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“My name is Maurice, Ichabod Maurice.” He looked at the woman, his companion, from the corner of his eye. “Allow me, Camilla, to present Mr. Becher.” Then turning to his hosts, “Camilla Maurice: Mr. and Mrs. Becher.”

The tall lady shook hands with each.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and smiled a moment into their eyes. Thus Camilla Maurice made friends.

There were a few low-spoken words in German and Minna vanished.

“She will dinner make ready,” Hans explained.

The visitors sat down in their chairs, with Hans opposite studying them narrowly; singly and together.

“The town is very new,” suggested Ichabod.

“One year ago it was not.” The German’s short legs crossed each other nervously and their owner seized the opportunity to make further inspection. “It is very new,” he repeated absently.

Camilla Maurice stood up.

“Might we wash, Mr. Becher?” she asked.

The ultimate predicament was all at once staring the little man in the face.

“To be sure…. I might have known…. You will a room–desire.” … He ran his fingers through his hair, and inspiration came. “Mr. Maurice,” he motioned, “might I a moment with you–speak?”

“Certainly, Mr. Becher.”

The German saw light, and fairly beamed as he sought the safe seclusion of the doorway.

“She is your sister or cousin–nein?” he asked.

There was the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corners of Ichabod’s mouth.

“No, she is neither my sister nor my cousin, Mr. Becher.”

Hans heaved a sigh of relief: it had been a close corner.

“She is your wife. One must know,” and he mopped his brow.

“Certainly–one must know,” very soberly.

Alone together in the little unfinished room under the rafters, the woman sat down on the corner of the bed, physical discomfort forgotten in feminine curiosity.

“Those names–where did you get them?” she queried.

“They came to me–at the moment,” smiled the man.

“But the cold-blooded horror of them!… Ichabod!”

“The glory has departed.”

His companion started, and the smile left the man’s face.

“And Camilla?”–slowly.

“Attendant at a sacrifice.”

Of a sudden the room became very still.

Ichabod, exploring, discovered a tiny wash basin and a bucket of water.

“You wished to wash, Camilla?”

The woman did not move.

“They were very kind”–she looked through the window with the tiny panes: “have we any right to–lie to them?”

“We have not lied.”

“Tacitly.”

“No. I’m Ichabod Maurice and you’re Camilla Maurice. We have not lied.”

“But–“

“The past is dead, dead!”

The woman’s face dropped into her hands. Woman ever weeps instinctively for the dead.

“You are sorry that it is–so?” There was no bitterness in the man’s voice, but he did not look at her, and Camilla misunderstood.

“Sorry!” She came close, and a soft warm face pressed tightly against his face. “Sorry!” Her arms were around him. “Sorry!” again repeated. “No! No! No! No, without end! I’m not sorry. I’m Camilla Maurice, the happiest woman in the world!”

Later they utilized the tin basin and the mirror with a crack across its centre. Dinner was waiting when they went below.

To a casual observer, Hans had been very idle while they were gone. He sat absently on the doorstep, watching the grass that grew almost visibly in the warm spring sun. Occasionally he tapped his forehead with his finger tips. It helped him to think, and just now he sadly needed assistance.

“Who were these people, anyway?” he wondered. Not farmers, certainly. Farmers did not have hands that dented when you pressed them, and farmers’ wives did not lift their skirts daintily from behind. Hans had been very observant as his visitors came up the muddy street. No, that was not the way of farmers’ wives: they took hold at the sides with both hands, and splashed right through on their heels.

Hans pulled the yellow tuft on his chin. What could they be, then? Not summer boarders. It was only early spring; and, besides, although the little German was an optimist, even he could not imagine any one selecting a Dakota prairie for an outing. Yet … No, they could not be summer boarders.

But what then? In his intensity Hans actually forgot the grass and, unfailing producer of inspiration, ran his fingers frantically through his mane.