoa Cake 330 Aunt Sarah's Walnut Gingerbread 330 Aunt Sarah's "German Crumb Cakes" Baked in Crusts 331 "Sour Cream" Molasses Cake 331 Economy Cake 332 Ginger Cake 332 A Very Economical German Clove Cake (Icing) 333 Cake Icing for Various Cakes 333 Mary's Recipe for "Hot Milk Sponge" Cake 334 Cheap "Molasses Gingerbread" 334 Aunt Sarah's Extra Fine Large Sponge Cake 335 Angel Cake (Aunt Sarah's Recipe) 335 Aunt Sarah's Good and Cheap "Country Fruit Cake" 336 A "Sponge Custard" Cake 336 Custard 336 Grandmother's Excellent "Old" Recipe for Marble Cake 337 Mary's Molasses Cakes 337 Chocolate Icing for Molasses Cake 338 Hickory Nut Cake 338 "Light Brown" Sugar Cake 338 "Angel Food" Layer Cake 339 Mary's Chocolate Cake 339 Cocoa Filling 339 A Cheap Orange Cake 340 Frau Schmidt's Molasses Cake 340 Apple Sauce Cake 340 Icing 341 "Schwarz" Cake (and Chocolate Filling) 341 Apple Cream Cake 342 Apple Cream Pilling for Cake 342 A "Half Pound" Cake 342 A Delicious Icing (Not Cheap) 342 Cocoanut Layer Cake 343 The Filling 343 Gold Layer Cake 343 Sunshine Sponge Cake 343 An Inexpensive Dark "Chocolate Layer Cake" 344 Angel Cake 344 Mary's Chocolate Loaf (Made With Sour Milk) 345 Inexpensive Sunshine Cake 345 Mary's Recipe for Orange Cake and Filling for Cake 345 Roll Jelly Cake 346 Aunt Sarah's Cinnamon Cake 346 Gelb Kuchen (Yellow Cake) 347 Devil's Food Cake 347 A Cheap Cocoanut Layer Cake 348 Lady Baltimore Cake and Icing 348 An Inexpensive "White Fruit Cake" 348 A Good and Cheap "White Cake" 349 Chocolate Icing (Very Good) 349 Tip-Top Cake 349 Orange Cake and Filling 350 Cheap Sponge Cake 350 Caramel Cake and Icing 350 A White Cake 351 "Dutch" Currant Cake (No Yeast Used) 351 An "Old Recipe" for Coffee Cake 352 A "Cheap" Brown Sugar Cake 352 Fran Schmidt's "German Christmas Cake" 352 Aunt Sarah's "Shellbark Layer Cake" 352 Imperial Cake (Baked for Mary's Wedding) 353 A Light Fruit Cake (for Christmas) 353 English Cake (Similar to a White Fruit Cake) 353 Grandmother's Fruit Cake (Baked for Mary's Wedding) 354 An Old Recipe for Pound Cake 354 "Bucks County" Molasses Cakes (Baked in Pastry) 354 "Brod Torte" 355 A Delicious Chocolate Cake 355 Chocolate Icing 355 A White Cocoanut Cake 355 A Potato Cake (No Yeast Required) 356 A Citron Cake 356 Aunt Amanda's Spice "Kuchen" 356 A Good, Cheap Chocolate Cake 357 An Tee Cream Cake 357 Small Sponge Cakes 357 Small Cakes and Cookies 357 "Aunt Sarah's" Little Lemon Cakes 357 Oatmeal Crisps 358 Aunt Sarah's Ginger Snaps 359 German "Lebkuchen" (Icing) 359 Grandmother's Molasses Cakes 360 Angel Cakes (Baked in Gem Pans) 360 "Almond Brod" 360 "Grossmutter's" Honey Cakes 361 Lemon Wafers or Drop Cakes 362 Frau Schmidt's Sugar Cookies 362 Almond Macaroons 362 "Honig Kuchen" (Honey Cakes) 363 Frau Schmidt's Molasses Snaps 363 Hickory Nut Cakes 363 "Lebkuchen" 364 Fruit Jumbles 364 Brown Pfeffernussen 364 Small Oatmeal Cakes 365 Frau Schmidt's Recipe for "German" Almond Slices 365 "July Ann's" Ginger Snaps 366 Cocoanut Cookies 366 Chocolate Cookies 366 Small "Belsnickel" Christmas Cakes 367 "Pennsylvania Dutch" Kisses 367 Little Crumb Cakes 367 Delicious Vanilla Wafers (As Mary Made Them) 368 Macaroons (As Aunt Sarah Made Them) 368 "Springerles" (German Christmas Cakes) 368 Oatmeal Cookies 369 Peanut Biscuits 369 Plain Cookies 370 Walnut Rocks 370 Cinnamon Wafers (As Aunt Sarah Made Them) 370 Zimmet Waffles (As Made by Frau Schmidt) 371 "Braune Lebkuchen" 371 Peanut Cookies 371 Pies 372 Flaky Pie Crust 372 