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The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by his free hand.

“Straight out, eight miles. Little house with paint”–strong emphasis on the last–“white paint.”

“Thanks.”

Hans saw the escape of an opportunity.

“They are friends of yours, perhaps?”–he grasped at it.

The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit, sprang to his face.

“Yes, they’re–friends of mine,” he corroborated.

Hans, personification of knowledge, stood bobbing on the doorstep, until the trail of smoke vanished from sight, then brought the satchel inside and set it down hard.

“Her brother has come,” he announced to the wide-eyed Minna.

“Wessen Bruder?” Minna was obviously excited, as attested by the lapse from English.

“Are we not now Americans naturalized?” rebuked Hans, icily. Suddenly he thawed. “Whose brother! The brother of Camilla Maurice, to be sure.”

Minna scrutinized the bag, curiously.

“Did he so–inform you?” she questioned unadvisedly.

“It was not necessary. I have eyes.”

Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door; instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue.

“You are so wise, Hans!”

And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher.

Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air.

“Buffalo grass, I’ll wager! I’ve heard of it,” and in the instinctive action of every newcomer he sniffed again.

Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sun warm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoid the light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous chug! chug! of the tumbling cream drowning all other sounds.

Suddenly the shadow of a horse passed her and a rough livery buggy stopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped the crank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily she returned to her work, and the chug! chug! continued.

“Does Ichabod Maurice,” drawling emphasis on the name, “live here?” asked a voice.

“He does.” Camilla’s chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly.

The man looked down at her, genuine amusement depicted upon his face.

“Won’t you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?”

With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. “Pardon if I mistake, but I take it you’re Camilla Maurice?”

“Yes, I’m Camilla Maurice.”

“Quite so! You see, Ichabod and I were old chums together in college–all that sort of thing; consequently I’ve always wanted to meet–“

The woman stood up. Her face still was very white, but her chin did not tremble now.

“Let’s stop this farce,” she insisted. “What is it you wish?”

The man in the buggy again made a motion of deprecation.

“I was just about to say, that happening to be in town, and incidentally hearing the name, I wondered if it were possible…. But, pardon, I haven’t introduced myself. Allow me–” and he bowed elaborately. “Arnold, Asa Arnold…. You’ve heard Ichabod mention my name, perhaps?”

The woman held up her hand.

“Again I ask, what do you wish?”

“Since you insist, first of all I’d like to speak a moment with Ichabod.” His face changed suddenly. “For Heaven’s sake, Eleanor, if he must alter his name, why did he choose such a barbaric substitute as Ichabod?”

“Were he here”–evenly–“he’d doubtless explain that himself.”

“He’s not here, then?” No banter in the voice now.

“Never fear”–quickly–“he’ll return.”

A moment they looked into each other’s eyes; challengingly, as they had looked unnumbered times before.

“As you suggest, Eleanor,” said the man, slowly, “this farce has gone far enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you.”

Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soon the man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at his cigar before throwing it away.

Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warm spring sunshine creeping in at the open door separating them. The woman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higher than usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together–that was all. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that he seemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultry came from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie on the steps sounded plainly through the room.