did. It was not possible that I should ever cease to love her, but my

love took on another shape; earthly desires faded, and a bond of the spirit grew up between us. You have often laughed when you heard us philosophizing together. But if you had known how close were our souls at such moments you would have been very jealous. And now she is dead, and before the next New-Year’s Eve comes round we two may follow her. It is, therefore, high time that I rid myself of this secret and say to you, ‘Franz, I sinned against you once, forgive me.’”

He held out an imploring hand toward his friend; but the other answered, grumbling: “Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. What you told me there, I knew it long ago. She confessed it herself forty years ago. And now I will tell you why I ran after other women until I was an old man--because she told me then that you were the one and only love of her life.”

The friend stared at him without speaking, and the hoarse clock began to strike--midnight.

BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES BY GABRIELE REUTER

_Not long ago, in 1895, Gabriele Reuter published a book called, in the translation, “Of Good Family.” It was very popular, for it was not only well written, in an up-to-date, realistic style, softened by imagination, but it dealt with the position of the modern woman--it was full of moving pictures of family life and manners. Since then the author has stood in Germany as the woman-weaver of questions and problems concerning her own sex, in realistic but sober colors._

_Gabriele Reuter was born in 1859, at Alexandria, Egypt. She was educated in Germany, however, and now lives at Berlin. Since 1878 she has devoted herself to literature, writing articles, novels, and stories for the journals and reviews._

BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES BY GABRIELE REUTER

Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

The temptation to wait over a train and visit my old friend in his new home was very strong. I decided to do it.

I found his name on the door of a pretty little villa in an attractive street.

“Would you wait a little? The doctor is expected home at any moment,” the servant told me, as she ushered me into the drawing-room.

“Will you give my card to Mrs. Hartens?” I said.

I was rather curious to see the woman he had chosen, this dear, queer old chap, this enthusiast for Hellenic ideals and the cult of free natural beauty.

When the servant had left me alone I looked curiously around the room. I saw curtains of expensive plush, carved mahogany furniture, a clean-washed palm, heavy bronze lamps--the usual sort of things that are given for wedding presents among well-to-do people. There was nothing that could be called ugly--and yet--and this was where he lived now? This was the result of all his dreams?

But why didn’t she come?

Probably the young wife could not make up her mind whether she ought to receive her husband’s old friend in his absence.

I yawned a little. Time was flying, and I did not know when I might ever pass through this town again. I looked absent-mindedly over the table beside which I sat. On it there stood a majolica plate holding visiting cards, surrounded by large, handsomely bound books. To the right of the plate there stood a vase with fresh flowers. To the left, slightly to one side, there was a little mother-of-pearl bowl, in which lay an amulet with an engraved stone and a tiny smelling bottle of Venetian glass, the sort of thing that looks expensive and probably costs but a few soldi.

I heard a noise in the room adjoining, listened impatiently, and then took the amulet in my hand and examined the stone. It bore a finely worked head of Apollo.

A carriage stopped before the house. A carriage? Then Philip must have a good practise. Strange--I could imagine that he would be more apt to explain to his patients that all medical theory was a swindle anyhow--

A shout of rejoicing came from the corridor: “Oh, but that’s great! But, dearest, why didn’t you--”

“I did not think it was right--without you.”

“Little goosie! Dearest little goosie!”

Then followed a storm of kisses, interrupted by a reproach: “Oh, Philip, she can hear everything.”

“Of course she can! Let her!” he cried happily, tore the door open, and pushed a pretty little blond, doll-like creature before him into the room.

“There--there you are! You must love each other, you two!”

His delicate, scholarly face shone in purest joy. The young wife held out her hand to me and told me that she was very happy to make my acquaintance, Philip had told her so much about me.

And yet she kept me waiting for half an hour!

When she left us to order another plate for the dinner-table, Philip’s eyes followed her, shining with love. And then he explained to me that his choice had been dictated mainly by common sense, because he believed it necessary for his restless experimenting nature to have some one at his side whose character was calm and decided. And his little wife was very firm and decided.

* * * * *

Four years had passed before I again found an opportunity to hear anything from the young couple.

Philip never wrote letters, on principle. I therefore should hardly have felt that I had a right to call him my friend. And yet I made a detour that I might visit him and his wife.

The silence in the house was noticeable. And the undisturbed order everywhere was almost distressing. It was as if the furniture were never used. A door opened cautiously and was shut again equally carefully. A carefully deadened step approached the room, and Philip entered, alone.

“This _is_ nice! It’s awfully good of you,” he said cordially, giving me both his hands.

But after the first greeting I noticed an embarrassment in his manner, a something which had never been part of his character before. With a certain formal politeness, he explained to me that his wife was ill, but that he would go and see if she would not feel equal to a word with me.

After some time he returned, alone, as before. “Theresa asks that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us to-morrow.”

Then he suggested that he and I should spend the evening in a concert garden.

Several hours passed happily under the green trees, cheered with the sound of pleasantly distant music, and enlivened by one of our old-time conversations. Philip became quite himself again. He had the nature of a poet, who can form anew for himself the ancient dreams of all mankind. And he was something of a reformer also. As he described to me what his ideal of life would be, an existence without family ties, without exacting sentimentality and excitement, a life of pure calm beauty, I could not avoid the question: “But what in the world can you do with all this part of your nature in your present existence?” A second later I was sorry for what I had said; his smile was like an expression of pain.

Toward noon the following day Philip called on me at the hotel.

His eyes were dull, his spiritual, mobile features were dead and set in heavy lines.

“I must ask your pardon,” he murmured. “Theresa does not feel well enough yet to see anybody. I thought as much yesterday.”

I inquired sympathetically as to the trouble.

“She could pull herself together perfectly well. But she won’t. She won’t do it, just because it would please me,” he murmured in suppressed anger, throwing back his head impatiently, with a moan as of pain. “And I--I need joy and merriment--and brightness-- And--you saw what it was yesterday. That’s the way it always is now--always.”

“But you are a physician,” I exclaimed. “Can you not give orders? This shutting herself up is all wrong for a young woman like that.”

He burst out into a loud, bitter laugh. “A physician?-- Why, she thinks I’m ill and she is well-- And that isn’t all-- She never can forgive me for our child’s death--” He stared out ahead of him as if he were looking into a world of misery.

“But how dare she?” I whispered. “A thing like that--is fate.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a physician--I should have helped.”

And then he told me the story in a dull and weary tone. An epidemic of scarlet fever had broken out in the city. His wife had demanded that he should refuse to treat severe cases, in consideration for herself and the child. He would not comply with her wish and brought the infection into the house. “From her point of view, Theresa is quite right in hating me,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she acts and talks as if it were only her child--it was _my_ son also.”

We set out for a restaurant that he had recommended. He was quiet and absent-minded. Suddenly he looked at his watch and said: “You’re an independent woman. You don’t mind going there alone, do you? I have a patient to visit and will meet you there later. Will this suit you?”

I assented, understanding that he had already repented of his confession and wished to be alone. I waited the rest of the afternoon, but without the hope of seeing him again. He did not come, and I left the town that evening.

* * * * *

It was in quite another city, in another corner of Germany, where I was visiting relatives, when one day some one asked me: “Aren’t you a friend of Dr. Philip Hartens? According to the directory he lives here now, quite near us. Would you want to look him up?”

“Of course I would.”

An hour later I might have believed that the six years which had passed between that day and my first visit to the young couple had been a dream only. For I sat beside the very same table at which I had waited before. The friendly spring sunshine shone on the gold lettering of the large books that surrounded the majolica plate, mirrored itself in the vase with fresh flowers, and awoke a delicate play of color from the little mother-of-pearl bowl. There were also the amulet with the head of Apollo and the little glass bottle. The sight of these old friends caused me to smile, just as Theresa entered. The delicate outlines of her figure had not changed, she had become frozen into them, as it were. There was something of the old maid about her, and the stubbornness, which had been a piquant touch in her soft young face, was now hardened into the chief quality of its expression. She took my hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear that Philip is away.”

“My husband has left me,” was her short, sharp answer.

I looked at her, dazed. “Why--?”

“Yes. I suppose you did not imagine that he would forget himself to that extent?” She smoothed her little black silk apron and looked at me with an expression that was almost scorn.

“No--I certainly should not have believed that,” I answered candidly. “How could it have happened?”

Naturally, I did not expect an explanation. But Theresa began of herself to tell me the story of her unhappy marriage; began to tell it with a self-possession which showed that she felt assured of a tribute of sympathy from every one. She told me of her fruitless attempts to make of her husband a sensible, useful, practical husband and citizen. For a time everything seemed to go right--until the child died. But from then on his guilty conscience had drawn him more and more away from her and from her influence. He neglected his practise more and more, he spoke quite openly in terms of scorn about his profession, he fell into bad company, began to go about with people who let their hair grow and didn’t wear shoes--and with them he appeared to have entirely lost all sense of what was decent and sensible.

I listened in silence, shocked in my inmost heart to see how her hatred seemed to have robbed this woman of all sense of shame.

“But Philip is a noble and true character,” I said finally. “He goes his own way perhaps-- But, believe me, he will come to himself again in solitude.”

“In solitude?” she queried, with a scornful dropping of the corners of her mouth. “Philip is utterly ruined, I tell you. Because I refused to become a pupil to his immoral theories of life, he sought and found a more credulous companion. He is with her now, in Greece, I believe, or God knows where--”

The faded eyes in the embittered little face gazed angrily into the distance, as if her spirit followed her husband and the other woman.

Then her glance fell slowly back to the table, and she noticed that during her narrative I had mechanically taken the amulet from the little pearl bowl and had let it fall upon one of the books.

Crushing her moistened handkerchief in her left hand, with the right she took up the amulet, laid it back in its place beside the little glass bottle, and pushed the little bowl until it stood just as it had before, to the left side of the majolica plate.

Then I understood my poor friend, and my heart forgave him.