Aunt Sarah's Lemon Pie 373 The Professor's Wife's Superior Pastry 373 Mary's Lemon Meringue (Made With Milk) 374 Apple Tart 375 Raisin or "Rosina" Pie 375 Snitz Pie 376 Mary's Recipe for "Plain Pumpkin" Pies 376 Chocolate Pie 376 "Pebble Dash," or Shoo Fly Pie (As Aunt Sarah Made It) 377 Vanilla Crumb "Crusts" (the Crumbs for Crusts) 377 "Kasha Kuchen" or Cherry Cake 378 "Rivel Kuchen" 378 Aunt Sarah's Lemon Meringue 378 A Country Batter Pie 379 Pumpkin Pie (Aunt Sarah's Recipe) 379 White Potato Custard (Aunt Sarah's Recipe) 380 "Rhubarb Custard" Pie 380 "Lemon Apple" Pie 380 Green Currant Pie 380 A Country "Molasses" Pie 381 A Mock Cherry Pie 381 Aunt Sarah's Custard Pie 381 Plain Rhubarb Pie 382 Mary's Cream Pie 382 Apple Custard Pie 383 Lemon Pie With Crumbs 383 Aunt Sarah's Butter Scotch Pie 383 Green Tomato Mince Meat 383 Orange Meringue (a Pie) 384 Grandmother's Recipe for "Mince Meat" 384 "Twentieth Century" Mince Meat 385 A "Dutch" Recipe for Pumpkin Pie 385 Mary's Cocoanut Custard Pie 386 Grape Pie 386 Sour Cherry Pie 386 Aunt Sarah's "Strawberry" Pie 387 "Florendine" Pie 387 Aunt Sarah's "Cheese Cake," or Pie 387 "Frau" Schmidt's Lemon Pie 388 Pickles 388 Spiced Cucumbers 388 Mixed Sauce to Serve With Meats 389 Pepper Relish 389 Pickled Red Cabbage 389 Mustard Pickles 390 Aunt Sarah's Cucumber Pickles 390 "Rot Pfeffers" Filled With Cabbage 391 An Old Recipe for Spiced Pickles 391 Aunt Sarah's Recipe for "Chili Sauce" 392 Tomato Catsup 392 Pickled Beets 393 Marmalades, Preserves and Canned Fruits 393 "Frau" Schmidt's Recipe for Apple Butter 394 Cranberry Sauce 394 Preserved "Yellow Ground Cherries" 395 "Wunderselda" Marmalade 395 Aunt Sarah's Spiced Pears 395 Peach Marmalade 396 Aunt Sarah's Ginger Pears 396 Pear and Pieapple Marmalade 397 Grape Butter 397 Canned Sour Cherries 397 Candied Orange Peel 397 Aunt Sarah's "Cherry Marmalade" 398 Aunt Sarah's "Quince Honey" 398 Pickled Peaches 398 Currant Jelly 398 Pineapple Honey 399 Preserved Pineapple 399 Grape Conserve 399 Mary's Recipe for Rhubarb Jam 400 Apple Sauce 400 Rhubarb Marmalade as "Frau Schmidt" Made It 400 Grape Fruit Marmalade 401 Orange Marmalade 401 Cherry "Relish" 401 Canned Peaches 402 Pear Conserve 402 Lemon Honey 402 Canned String Beans 403 Preserved "German Prunes" or Plums 403 "Bucks County" Apple Butter 404 Canned Tomatoes 404 Euchered Peaches 405 Aunt Sarah's Method of Canning Corn 405 Dried Sweet Corn 406 Preserved Cherries 407 Frozen Desserts 407 Aunt Sarah's Frozen "Fruit Custard" 407 Sherbet 407 Ice Cream (A Simple Recipe Given Mary) 408 Frau Schmidt's Ice Cream 408 Maple Parfait 408 Ice Cream Made by Beating With Paddle 409 Aunt Sarah's Recipe for Frozen Custard 410 Pineapple Cream 410 Mary's Recipe for Peach Cream 411 Lemon Sherbet 411 Frau Schmidt's Frozen Custard 411 Caramel Ice Cream 412 Cherry Sherbet 412 Grape Sherbet 413 Wines and Syrups 413 Unfermented Grape Juice 413 Vinegar Made From Strawberries 414 Boiled Cider for Mince Pies 414 Lemon Syrup 414 Egg Nogg 414 Rose Wine 415 Dandelion Wine 415 Dandelion Wine (Made With Yeast) 416 Grape Fruit Punch 416 A Substitute for Maple Syrup 416 Salted Almonds or Peanuts 416 Peanut Butter 417 A Club Sandwich 417 Candies 417 Walnut Molasses Taffy 417 Cocoanut Creams 418 Fudge (As Made by Mary) 418 A Delicious Chocolate Cream Candy 418 Mary's Recipe for Molasses Taffy 419 Recipe for Making Hard Soap Without Boiling 419 To Imitate Chestnut Wood 420 Measures and Weights 422 Cooking Schedule 423