THE FUR COAT BY LUDWIG FULDA

_Fulda’s greatest achievement, perhaps, is his translation into German of Molière’s masterpieces, the success of which probably led him to also translate De Rostand’s “Cyrano de Bergerac.” But his popularity rests chiefly on his dramas, the best known of which is “The Talisman,” and on his short stories. When Fulda went to Munich in 1884, he came for a short time under the influence of Paul Heyse, evident in his short stories of the period, but soon fell into the inevitable realism of the present age in fiction. Later still he applied himself closely to the study of the language and artistic form of poetry. It is not surprising, then, to find his style so graceful and elegant._

_Fulda was born in 1862 at Frankfort-on-Main. His early studies at Heidelberg, Berlin, and Leipzig were chiefly in German philology, history of literature, and philosophy. For his book on Christian Science he received a university degree._

THE FUR COAT THE STORY OF A MATRIMONIAL DIFFERENCE

BY LUDWIG FULDA

Translated by Mrs. J. M. Lancaster. Copyright, 1903, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.

BERLIN, November 20.

Dear Gustav--I have some news to tell you to-day which will certainly surprise you. I have separated from my wife, or rather we have separated from each other. We have come to an amicable agreement henceforth to live entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone to her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain. I am for the present in our old house; perhaps in the spring I may look for a smaller house--perhaps not, for I can hardly hope to find so quiet a workroom as I now have, and the idea of moving appals me, especially when I think of my large library. You will, of course, want to know what has happened, though, to tell the truth, nothing has happened. The world will seek for all possible and impossible reasons why two people who married for love and who have for eleven years lived what is called happily together should now have decided to part. Yes, this world which thinks itself so wise, but whose judgments are nevertheless so petty, so superficial, will doubtless be of the opinion that there is something hidden--will include this case too in one of the two great categories prepared for such affairs, because it can not conceive of the fact that life in its inexhaustible variety never repeats itself and that the same circumstances may assume different aspects according to the character and disposition of those interested. I need not tell you this, my dear Gustav. You will understand how two finely organized natures should rebel against a tie which binds them together after they have once become fully convinced that in all matters of real importance a mutual understanding was impossible.

My wife and I are too unlike. Between her views of life and mine there yawns an impassable gulf. The first few years I hoped to influence her, to win her to my ways of thinking--she seemed so docile, so yielding, took so warm an interest in my work, so willingly allowed herself to be taught by me. Not till after our children’s death did she begin to change. Her grief at this loss--a grief which neither of us has ever been able to live down--matured her, made her independent of me. A tendency to morbid introspection took possession of her, and gave increased tenacity to those ideas and convictions which my influence had hitherto held in check, though not wholly eradicated. She plunged deeper and deeper into those mists of sentimentally fantastic imaginings, passionately demanding my concurrence in her views. She lost all interest in my professional work, evidently regarding the results of my researches in natural science as troops from an enemy’s camp. At last there was hardly a subject in the wide realm of nature and human existence on which we agreed. To be sure we never came to an open quarrel, but the breach between us was constantly widening. Every day we saw more and more plainly that though we lived side by side, we no longer belonged to each other. This discovery irritated and distressed us, and at last forced all other feelings into the background. If we had not once loved each other so dearly, or even if we had now ceased to feel a mutual respect, this state of affairs might perhaps have lasted for years, but our ideas of the true meaning of marriage were too lofty, our sense of our own dignity as human beings too profound to permit us to be content with so incomplete a realization of our ideals. I hardly know who spoke first, but our resolution was at once taken, and the decisive words uttered as calmly and naturally as the overripe fruit falls from the tree. For the first time in many years we were able with perfect unanimity of sentiment to discuss a subject of the greatest importance to us both, and this fact alone soothed our overwrought nerves. We parted yesterday with the utmost decorum, without a word of reproach, a note of discord. Memories of our early married life, of the long years we had lived together, made it difficult to refrain from some manifestation of tenderness, and I assure you that I never felt greater respect for my wife than at the moment when, all petty considerations cast aside, the true magnanimity of her nature asserted itself. Her manner, what she said, and also what she did not say, robbed the situation of all trace of the commonplace, and gave it dignity. Deeply moved, almost in tears, we clasped hands in farewell, so we may look back upon the closing scene of our wedded life with unalloyed satisfaction.

I had already, with her consent, referred all business details to our lawyers, for we were not even to communicate with each other by letter.

Life must begin again for both of us, and already I breathe more freely. The Rubicon is passed. I believe that you will congratulate me.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.

BERLIN, December 12.

Dear Gustav--Pardon me that I have so long delayed thanking you for your answer of friendly sympathy to my last letter.

I have been in no condition to write, and even now find it difficult. You congratulate me without reserve on a step which you regard as essential to my welfare and to my intellectual development, but you do not take into consideration what it means to separate from one who has for eleven years been one’s constant companion, day and night. Indeed, it is only during these last dreary weeks that I, myself, have realized what the change signifies to me. Habit is all powerful, especially with men who, like you and me, live in the intellectual world and so require a solid substructure.

How are we to take observations from the tower battlements when its foundations are not firmly established? Of course, I am as certain as ever I was that our decision is for the best interests of us both, but in this queer world of ours we can take no step without unlooked-for results.

I am bothered from morn till night with trifles to which I have never given a thought since my bachelor days--things which I will not mention, so absurdly insignificant are they--and yet they rob me of my time and destroy my peace. I am at a loss what steps to take to rid myself of the thousand petty cares and annoyances which my wife has hitherto borne for me. These servants! Now that the cat is away they think that they can do just as they please, and you have no idea of the silly obstacles over which I am continually stumbling, of the wretched pitfalls which beset my path. Here is one instance out of many: For several days it has been very cold, and I can not find my fur coat. With the chambermaid’s assistance I have turned the whole house upside down, until she finally remembered that my wife, last spring, sent it to a furrier’s to be kept from the moth. But to which furrier? I have been to a dozen and can not find it.

If I had only not agreed with my wife that we were, under no circumstances, to write to each other, I should simply ask her--but it is best so. No strain of the commonplace must mingle with the sad echoes of our farewell. No--a farce never follows a drama. Perhaps she might even imagine that I seize the first pretext to renew relations with her.

Never!

To-day it is six below zero.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.

BERLIN, December 14.

Dear Emma--You will be greatly surprised at receiving a letter from me in spite of our mutual agreement, but do not fear that I have any intention of opening a correspondence with you. Our relations terminated with all possible dignity, and the sealed door shall never be reopened. I have but to ask a simple question which you alone can answer. What is the name of the man to whom you sent my fur coat last spring? Lina has forgotten the address. Hoping soon to receive an answer, for which I thank you in advance,

MAX.

FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.

FREIBURG, December 15.

Dear Max--His name is Palaschke, and he is on Zimmer Street. I can not understand Lina’s forgetfulness, as she took the coat there herself.

EMMA.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.

BERLIN, December 17.

Dear Emma--I must trouble you once more--for the last time. Herr Palaschke refuses to let the coat go without the ticket, as he has had several disagreeable experiences which have made it necessary to be very strict. But where _is_ the ticket? I spent the whole morning looking for it, and, of course, Lina has not the slightest idea where it is. She flew into a rage when I found a little fault with her, and she leaves the house to-morrow. I prefer paying her till the end of her engagement, and shall also give her a moderate Christmas gift, for I can not stand such an impertinent person about me.

Well--be so kind as to write me a line telling me where to find the ticket. I have already taken a severe cold for want of the fur coat.

Hoping that you are well and quite comfortable with your family.

MAX.

FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.

FREIBURG, December 19.

Dear Max--The ticket is either in the second or third upper drawer of the little wardrobe in the dressing-room or in my desk, in the right or left pigeonhole. I could find it in a minute if I were there. Lina has great faults, but she is very respectable. I doubt whether you can do better, and now, just before Christmas, you will not be able to replace her. You should have put up with her at least a fortnight longer, but it is none of my business. I hope your cold is better. I am quite well.

EMMA.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.

BERLIN, December 21.

Dear Emma--The ticket is not to be found either in the wardrobe or in the desk. Perhaps it slipped out when you were packing, and was thrown away. I can think of no other explanation.

To-morrow or next day I will again go to Herr Palaschke, and try to wheedle him out of my property by all possible blandishments and assurances, but to-day I am confined to my room, for my cold has resulted in a severe attack of neuralgia.

I had a dreadful scene with the cook yesterday. On the day of your departure she gave me notice, and when I tried to persuade her to remain she turned on me and told me in a very insolent manner that I knew nothing about housekeeping, and that it was only out of sympathy for you, dear Emma, that she had so long remained with us at such low wages, and that she should leave immediately. I answered calmly, but firmly, that she must stay till the end of her engagement. Then she began to cry and storm, and at last was so outrageously impertinent as to declare that even _you_ could not manage to live with me. I lost my temper and must, I suppose, have called her an “impudent woman,” though I can not remember saying it. Unfortunately for me I have had no experience in dealing with viragos.

Two hours later, after supper, I rang and discovered that she was already gone, bag and baggage, leaving in the kitchen a badly spelled _billet doux_, in which she threatened me with a lawsuit for calling her an “impudent woman,” in case I should refuse to give her a certificate of character.

I am now entirely without servants. The porter’s wife blacks my shoes for a handsome consideration, and brings me from the café meals which ought to be condemned by the health inspector. As you have truly remarked, it will be impossible to replace these women before the New Year, but I have already written to a dozen employment bureaus, and will go myself as soon as I am able to leave the house. This has grown into a long letter, my dear Emma, but when the heart is full the pen runs rapidly.

I also suspect that abominable cook of taking my gold sleeve buttons--those left me by Uncle Friedrich--though I have, of course, no proof. Have you any idea where they are? If so please drop me a line. Good-by, my dear Emma, and I trust you are more comfortable than I am.

Your MAX.

FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.

FREIBURG, December 23.

Dear Max--I have read with much sympathy your account of your little mishaps and annoyances. The cook often spoke to me very much as she did to you, but I put up with it because she is a good cook, and only cooks who know nothing are polite. Now you see what I have had to stand for years, and that there are problems in that department also which can not be solved by natural science.

I can not, at this distance, advise you what to do, and should not consider myself justified in doing so now that our intimate relations have been terminated in so dignified a manner, as you so truly remark in your first letter. As for the furrier’s ticket and the sleeve buttons, I will wager that I could find them both in five minutes. You _must_ remember how often you have hunted in vain for a thing which I have found at the first attempt. Men occasionally discover a new truth but never an old button.

Since a correspondence has been begun by you, I have a little request to make. I forgot before I left to ask you for the letters which you wrote me during our engagement, and which at my request you put in your safe. They are my property, and I should like to have them as a reminder of happier days. Will you be so kind as to send them to me?

Wishing you a Merry Christmas,

EMMA.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.

BERLIN, December 25.

My Dear Emma--Your kind wish that I might have a Merry Christmas has not been fulfilled. I never spent so melancholy a Christmas Eve. You will not wonder that I could not bear to accept the invitations of friends--to be a looker-on at family rejoicings--so I stayed at home, entirely alone. I found it utterly impossible to get a servant before New Year’s, and yesterday was even without a helper from outside. The porter’s wife put a cold supper on the table for me early in the afternoon, for she was too busy later with Christmas preparations for her children. A smoky oil lamp took the place of the Christmas tree which you always adorned so charmingly and with such exquisite taste every year, and there were none of those pretty surprises by which you supplied my wants and wishes almost before I was conscious of them. There was nothing on the Christmas table but my old fur coat, which Herr Palaschke--softened by my entreaties and assurances and perhaps also by the spirit of Christmastide--had allowed me to take the preceding day. It was as cold as charity in the room, for the fire had gone out and it was beyond my skill to rekindle it, so I put on the fur coat, sat down by the smoky lamp, and read over the letters which I wrote you during the time of our engagement and which I had taken from their eleven years’ resting-place to send to you to-day.

Dear Emma, I can not tell you how they have moved me. I cried like a child, not over the tragic ending of our marriage alone, but at the change in myself which I recognize. They are very immature and in many ways not in accordance with my present way of thinking, but what a fresh, frank, warm-blooded fellow I was then, and how I loved you! How happy I was! How artlessly and unreservedly did I give myself up to my happiness! Till now I have thought that there has been a gradual, slow change in you alone, but now I see that I also have altered, and God knows, when I compare the Max of those days with the Max of to-day, I do not know to which to give the preference. In the sleepless nights which I have lately spent, I have thought over the possibility of transforming myself into the Max I then was, and grave doubts have suggested themselves whether the differences in our views of matters and things were really as great as they seemed to us, whether there is not outside of them something eternally human, some neutral ground where we might continue to have interests in common.

Try and see, dear Emma, whether such a voice does not speak also to your soul. We can not undo the past, but nothing could give me greater consolation in my present unhappy condition than to know that you could say yes to this question, for your departure has left a void in my house and in my life that I can never, never fill.

Thy most unhappy MAX.

FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.

FREIBURG, December 27.

Dear Max--I very willingly gave you information as long as it related only to tickets and sleeve buttons, but I must decline answering the question contained in your last letter. Did you really believe, you old Pedant, that I left your home--which was also mine--because we disagreed in our views of matters and things in general? Then you are mightily mistaken. I left you because I saw more plainly every day that you no longer loved me. Yes, I had become a burden to you--you wanted to get rid of me. If in that dignified parting scene you had said one single tender word to me, I should probably have stayed, but, as usual, you were on your high horse, from which you have now had so lamentable a tumble just because your servants have left you. _I_ too have served you faithfully, though you do not seem to have recognized that fact. _I_ never let the fire go out on your hearth. It was not _my_ fault when it grew cold.

Who knows whether you would have noticed the void left by my going if your fur coat had not also been missing? This gave you an opportunity of opening a correspondence with me, and it seems to be only fitting that it should now close, since you have once more regained possession of your property. I, at least, have nothing more to say.

Good-by forever, EMMA.

PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.

BERLIN, January 8.

Dear Gustav--I have a great piece of news to tell you. My wife returned to me yesterday, and at my earnest solicitation. I thought I could no longer live _with_ her, but I find it equally impossible to live _without_ her. I have just discovered that she too was very unhappy during the time of our separation, but she would never have acknowledged it, for her’s is the stronger character of the two. I do not know how to explain the miracle, but we love each other more dearly than ever. We are celebrating a new honeymoon. The great questions of life drove us apart, but is it only the little ones which have reunited us? Would you suppose that one could find a half-desiccated heart in the pocket of an old fur coat? The stately edifice of my worldly knowledge totters on its foundations, dear Gustav. I have a great deal to unlearn.

MAX.

THE DEAD ARE SILENT BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

_This Viennese dramatist, whose status as an author is still in the balance, was born in 1862. He studied medicine at the University of Vienna and afterward assisted his father at the Vienna General Polytechnic. At his father’s death, in 1893, he gave up medicine as a profession and began his literary career with a volume of poems._

_Schnitzler has the dramatic feeling in all that he writes--from his earliest poems, through his short stories, to his dramas proper, one of the most popular of which, “The Green Parrot,” was acted in French with great success at the Théâtre Antoine in Paris in 1907. Of his novels, one of the latest is “Lieutenant Gustl,” published in 1900. His talent, however, is not yet formed--it is in a tentative state, grotesque, realistic, sentimental--but it will not remain so long, if it can produce many more such admirable stories as “The Dead Are Silent.”_

THE DEAD ARE SILENT BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

Copyright, 1907, by Courtland H. Young.

He could endure the quiet waiting in the carriage no longer; it was easier to get out and walk up and down. It was now dark; the few scattered lamps in the narrow side street quivered uneasily in the wind. The rain had stopped, the sidewalks were almost dry, but the rough-paved roadway was still moist, and little pools gleamed here and there.

“Strange, isn’t it?” thought Franz. “Here we are scarcely a hundred paces from the Prater, and yet it might be a street in some little country town. Well, it’s safe enough, at any rate. She won’t meet any of the friends she dreads so much here.”

He looked at his watch. “Only just seven, and so dark already! It is an early autumn this year ... and then this confounded storm!...” He turned his coat-collar up about his neck and quickened his pacing. The glass in the street lamps rattled lightly.

“Half an hour more,” he said to himself, “then I can go home. I could almost wish--that that half-hour were over.” He stood for a moment on the corner, where he could command a view of both streets. “She’ll surely come to-day,” his thoughts ran on, while he struggled with his hat, which threatened to blow away. “It’s Friday.... Faculty meeting at the University; she needn’t hurry home.” He heard the clanging of street-car gongs, and the hour chimed from a nearby church tower. The street became more animated. Hurrying figures passed him, clerks of neighboring shops; they hastened onward, fighting against the storm. No one noticed him; a couple of half-grown girls glanced up in idle curiosity as they went by. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure coming toward him. He hastened to meet her.... Could it be she? On foot?

She saw him, and quickened her pace.

“You are walking?” he asked.

“I dismissed the cab in front of the theatre. I think I’ve had that driver before.”

A man passed them, turning to look at the lady. Her companion glared at him, and the other passed on hurriedly. The lady looked after him. “Who was it?” she asked, anxiously.

“Don’t know him. We’ll see no one we know here, don’t worry. But come now, let’s get into the cab.”

“Is that your carriage?”

“Yes.”

“An open one?”

“It was warm and pleasant when I engaged it an hour ago.”

They walked to the carriage; the lady stepped in.

“Driver!” called the man;

“Why, where is he?” asked the lady.

Franz looked around. “Well, did you ever? I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Oh--” her tone was low and timid.

“Wait a moment, child, he must be around here somewhere.”

The young man opened the door of a little saloon, and discovered his driver at a table with several others. The man rose hastily. “In a minute, sir,” he explained, swallowing his glass of wine.

“What do you mean by this?”

“All right, sir.... Be there in a minute.” His step was a little unsteady as he hastened to his horses. “Where’ll you go, sir?”

“Prater--Summer-house.”

Franz entered the carriage. His companion sat back in a corner, crouching fearsomely under the shadow of the cover.

He took both her hands in his. She sat silent. “Won’t you say good evening to me?”

“Give me a moment to rest, dear. I’m still out of breath.”

He leaned back in his corner. Neither spoke for some minutes. The carriage turned into the Prater street, passed the Tegethoff Monument, and a few minutes later was rolling swiftly through the broad, dark Prater Avenue.

Emma turned suddenly and flung both arms around her lover’s neck. He lifted the veil that still hung about her face, and kissed her.

“I have you again--at last!” she exclaimed.

“Do you know how long it is since we have seen each other?” he asked.

“Since Sunday.”

“Yes, and that wasn’t good for much.”

“Why not? You were in our house.”

“Yes--in your house. That’s just it. This can’t go on. I shall not enter your house again.... What’s the matter?”

“A carriage passed us.”

“Dear girl, the people who are driving in the Prater at such an hour, and in such weather, aren’t noticing much what other people are doing.”

“Yes--that’s so. But some one might look in here, by chance.”

“We couldn’t be recognized. It’s too dark.”

“Yes--but can’t we drive somewhere else?”

“Just as you like.” He called to the driver, who did not seem to hear. Franz leaned forward and touched the man.

“Turn around again. What are you whipping your horses like that for? We’re in no hurry, I tell you. Drive--let me see--yes--drive down the avenue that leads to the Reichs Bridge.”

“The Reichs-strasse?”

“Yes. But don’t hurry so, there’s no need of it.”

“All right, sir. But it’s the wind that makes the horses so crazy.”

Franz sat back again as the carriage turned in the other direction.

“Why didn’t I see you yesterday?”

“How could I?”...

“You were invited to my sister’s.”

“Oh--yes.”

“Why weren’t you there?”

“Because I can’t be with you--like that--with others around. No, I just can’t.” She shivered. “Where are we now?” she asked, after a moment.

They were passing under the railroad bridge at the entrance to the Reichs-strasse.

“On the way to the Danube,” replied Franz. “We’re driving toward the Reichs Bridge. We’ll certainly not meet any of our friends here,” he added, with a touch of mockery.

“The carriage jolts dreadfully.”

“We’re on cobblestones again.”

“But he drives so crooked.”

“Oh, you only think so.”

He had begun to notice himself that the vehicle was swaying to and fro more than was necessary, even on the rough pavement. But he said nothing, not wishing to alarm her.

“There’s a great deal I want to say to you to-day, Emma.”

“You had better begin then; I must be home at nine o’clock.”

“A few words may decide everything.”

“Oh, goodness, what was that!” she screamed. The wheels had caught in a car-track, and the carriage turned partly over as the driver attempted to free it. Franz caught at the man’s coat. “Stop that!” he cried. “Why, you’re drunk, man!”

The driver halted his horses with some difficulty. “Oh, no--sir--”

“Let’s get out here, Emma, and walk.”

“Where are we?”

“Here’s the bridge already. And the wind is not nearly as strong as it was. It will be nicer to walk a little. It’s so hard to talk in the carriage.”

Emma drew down her veil and followed him. “Don’t you call this windy?” she exclaimed as she struggled against the gust that met her at the corner.

He took her arm, and called to the driver to follow them.

They walked on slowly. Neither spoke as they mounted the ascent of the bridge; and they halted where they could hear the flow of the water below them. Heavy darkness surrounded them. The broad stream stretched itself out in gray, indefinite outlines; red lights in the distance, floating above the water, awoke answering gleams from its surface. Trembling stripes of light reached down from the shore they had just left; on the other side of the bridge the river lost itself in the blackness of open fields. Thunder rumbled in the distance; they looked over to where the red lights soared. A train with lighted windows rolled between iron arches that seemed to spring up out of the night for an instant, to sink back into darkness again. The thunder grew fainter and more distant; silence fell again; only the wind moved, in sudden gusts.

Franz spoke at last, after a long silence. “We must go away.”

“Of course,” Emma answered, softly.

“We must go away,” he continued, with more animation. “Go away altogether, I mean--”

“Oh, we can’t!”

“Only because we are cowards, Emma.”

“And my child?”

“He will let you have the boy, I know.”

“But how shall we go?” Her voice was very low. “You mean--to run away--”

“Not at all. You have only to be honest with him; to tell him that you can not live with him any longer; that you belong to me.”

“Franz--are you mad?”

“I will spare you that trial, if you wish. I will tell him myself.”

“No, Franz, you will do nothing of the kind.”

He endeavored to read her face. But the darkness showed him only that her head was turned toward him.

He was silent a few moments more. Then he spoke quietly: “You need not fear; I shall not do it.”

They walked toward the farther shore. “Don’t you hear a noise?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Something is coming from the other side,” he said.

A slow rumbling came out of the darkness. A little red light gleamed out at them. They could see that it hung from the axle of a clumsy country cart, but they could not see whether the cart was laden or not, and whether there were human beings on it. Two other carts followed the first. They could just see the outlines of a man in peasant garb on the last cart, and could see that he was lighting his pipe. The carts passed them slowly. Soon there was nothing to be heard but the low rolling of the wheels as their own carriage followed them. The bridge dropped gently to the farther shore. They saw the street disappear into blackness between rows of trees. Open fields lay before them to the right and to the left; they gazed out into gloom indistinguishable.

There was another long silence before Franz spoke again. “Then it is the last time--”

“What?--” Emma’s tone was anxious.

“The last time we are to be together. Stay with him, if you will. I bid you farewell.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“There, now you see, it is you who always spoil the few hours we have together?--not I.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Franz. “Let’s drive back to town.”

She held his arm closer. “No,” she insisted, tenderly, “I don’t want to go back. I won’t be sent away from you.”

She drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly. “Where would we get to if we drove on down there?” she asked.

“That’s the road to Prague, dear.”

“We won’t go quite that far,” she smiled, “but I’d like to drive on a little, down there.” She pointed into the darkness.

Franz called to the driver. There was no answer; the carriage rumbled on, slowly. Franz ran after it, and saw that the driver was fast asleep. Franz roused him roughly. “We want to drive on down that street. Do you hear me?”

“All right, sir.”

Emma entered the carriage first, then Franz. The driver whipped his horses, and they galloped madly over the moist earth of the road-bed. The couple inside the cab held each other closely as they swayed with the motion of the vehicle.

“Isn’t this quite nice?” whispered Emma, her lips on his.

In the moment of her words she seemed to feel the cab mounting into the air. She felt herself thrown over violently, reached for some hold, but grasped only the empty air. She seemed to be spinning madly like a top, her eyes closed; suddenly she found herself lying on the ground, a great silence about her, as if she were alone, far away from all the world. Then noises began to come into her consciousness again; hoofs beat the ground near her; a low moaning came from somewhere; but she could see nothing. Terror seized her; she screamed aloud. Her terror grew stronger, for she could not hear her own voice. Suddenly she knew what had happened; the carriage had hit some object, possibly a milestone; had upset, and she had been thrown out. Where is Franz? was her next thought. She called his name. And now she could hear her voice, not distinctly yet, but she could hear it. There was no answer to her call. She tried to get up. After some effort she rose to a sitting posture, and, reaching out, she felt something, a human body, on the ground beside her. She could now begin to see a little through the dimness. Franz lay beside her, motionless. She put out her hand and touched his face; something warm and wet covered it. Her heart seemed to stop beating--Blood?--Oh, what had happened? Franz was wounded and unconscious. Where was the coachman? She called him, but no answer came. She still sat there on the ground. She did not seem to be injured, although she ached all over. “What shall I do?” she thought; “what shall I do? How can it be that I am not injured? Franz!” she called again. A voice answered from somewhere near her.

“Where are you, lady? And where is the gentleman? Wait a minute, Miss--I’ll light the lamps, so we can see. I don’t know what’s got into the beasts to-day. It ain’t my fault, Miss, sure--they ran into a pile of stones.”

Emma managed to stand up, although she was bruised all over. The fact that the coachman seemed quite uninjured reassured her somewhat. She heard the man opening the lamp and striking a match. She waited anxiously for the light. She did not dare to touch Franz again. “It’s all so much worse when you can’t see plainly,” she thought. “His eyes may be open now--there won’t be anything wrong....”

A tiny ray of light came from one side. She saw the carriage, not completely upset, as she had thought, but leaning over toward the ground, as if one wheel were broken. The horses stood quietly. She saw the milestone, then a heap of loose stones, and beyond them a ditch. Then the light touched Franz’s feet, crept up over his body to his face, and rested there. The coachman had set the lamp on the ground beside the head of the unconscious man. Emma dropped to her knees, and her heart seemed to stop beating as she looked into the face before her. It was ghastly white; the eyes were half open, only the white showing. A thin stream of blood trickled down from one temple and ran into his collar. The teeth were fastened into the under lip. “No--no--it isn’t possible,” Emma spoke, as if to herself.

The driver knelt also and examined the face of the man. Then he took the head in both his hands and raised it. “What are you doing?” screamed Emma, hoarsely, shrinking back at the sight of the head that seemed to be rising of its own volition.

“Please, Miss--I’m afraid--I’m thinking--there’s a great misfortune happened--”

“No--no--it’s not true!” said Emma. “It can’t be true!-- You are not hurt? Nor am I--”

The man let the head he held fall back again into the lap of the trembling Emma. “If only some one would come--if the peasants had only passed fifteen minutes later.”

“What shall we do?” asked Emma, her lips trembling.

“Why, you see, Miss, if the carriage was all right--but it’s no good as it is--we’ve got to wait till some one comes--” he talked on, but Emma did not hear him. Her brain seemed to awake suddenly, and she knew what was to be done. “How far is it to the nearest house?” she asked.

“Not much further, Miss--there’s Franz-Josefsland right there. We’d see the houses if it was lighter--it won’t take five minutes to get there.”

“Go there, then; I’ll stay here-- Go and fetch some one.”

“I think I’d better stay here with you, Miss. Somebody must come; it’s the main road.”

“It’ll be too late; we need a doctor at once.”

The coachman looked down at the quiet face, then he looked at Emma, and shook his head.

“You can’t tell,” she cried.

“Yes, Miss--but there’ll be no doctor in those houses.”

“But there’ll be somebody to send to the city--”

“Oh, yes, Miss--they’ll be having a telephone there, anyway! We’ll telephone to the Rescue Society.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. Go at once, run--and bring some men back with you. Why do you wait? Go at once. Hurry!”

The man looked down again at the white face in her lap. “There’ll be no use here for doctor or Rescue Society, Miss.”

“Oh, go!--for God’s sake go!”

“I’m going, Miss--but don’t get afraid in the darkness here.”

He hurried down the street. “’Twasn’t my fault,” he murmured as he ran. “Such an idea! to drive down this road this time o’ night.”

Emma was left alone with the unconscious man in the gloomy street.

“What shall I do now?” she thought. “It can’t be possible--it can’t.” The thought circled dizzily in her brain--“It can’t be possible.” Suddenly she seemed to hear a low breathing. She bent to the pale lips--no--not the faintest breath came from them. The blood had dried on temple and cheek. She gazed at the eyes, the half-closed eyes, and shuddered. Why couldn’t she believe it?... It must be true--this was Death! A shiver ran through her--she felt but one thing--“This is a corpse. I am here alone with a corpse!--a corpse that rests on my lap!” With trembling hands she pushed the head away, until it rested on the ground. Then a feeling of horrible aloneness came over her. Why had she sent the coachman away? What should she do here all alone with this dead man in the darkness? If only some one would come--but what was she to do then if anybody did come? How long would she have to wait here? She looked down at the corpse again. “But I’m not alone with him,” she thought, “the light is there.” And the light seemed to her to become alive, something sweet and friendly, to which she owed gratitude. There was more life in this little flame than in all the wide night about her. It seemed almost as if this light was a protection for her, a protection against the terrible pale man who lay on the ground beside her. She stared into the light until her eyes wavered and the flame began to dance. Suddenly she felt herself awake--wide awake. She sprang to her feet. Oh, this would not do! It would not do at all--no one must find her here with him. She seemed to be outside of herself, looking at herself standing there on the road, the corpse and the light below her; she saw herself grow into strange, enormous proportions, high up into the darkness. “What am I waiting for?” she asked herself, and her brain reeled. “What am I waiting for? The people who might come? They don’t need me. They will come, and they will ask questions--and I--why am I here? They will ask who I am--what shall I answer? I will not answer them--I will not say a word--they can not compel me to talk.”

The sound of voices came from the distance.

“Already?” she thought, listening in terror. The voices came from the bridge. It could not be the men the driver was bringing with him. But whoever it was would see the light--and they must not see it, for then she would be discovered. She overturned the lantern with her foot, and the light went out. She stood in utter darkness. She could see nothing--not even him. The pile of stones shone dimly. The voices came nearer. She trembled from head to foot; they must not find her here. That was the only thing of real importance in all the wide world--that no one should find her here. She would be lost if they knew that this--this corpse--was her lover. She clasps her hands convulsively, praying that the people, whoever they were, might pass by on the farther side of the road, and not see her. She listens breathless. Yes, they are there, on the other side--women, two women, or perhaps three. What are they talking about? They have seen the carriage, they speak of it--she can distinguish words. “A carriage upset--” What else do they say? She can not understand--they walk on--they have passed her--Ah--thanks--thanks to Heaven!--And now? What now? Oh, why isn’t she dead, as he is? He is to be envied; there is no more danger, no more fear for him. But so much--so much for her to tremble for. She shivers at the thought of being found here, of being asked, “Who are you?” She will have to go to the police station, and all the world will know about it--her husband--her child. She can not understand why she has stood there motionless so long. She need not stay here--she can do no good here--and she is only courting disaster for herself. She makes a step forward--Careful! the ditch is here--she crosses it--how wet it is--two paces more and she is in the middle of the street. She halts a moment, looks straight ahead, and can finally distinguish the gray line of the road leading onward into darkness. There--over there--lies the city. She can not see it, but she knows the way. She turns once more. It does not seem so dark now. She can see the carriage and the horses quite distinctly--and, looking hard, she seems to see the outline of a human body on the ground. Her eyes open wide. Something seems to clutch at her and hold her here--it is he--she feels his power to keep her with him. With an effort she frees herself. Then she perceives that it was the soft mud of the road that held her. And she walks onward--faster--faster--her pace quickens to a run. Only to be away from here, to be back in the light--in the noise--among men. She runs along the street, raising her skirt high, that her steps may not be hindered. The wind is behind her, and seems to push her along. She does not know what it is she flees from. Is it the pale man back there by the ditch? No, now she knows, she flees the living, not the dead, the living who will soon be there, and who will look for her. What will they think? Will they follow her? But they can not catch up with her now, she is so far away, she is nearing the bridge, there is no danger. No one can know who she was, no one can possibly imagine who the woman was who drove down through the country road with the dead man. The driver does not know her; he would not recognize her if he should ever see her again. They will not take the trouble to find out who she is. Who cares? It was wise of her not to stay--and it was not cowardly either. Franz himself would say it was wise. She must go home; she has a husband, a child; she would be lost if any one should see her there with her dead lover. There is the bridge; the street seems lighter--she hears the water beneath her. She stands there, where they stood together, arm in arm--when was it? How many hours ago? It can not be long since then. And yet--perhaps she lay unconscious long, and it is midnight now, or near morning, and they have missed her at home. Oh, no--it is not possible. She knows that she was not unconscious, she remembers everything clearly. She runs across the bridge, shivering at the sound of her own steps. Now she sees a figure coming toward her; she slows her pace. It is a man in uniform. She walks more slowly, she does not want to attract attention. She feels the man’s eyes resting on her--suppose he stops her! Now he is quite near; it is a policeman. She walks calmly past him, and hears him stop behind her. With an effort she continues in the same slow pace. She hears the jingle of street-car bells--ah, it can not be midnight yet. She walks more quickly--hurrying toward the city, the lights of which begin there by the railroad viaduct--the growing noise tells her how near she is. One lonely stretch of street, and then she is safe. Now she hears a shrill whistle coming rapidly nearer--a wagon flies swiftly past her. She stops and looks after it; it is the ambulance of the Rescue Society. She knows where it is going. “How quickly they have come,” she thinks; “it is like magic.” For a moment she feels that she must call to them, must go back with them. Shame, terrible, overwhelming shame, such as she has never known before, shakes her from head to foot--she knows how vile, how cowardly she is. Then, as the whistle and the rumble of wheels fade away in the distance, a mad joy takes hold of her. She is saved--saved! She hurries on; she meets more people, but she does not fear them--the worst is over. The noise of the city grows louder, the street is lighter, the skyline of the Prater street rises before her, and she knows that she can sink into a flood tide of humanity there and lose herself in it. When she comes to a street lamp she is quite calm enough now to take out her watch and look at it. It is ten minutes to nine. She holds the watch to her ear--it is ticking merrily. And she thinks: “Here I am, alive, unharmed--and he--he--dead. It is Fate.” She feels as if all had been forgiven--as if she had never sinned. And what if Fate had willed otherwise? If it were she lying there in the ditch, and he who remained alive? He would not have run away--but then he is a man. She is only a woman, she has a husband, a child--it was her right--her duty--to save herself. She knows that it was not a sense of duty that impelled her to do it. But what she has done was right--she had done right instinctively--as all good people do. If she had stayed she would have been discovered by this time. The doctors would question her. And all the papers would report it next morning; she would have been ruined forever, and yet her ruin could not bring him back to life. Yes, that was the main point, her sacrifice would have been all in vain. She crosses under the railway bridge and hurries on. There is the Tegethoff Column, where so many streets meet. There are but few people in the park on this stormy evening, but to her it seems as if the life of the city was roaring about her. It was so horribly still back there. She had plenty of time now. She knows that her husband will not be home before ten o’clock. She will have time to change her clothes. And then it occurs to her to look at her gown. She is horrified to see how soiled it is. What shall she say to the maid about it? And next morning the papers will all bring the story of the accident, and they will tell of a woman who had been in the carriage, and who had run away. She trembled afresh. One single carelessness and she is lost, even now. But she has her latch-key with her; she can let herself in; no one will hear her come. She jumps into a cab and is about to give her address, then suddenly she remembers that this would not be wise. She gives any number that occurs to her.

As she drives through the Prater street she wishes that she might feel something--grief--horror--but she can not. She has but one thought, one desire--to be at home, in safety. All else is indifferent to her. When she had decided to leave him alone, dead, by the roadside--in that moment everything seemed to have died within her, everything that would mourn and grieve for him. She has no feeling but that of fear for herself. She is not heartless--she knows that the day will come when her sorrow will be despair--it may kill her even. But she knows nothing now, except the desire to sit quietly at home, at the supper table with her husband and child. She looks out through the cab window. She is driving through the streets of the inner city. It is brilliantly light here, and many people hurry past. Suddenly all that she has experienced in the last few hours seems not to be true, it is like an evil dream; not something real, irreparable. She stops her cab in one of the side streets of the Ring, gets out, turns a corner quickly, and takes another carriage, giving her own address this time. She does not seem able to think of anything any more. “Where is he now?” She closes her eyes and sees him on the litter, in the ambulance. Suddenly she feels that he is here beside her. The cab sways, she feels the terror of being thrown out again, and she screams aloud. The cab halts before the door of her home. She dismounts hastily, hurries with light steps through the house door, unseen by the concierge, runs up the stairs, opens her apartment door very gently, and slips unseen into her own room. She undresses hastily, hiding the mud-stained clothes in her cupboard. To-morrow, when they are dry, she can clean them herself. She washes hands and face, and slips into a loose housegown.

The bell rings. She hears the maid open the door, she hears her husband’s voice, and the rattle of his cane on the hat-stand. She feels she must be brave now or it will all have been in vain. She hurries to the dining-room, entering one door as her husband comes in at the other.

“Ah, you’re home already?” he asks.

“Why, yes,” she replies, “I have been home some time.”

“They evidently didn’t hear you come in.”

She smiles without effort. But it fatigues her horribly to have to smile. He kisses her forehead.

The little boy is already at his place by the table. He has been waiting some time, and has fallen asleep, his head resting on an open book. She sits down beside him; her husband takes his chair opposite, takes up a paper, and glances carelessly at it. Then he says: “The others are still talking away there.”

“What about?” she asks.

And he begins to tell her about the meeting, at length. Emma pretends to listen, and nods now and then. But she does not hear what he is saying, she feels dazed, like one who has escaped terrible danger as by a miracle; she can feel only this: “I am safe; I am at home.” And while her husband is talking she pulls her chair nearer the boy’s and lifts his head to her shoulder. Fatigue inexpressible comes over her. She can no longer control herself; she feels that her eyes are closing, that she is dropping asleep.

Suddenly another possibility presents itself to her mind, a possibility that she had dismissed the moment she turned to leave the ditch where she had fallen. Suppose he were not dead! Suppose--oh, but it is impossible--his eyes--his lips--not a breath came from them! But there are trances that are like death, which deceive even practised eyes, and she knows nothing about such things. Suppose he is still alive--suppose he has regained consciousness and found himself alone by the roadside--suppose he calls her by her name? He might think she had been injured; he might tell the doctors that there was a woman with him, and that she must have been thrown to some distance. They will look for her. The coachman will come back with the men he has brought, and will tell them that she was there, unhurt--and Franz will know the truth. Franz knows her so well--he will know that she has run away--and a great anger will come over him. He will tell them her name in revenge. For he is mortally injured, and it will hurt him cruelly that she has left him alone in his last hour. He will say: “That is Mrs. Emma ----. I am her lover. She is cowardly and stupid, too, gentlemen, for she might have known you would not ask her name; you would be discreet; you would have let her go away unmolested. Oh, she might at least have waited until you came. But she is vile--utterly vile--ah!--”

“What is the matter?” asks the Professor, very gravely, rising from his chair.

“What? What?”

“Yes, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” She presses the boy closer to her breast.

The Professor looks at her for a few minutes steadily.

“Didn’t you know that you had fallen asleep, and--”

“Well?-- And--”

“And then you screamed out in your sleep.”

“Did I?”

“You screamed as if you were having a nightmare. Were you dreaming?”

“I don’t know--”

And she sees her face in a mirror opposite, a face tortured into a ghastly smile. She knows it is her own face, and it terrifies her. She sees that it is frozen; that this hideous smile is frozen on it, and will always be there, all her life. She tries to cry out. Two hands are laid on her shoulders, and between her own face and the mirrored one her husband’s face pushes its way in; his eyes pierce into hers. She knows that unless she is strong for this last trial all is lost. And she feels that she is strong; she has regained control of her limbs, but the moment of strength is short. She raises her hands to his, which rest on her shoulders; she draws him down to her, and smiles naturally and tenderly into his eyes.

She feels his lips on her forehead, and she thinks: “It is all a dream--he will never tell--he will never take revenge like that--he is dead--really dead--and the dead are silent--”

“Why did you say that?” she hears her husband’s voice suddenly.

She starts. “What did I say?” And it seems to her as if she had told everything, here at the table--aloud before every one--and again she asks, shuddering before his horrified eyes, “What did I say?”

“The dead are silent.” her husband repeats very slowly.

“Yes,” she answers.

And she reads in his eyes that she can no longer hide anything from him. They look long and silently at each other. “Put the boy to bed,” he says at last. “You have something to tell me, have you not?”

“Yes--”

She knows now that within a few moments she will tell this man everything--this man, whom she has deceived for many years.

And while she goes slowly through the door, holding her boy, she feels her husband’s eyes still resting on her, and a great peace comes over her, the assurance that now many things would be right again.

MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE BY CLARA VIEBIG

_Clara Viebig, foremost of the young women writers of modern Germany, was born in the early seventies, in the Eifel country of Prussia. Her first book, “Daughters of the Rhineland,” appeared in 1896, with a leaning toward the new “woman movement.” But her first great success was the novel, “Children of the Eifel,” which introduced a new subject as well as a new writer. It is the picture of a “stirring prophet of doom in the midst of the smiling Rhineland.” In dealing with nature, Clara Viebig is masculine, yet when she deals with the brutalities of nature, she is all womanly, without flinching. The expectation raised by these stories was justified in her next book, “Our Daily Bread,” showing such keenness of observation, strength of portraiture, loving insight, and startling directness that it is considered by many the best that newer German literature has produced._

MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE BY CLARA VIEBIG

Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

It was already autumn on the heights of the Eifel. The cold winds blew in from the north, snorting in malicious haste. They colored the thin grass yellow, and tousled the gnarled firs and the trembling birches. Down in the sunny Moselle Valley the roses still bloomed in the gardens, in their glory of white, red, and yellow petals. Heavily laden fruit trees nodded over the crystal clear stream, the rich blood swelled the grape, and walnut and chestnut trees burst open the green coverings of their fruit and shook the shining brown heart of it down upon the earth. But up on the heights the nights smelt of winter already. The sloes hung blue and tart on the blackthorn, cold frost silvered the grass and the moss, and heavy mists filled the ravines. It was inhospitably cold and unfriendly. The Eifel with its treeless heights, its purple moors, and its dark tarns made itself ready to receive its stern master, the Winter.

Where the wood halts and only brush can grow, a tiny hut clung to the rocks. It was a miserably poor little nest with a low hanging roof of moss, on top of which house-leek and other growing plants caught foothold, even one saucy little pine tree had settled down there. The door was low, the window covered with paper, but a contented white goat munched the grass in front of the door, and a few weather-beaten sunflowers nodded their heavy heads in fat condescension.

In this lonely hut, the poorest for many a mile, lived the honest widow Anna Maria Balduin. She had lived there many years, ever since the time, eighteen years back, when she had entered it as the happy bride of Peter Balduin, the sturdy woodchopper. Five years later they had carried him out and buried him in the little hill churchyard down in Kyllburg. That had been a bad year. The potato crop was a failure, bread rose in price, the famine fever ravished the Eifel, the snow fell early, and hungry wolves crept down to the outlying huts. In the widow’s little home the care for daily bread, grief for the lost one, cold, and deprivation were daily guests. The pale woman sat at her spinning wheel and let the tears flow free, while her little daughter Margret knelt beside her, laughing and playing with pebbles, unheeding her mother’s sorrow.

Years had passed since then; the fresh grave had fallen in and grass had grown over it, as over the wounds of the heart. The little hut had grown more dilapidated, and little Margret had become a tall girl. She sat by the door spinning for her daily bread in the service of the rich peasants’ wives, and had the goat tied to her foot by a string, so that she could care for it without stopping her work. Margret spun and spun, looking up occasionally, aimlessly, or in unconscious longing, at the sky above her, which domed pale blue and unapproachably cool over the bare, rocky hilltops.

Her mother was very ill. For weeks and months she had lain bent and stiff, drawn with rheumatic pains, in the worm-eaten bed on her coarse pillows, too helpless sometimes even to raise her hand to her mouth. “It looks bad,” the wise woman from Kyllburg had said, when after much entreaty and a payment of fifty pfennigs (twelve and a half cents) down she had been persuaded to climb up to the miserable hut. She took away with her the widow’s one hen, and left a magic medicine in its place. But the medicine did no magic, the sick woman groaned and moaned more than ever, and the screech owl, the bird of death, screamed each midnight outside the window.

This was a particularly bad day. Pretty Margret sat by the bedside with drooping head. Her busy fingers continued to spin, but her usually laughing brown eyes were filled with tears. She was a good child, who had nothing in all the world but her mother and her seventeen years. But her fresh youth was blighted by the sorrow for her mother as the flowers in May are smitten by hail.

It was a little brightening of the sadness when a knock came on the door and a fat peasant woman pushed herself over the threshold with sighs and pantings.

“Praise be Jesus Christ.”

“Forever and ever, amen.”

The visitor was a cousin from Kyllburg, Frau Margareta Rindsfüsser, Margret’s godmother. She had climbed up the mountain to see them, the good, kind soul, even if she was a little too comfortably complete. She unpacked a basket she carried on her arm: there was sausage in it, rolls, chicory, and eggs.

“Well, Anna, how are the pains?”

“Bad, very bad.”

“Yes, yes,” the visitor nodded, “I don’t believe myself that you’ll be with us long. You’d better be making ready for the blessed death.”

“O dear Lord Jesus,” moaned the sick woman, “I’d be so glad to die--but it’s leaving Margret, and she so young.”

“Yes, it’s true.” The visitor blinked her eyes and blew her nose violently in her gay-colored handkerchief. “It’s bitter hard, but there’s no help. Yet, if you could get down to Trier to see the Sacred Coat, that could help you.”

“Help her? The Sacred Coat?” Margret had been listening with wide, open eyes; now she approached and touched the visitor’s sleeve. “Auntie, please tell me, what is the Sacred Coat?”

Frau Margareta Rindsfüsser crossed herself piously. “Intercede for us, Sacred Coat, for forgiveness for our sins--Why, girl, how stupid you are! Down there in Trier the bells are ringing day and night, they are ringing until the fish in the Moselle take fright. You’d think you could hear the dingdonging even up here. And people come from all over the world, up along the Moselle, with crosses and banners, and they sing, they pray to the Sacred Coat. My father’s brother’s son, Stadtfeld’s Hanni, he’s been there. He told me about it. He didn’t have no children, so he went down there and touched the Sacred Coat with his wedding ring; that helped. The priests in the Holy Cathedral, they showed the Coat, and whoever is sick gets well again. And if any one has somebody sick at home, and takes something belonging to them with him, a shirt, or a kerchief, or anything, the sick one will get well again.”

“O blessed Lord Jesus!” the girl clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Mother, I’ll go there.”

“It’s too far.” The sick woman sighed, half anxiously, half longingly. “I can’t let you. You are my only child--Something might happen. Jesus, Maria, Joseph!”

“Oh, mother, let me go. I’ve been down as far as the Moselle with berries, and it’s just going a little further; I can find Trier so easy. And if I pray many thousand times to the Sacred Coat, then it will surely help. And when I come back again, then you’re all well. Oh, mother, just think!”

The girl caught the sick woman in her arms with a laugh of joy. She pressed a fresh, blooming cheek to her mother’s pale, hollow face. “Mother, say yes. I’ll go down to pray to the Sacred Coat. I’ll go to-morrow.”

“Anna, let her go, in God’s name, and the Holy Virgin will be with her,” said the visitor. “I’ll come up every day to look after the goat--and to look after you.”

And she took her departure, much touched.

When evening came, Margret milked the goat and got the supper. Then she stood at the well and scrubbed herself as if she had not seen water for a week. The Sacred Coat could indeed demand that one should be clean and bright from head to foot. Then she went into the house and knelt before the picture of the Virgin, which looked down, gay with many colors, from out of its little gold frame on the whitewashed wall. Her prayer was long and heart-felt. It was not only the Paternoster and the Ave that she prayed to-day--her tension, her expectations, and secret anxieties for the coming day brought words of her own in entreaty to her lips.

Then she sank down exhausted on her bed. Her hands folded over her breast, she was soon breathing the deep, regular breath of sweet, youthful sleep.

When she awoke, day was breaking already, and the sun was shaking itself out of its morning dreams behind rose-tipped clouds. It was high time to set out.

Frau Anna wept as she saw her daughter standing before her, fresh and rosy-cheeked, her black Sunday dress pinned up over her blue underskirt, around her slender throat the black cord with a tiny golden cross. In one hand she held the bundle in which was her mother’s shirt, which was to be offered to the Sacred Coat, that the miracle might be performed. Furthermore, there were her shining black shoes and her white stockings, which she was to put on when she reached the city gates. And also there was her godmother’s present, the Sunday apron with its colored flowers, Margret’s fairest possession, her greatest pride. But there was nothing too good for the Sacred Coat.

The bright, young eyes gazed confidently into her mother’s face. “Good-by--and when I come back, then you’ll be well again.”

A clasp of the hand, the sign of the Cross on brow and breast, a murmured blessing, a friendly nod--and now she turned and stood on the threshold, and the first golden rays of the sun kissed her fair, young cheek.

Thus Margret’s pilgrimage began.

* * * * *

The birds twittered in the bushes, dewdrops hung like diamonds on leaf and grass, as Margret sprang light-footed down the hill slope. Down there in the gray of the morning mists lay Kyllburg. The cocks were crowing, but there was no smoke from the chimneys. The people were still asleep. It must be nice to live in Kyllburg, one was not so alone there as up on the mountain. And evenings the girls could sit together in the spinning-room and laugh and chat, each with her sweetheart beside her. It must be nice to have a sweetheart. Would she, little Margret, ever have a sweetheart? Probably not. Mother said: “Poor girls get no sweethearts.”

Hello! There was a big stone, and she nearly fell over it. That comes of thinking about such stupid things. What could a sweetheart matter to her? She was poor little Margret from the cottage on the hill-top, and she was going down to pray to the Sacred Coat. She took her rosary from her pocket and let the little balls roll busily through her fingers, as her rosy lips murmured the prayers. That helped to shorten the road.

The wood grew denser, the crippled firs and meagre birches gave place to slender beeches and stately oaks. Bright colored flowers grew about in the grass, a breath of warmth came into the air, and a brooklet ran busily valleyward. How beautiful it was here! Margret stood still and drew a deep breath. She had come a long distance already, the sun stood noon-high.

Until now she had not met a human being, alone with her angels had she wandered through the world. But now from the distance there came a noise as of many voices; a few paces more and she was out of the forest, standing beside the broad turnpike road, on the other side of which the Moselle flowed, calm and beautiful! Like a silver ribbon the river wound itself gently between the vine-clad banks, its ripples moved softly, and the golden sun and the laughing blue sky peeped down into the crystal mirror.

Margret’s face shone. There was the Moselle. Now it could not be much farther. She must soon hear the bells of Trier. And there, right in front of her, came a solemn, stately procession, with waving banners. The leader intoned a chant and sang the Ave, and the chorus joined, many-voiced, in the refrain. Margret crossed herself and stepped to one side.

How many people there were! She would have liked to join them, but the women at the end of the procession did not look amiable, and a pretty young girl in a red petticoat gazed at her from head to foot so sharply that her courage failed her. She waited until they had all passed, then she followed at a little distance as the procession crept slowly along the river-bank like a long, black caterpillar. With the entire herd to point the way, the single lonely sheep can not go wrong.

The sun burned hotly, the dust flew up in clouds; hadn’t she come to Trier yet? Margret was hungry, her feet hurt her. Wouldn’t it be better to put on her shoes? But no, they must be kept bright and shining for the city. So she trotted along the road that seemed endless. A cherry tree and then an apple tree, and then a cherry tree and an apple tree again, and now and then a heap of stones and a milestone--how long it was!

The train of pilgrims was some distance ahead; Margret limped wearily after them. She would have liked so much to rest a while by the wayside. But then she would have lost sight of the procession, and that would not do at all. So she took a piece of bread and a bit of cheese from her bundle, and bit into it with her strong, white teeth as she walked along.

The sun sank toward the skyline, the evening wove its delicate veil over the river and the valley. High above, the summits of the mountains still shone in golden light, and tiny little cushiony clouds grew rosy pink at their edges. Margret’s clear eyes grew tired, her foot rose and fell more slowly. Oh, how nice it would be to rest now, like the little birds that were just slipping into their nests! There, listen! A deep rich tone hummed through the air, and now another, and another, and the wind brought other voices to her, finer and thinner, that wove a lighter figure about the single great voice. It was the bells of Trier.

The tired girl folded her hands a moment, then she hurried joyfully onward. One more turn of the road and there lay mighty Trier glowing in the evening rays, which gleamed back from its gray roofs and towers just across the bridge spanning the river with stone arches.

And over the bridge the crowd pushed and swayed. Walkers, alone or in groups, pressed hastily forward; long lines of wagons rattled on in single file, many banners waved in the evening wind. It was such a mighty migration, such a crowding and hastening to get into the Blessed City that the lonely maiden’s heart beat heavy. No, she would not enter there yet, she would rather spend the night out here, on this side of the river, where there were not so many houses.

A solitary inn stood by the wayside, she decided to enter there. Her hand sought for the few pennies in her pocket. She had money, she could pay for her night’s lodging, and she walked more quickly down the little path that led to the inn door. But here she nearly turned back again, such a rush and noise of voices met her. From the open windows came the sound of singing, shouting, and laughter. The wagons were crowded in the courtyard, servants ran hastily back and forth. She entered timidly, no one paid any attention to her. She laid her little bundle down on a still vacant seat at the end of a bench and sat down beside it, holding it tightly in her hand. The noise and the shouting made her dizzy. Not a place was unoccupied, everybody seemed to be doing just about as he liked. Here sat three men playing cards, two more were quarreling, and had almost come to blows; in another corner sat several telling their rosaries, and one had already lain down on the straw and was snoring aloud. There, in a corner, sat the pretty young woman with the red petticoat whom Margret had seen on the road. She was joking with a couple of young men.

Would it be well to speak to her? She seemed quite friendly. Margret approached her, timidly blushing: “Were you going to Trier, to the Sacred Coat?”

“Yes.”

“Do you stop here the night? I’d like to stay;” Margret took her pennies out of her pocket. “Yes, I can pay for it, but I’m scared, so alone.”

The stranger had listened quietly, then she pushed at one of her companions, winked at the other, and all three burst out into a loud laugh.

“You can stay with me,” said one of the youths, twisting his mustache ends upward; “then you won’t be scared.”

He put out his hand toward Margret, but she pushed him back, snatched her bundle, and ran out of the door as quickly as a squirrel. She fled down the street as if pursued. The noise from the inn had long ceased behind her before she stopped, heavily panting.

What should she do now? Go back into the inn to all those many people, and the noise, and the screaming? Oh, no. It were far better to stay out here under God’s free heaven, where the stars looked down on one like kind eyes, and the crickets chirped amiably from the grass. Behind the bushes by the roadside she saw a little straw hut, which probably belonged to the overseer of the orchards. Margret peeped cautiously into the little door; the hut was empty and half falling to pieces. With a sigh of relief she crept in under the low roof. She took out her last piece of bread, and when she had eaten it she put her bundle under her head, drew up her skirt over her shoulders, and fell asleep.

The sun stood shining and golden, well up in the sky, when Margret woke out of her deep sleep. She looked round, dazed; the preceding day seemed like a dream to her, and she herself seemed to be a stranger, some new and wonderful person. Yes, there lay mighty Trier, there was the Moselle, there was the inn from which she had fled--and she herself? Why, yes, she was little Margret, who was going down to pray to the Sacred Coat. It was high time to be up and doing. Hastily she slipped down to the river-bank behind a heavy thicket of willows where nobody could see her. She laid aside her dress, bathed her face, neck, and arms in the fresh, cool flood, and let the clear ripples flow over her naked feet. She braided up her long hair afresh, smoothing it with water, until it lay neat as wax behind her rosy ears. She fastened the silver arrow amid the braids, drew on her shoes and stockings, fastened her beautiful apron into place--and now she was ready.

Groups of wanderers came along the road; many of them turned to look with pleasure after the young peasant girl who walked on in her springtime freshness and prettiness, with the light of pious faith in her eyes. If the bridge had been crowded yesterday, it was very much worse to-day. There was a running and a pushing about as in an ant-hill, the air trembled with the monotonous murmuring of “Sacred Coat, intercede for us.” One procession after the other dragged itself slowly over the ancient stone arches.

“Sacred Coat, intercede for us. Sacred Coat, intercede for us.”

There was a humming, as of a swarm of bees, a slow crowding through the narrow alleys which were gay in festal ornament. There was no house, however lowly, that did not have some bit of decoration in its windows, a rug, or a banner, a holy picture behind burning candles. And almost every window was full of faces looking down with curiosity, or with pious belief. The nearer they came to the cathedral the greater the tumult. In the open squares the merchants stood before their booths crying their wares: “Rosaries--fresh cakes here--pilgrims’ staves--new-made sausage--correct descriptions of the relics in the cathedral: the Tooth of St. Peter, the Hand of St. Anne, a splinter and a nail from the Holy Cross--only correct picture of the Sacred Coat--very cheap, only ten pfennigs apiece.” The Sacred Coat here, the Sacred Coat there, whichever way one looked, whichever way one listened--it was an ear-splitting tumult, a confusion to make one dizzy. And through the chaos of colors and sounds, through the dust and the smell, through the fraud and the truth, the faith and the unbelief, there drew, like a guiding thread, the monotonous murmuring of the processions, the dull booming of the bells.

Margret was dazed and bewildered. She had bought a bit of bread in a baker’s shop, and asked her way of the kindly woman there. Now she stood as if lost in the middle of the street, pressing her bundle firmly under one arm.

A new procession came past her; she fell in line with the last women in the train, and followed along with them. One of them, praying busily, turned to her with an unfriendly look: “Praise be to thee, Maria, full of grace--What do you want, girl?”

“I’m going to the Sacred Coat.”

“What are you doing here? This is our procession, costs us good money. Get away from here.”

The woman pushed her aside roughly with her elbows. The pious pilgrims passed onward, and Margret looked after them with tears in her eyes. How fortunate they were, these happy ones! They would get there first, the Sacred Coat would give them all its blessings, and there would be nothing left for her. And she had a sick mother at home! She ran after them hastily.

Now she was in the square in front of the cathedral, but a mighty mob of many thousands stood between her and the high, gray portals which, wide open as they were, could not hold the human stream flowing into them. The beadles in their red garments, with long staffs in their hands, stood like fiery cherubim at the entrance to the paradise, and ordered the crowd, throwing them into line. The mass moved slowly forward. Margret stood in the last rows, crowded and pushed from all sides. Finally the human wall in front of her gave way in one spot and she slipped through, not heeding the elbows and shoulders stretched out to hold her back. She was almost at the portals, but now there was no further movement, the mob stood motionless. There was no going backward or forward, the beadles held their staffs before the entrance. There was not room for another soul to get in at the door.

The ringing of the bells ceased with a long-drawn sigh; rich organ notes boomed through the air. The incense wafted upward. “O vestis inconsutilis.” With a singing as of angels’ voices, the sounds wafted out from the church into the sun-bathed air, solemnly soaring high over the heads of the massed community. The heads bowed as a ripe field of grain bows under the breath of the wind; all sank to their knees and beat their hands to their breasts. “O vestis inconsutilis” came as in one breath from a thousand lips. Then there was silence, as all listened. Within the cathedral the singing had stopped, the voice of the priest was heard. Then there was silence again. “Now they are showing the Sacred Coat--now they are touching it.” Margret heard whispering around her. “Now they will be freed from all their sins and the sick ones will be made well.” Oh, those happy ones!

Heavy tears rolled over Margret’s cheeks. She had wandered so far on her tired feet, and now she stood so near the door, and yet could not get in to the Sacred Coat. Bitter sobs shook her breast. A couple of well-dressed gentlemen beside her began to notice her. “What are you crying for, girl?” asked one of them in a friendly tone. She was startled at first, then she stammered: “I--I--I’ve come from so far--from way up in the Eifel--I got a sick mother at home--Here’s her shirt”--she drew an end of it out of the bundle--“I was to touch the Sacred Coat with it--And now I can’t get in at all--Oh, dear Lord Jesus--and--and--and now my mother won’t get well at all.” The gentleman bit his lips and nudged his companion, who put his hat to his face and turned away. Then the first gentleman spoke again: “My dear child, you needn’t cry so. It isn’t at all necessary that you should go into the church. Step a little this way, now raise yourself up as high as you can--there, do you see, inside the church, something red in front of the altar? That is the Sacred Coat. Now they are moving it. Can you see it?”

Oh, that was it, was it, that bright red thing? How clear and sharp the color was, like the girl’s skirt in the inn. Margret stood on the tips of her toes and stretched out her hands: “Sacred Coat--My mother--”

“Shh--” The strange gentleman drew her down again. “Now, you see, you have seen the Sacred Coat, and it has seen you; it can hear your voice from here. Now, you pray the best you can, and when they begin to sing again in the church, and the bells toll, then your mother will get well.”

Margret hid her face in her hands. Oh, she could pray, and she would pray the best she knew how. She prayed until the drops came out on her forehead, all the prayers that she had ever learned, and gave them all as refrain the same line over and over again: “Sacred Coat, O Sacred Coat, make my mother well.”

Within the church the great organ toned out again, and the voices floated down, “Ecclesia, missa, est.” Margret rose from her knees with a great and confident joy in her heart. Now her mother would be well again. She knew it.

As she looked about her she could see nothing more of the friendly gentleman. The crowd was beginning to disperse. And now she discovered for the first time how very tired and hungry she was. Her knees trembled; the sun burned down hot upon her, and white clouds grew up in the sky, as if portending a thunderstorm.

She felt that she must rest a little, but not here in the hot and dusty city. She wanted to be out again, past the gates, amid the green; then she could start on her homeward way refreshed.

She walked back unhindered through the streets by which she had come; with her last pennies she bought some bread and fruit. Then she hurried out with her packages over the old bridge to her cozy willow grove beside the Moselle. The noise of the city remained behind her; nothing moved about her here but the breath of the wind in the bushes, and the hum of the little blue flies in the air. Every now and then a fish would spring out of the river and fall back again into the refreshing flood with a little splash. A dreamy silence surrounded the tired girl. There was no sound of the bells, no human voice, nothing but peace and rest.

Now she had eaten her bread and fruit, and sat quietly in the shade of the willows, her head sinking gently down upon her arm.

She did not know how long she had slept, or even if she had slept at all; a loud laugh aroused her. The two gentlemen who had spoken to her in front of the church stood before her. “Here’s luck,” said one of them. “One doesn’t meet a little fool like this every day. Are you much edified, little one?”

“Leave her alone,” said the one who had spoken to her before. “She’s so pretty. Well, my dear child,” he said then, and put his hand under her chin, “you know you owe me thanks. Without me you would not have seen the Sacred Coat, and your mother would not have been made well. What are you going to give me for it?”

“Oh, good sir,” Margret courtesied, and took his hand confidently, “I thank you many thousand times. If I knew where you live I would bring you pine cones to help make the fire, and berries, and I will spin for your dear lady for nothing.”

“I thank you, my dear child”--the gentleman drew down the corners of his mouth--“but that’s a little too far off. You might give me a kiss, though, don’t you think, or perhaps two.”

“And me, too,” laughed the other. “We are good friends, and we’ll divide even.”

The frightened girl looked from one to the other. She drew her skirts together with her left hand and held her right arm out in front of her as if for protection. “No, oh, no!”

“Oh, yes, don’t be so foolish, little one.”

The gentleman’s face was not nearly so friendly now. He put out his arm and caught the girl in spite of her struggles. She tore herself loose with a scream, and sprang back from him.

There was a noise behind them in the bushes. A tall man stepped out between Margret and her pursuers. “Let that girl alone”--the stranger twirled a heavy stick in the air--“or I’ll show you something, you--”

The two men turned, murmuring something about a “clown of a peasant” and disappeared.

Margret stood as if rooted to the ground, trembling in her fright.

The youth reached for her hand. “Come with me,” he said.

She followed obediently along the road which she had come the day before. They walked along for a little while side by side without saying a word. The girl’s eyes rested now and then shyly on the figure of the young man. How slender and strong he was! How prettily his hair curled, and how daring his little mustache! A deep blush grew up over Margret’s cheeks; she drew her hand slowly out of the fingers that held her so gently and stepped over to the other side of the street. Then they walked on on either side of the road; a look would now and then pass from one to the other, shy and timid. The sky was overcast, the burning sun covered with clouds. The wind had freshened, and was rustling the tree-tops along the wayside, throwing down showers of leaves and ripe fruit. The city was hidden behind a veil of whirling dust; soft thunder grumbled in the distance, the birds fluttered anxiously and sought noisily for a shelter. Gray caps of fog drew over the tops of the mountains, and there was a smell of cool rain in the air.

“There’s bad weather coming,” said the youth finally, gazing up searchingly at the sky.

“Yes,” answered Margret. And just then the first drops fell, heavy and impudent.

“Where did you come from?” asked the boy.

“From the Eifel, up there by Kyllburg.”

“Kyllburg’s where I live; that’s fine, we can go on together.”

“Oh, yes,” said Margret, and breathed a sigh of relief. She felt quite safe and contented beside her stately companion. No one could hurt her now, and she need not be afraid of the night in the forest.

“I am Valentin Rohles. My father is dead; I live with my mother, but she’s so old now.”

“Yes,” replied Margret shyly. She knew the name; it was one of the best in the town, but she had never seen the young man before. She had heard the girls saying how glad they were when handsome young Rohles came home from the army. But what should the poor cotter’s daughter have to do with a rich peasant’s son? What would the girls in Kyllburg say if they could see how friendly he was now with poor little Margret? She looked down at herself in sudden alarm. Was her dress all smooth and nice? Then her clear eyes were raised again in grateful confidence to her companion’s face.

“I am Margret, from Balduin’s hut. You can see it from Kyllburg across the mountain.”

“What did you want in Trier? Did you go to the Sacred Coat?”

Yes, that was it! And now the whole story of her joys and sorrows gushed out over Margret’s lips. She was so happy to be able to tell somebody all the troubles and worries of her heart. In the excitement of her story she came over from her side of the street, close up to the young man, and laid her brown, work-hardened fingers on the fine cloth of his coat sleeve. “But now it will be all right,” she ended. “Mother will get well--Oh, the blessed Sacred Coat--” She laughed aloud in her joy and danced over the rain-pools in the street light as a young fawn.

She did not notice that more than once during her story her listener’s lips had curled in a smile that was mainly good-natured, but just a little mocking. His eyes looked roguishly down upon her, resting on her sweet, young face, flushed with excitement. The open, brown stars of her eyes and his roguish, blue ones met in a long look. They rested there until the girl, blushing suddenly, dropped her eyes and the young man spoke with an embarrassed smile: “You’re a good girl, Margret. Give me your hand again.”

The rain came down in torrents now. Margret drew her skirt up over her head, holding it together in front of her face. It seemed quite natural that the youth should lay his arm around her shoulder and guide her steps, for she wandered along half blinded by her garments, the tip of her nose alone peeping like a rosy point out of the black cloud.

Evening had come already; the heavy rain-clouds brought the darkness earlier than usual. The earth had softened to mud and caught at their feet, but it was not uncomfortable to walk along in it. The young man strode out with long steps and the girl’s light feet tripped merrily beside him. What did the darkness and rain matter when it was so pleasant to chat together? A great secret joy grew up in Margret’s heart, a joy that seemed to run on before her, strewing the way with roses and painting the gray sky blue. The whole dirty, rainy world seemed changed into a shining paradise. What miracles the blessed Sacred Coat could work!

Hours passed in this way. When they reached the lonely inn that lies at the parting of the ways where the Eifel dweller leaves the valley of the Moselle to climb up into his mountains, they stopped for a rest. They had been walking since noon. Margret bit with huge enjoyment great pieces out of a hearty sandwich and drank long drafts from the glass her companion held for her. How good it did taste! The fiery country wine rolled warming through her veins and sank her into a state of mild delight.

Then when they had rested for an hour, they started off again. The rain had stopped. The full glow of the moon shone out behind the torn clouds. The path became stony and difficult; the streams of water had torn great ridges in the soft earth. The foot could scarce find a hold, and more than once the man’s strong arm caught the stumbling girl and held her up.

Margret was very tired, her chattering ceased; she nestled close to her strong companion like a weary little bird. He led her as if she had been a child, raising her over the pools and the stones, and saying now and then comfortingly: “We’ll be home soon.” But the “soon” stretched out to quite a long time; at the last he almost had to carry her. Margret went on as if in a dream. Her eyes were tight shut in blissful confidence; she thought it would go on this way forever. She started up almost in a fright as the youth halted suddenly and pointed out with his hand to where dark shapes grew up in the gray mist with twinkling lights here and there--“Kyllburg!”

They took the narrow path that led straight up the mountain; Margret was quite awake again. This was the path that led up to the lonely hut on the bare hill-top, then she would be at home again, she would be herself again--and the dream would be over. She hurried on now ahead of her companion, for here she knew every stock and stone of the road. In her heart joy and regret mingled and tossed--regret for the parting with her companion, joy at seeing her mother again. She had not known that these feelings could be so mingled before.

Now they halted again. There was the hut, dark and silent, with a little patch of grass in front of it, and the tall sunflowers. There was the pump and the little lean-to for the goat, and over all the silver light of the moon.

“I thank you many thousand times,” said Margret softly, and caught at her companion’s hand.

He had suddenly grown very silent; then he said hesitatingly: “H’m--Say--H’m--The gentleman down in Trier--you didn’t want to give him a kiss--But would you kiss me?--What do you say about it, Margret?”

Half laughing, half in entreaty, he bowed down over her face. And Margret, timid little Margret, put up both arms around his neck and gave him a hearty kiss right on the mouth. Then she tore herself away and ran in through the door of her hut.

The youth stood still on the wet grass and waited until he saw a tiny glimmer of light coming from the hut. Then he said aloud, and with firm decision:

“That’s the one I want.”

Thus Margret’s pilgrimage ended.