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“No, I do not play.”

“Then you sing.”

“No, not now, any more yet.” But when she had let us tease her a wee bit just for one little German song, she went to the instrument, talking slowly as she went, and closing the door in the entomologist’s direction as she talked.

“Siss a great vhile I haf not done siss,” she concluded, as her fingers began to drift over the keys, and then she sang, very gently, even guardedly, but oh, so sweetly!

We were amazed. Here, without the slightest splendor of achievement or adventure, seemed to be the most incredible piece of real life we had ever seen. Why, I asked myself, was this woman so short even of German friends as to be condemned to a seamstress’s penury? And my best guess was to lay it to the zeal of her old-fashioned–and yet not merely old-fashioned- wifehood, which could accept no friendship that did not unqualifiedly accept him; and he?–Goodness!

When she ceased neither listener spoke; the tears were in our throats. She bent her head slightly over the keys, and said, “I like to sing you anusser.” We accepted eagerly, and she sang again. There was nothing of personal application in either song, yet now, near the end, where there was a purposed silence in the melody, the silence hung on and on until it was clear she was struggling with herself; but again the strain arose without a tremor, and so she finished. “Oh, no, no,” she replied, to our solicitation, with the grateful emphasis of one who declines a third glass, “se sooneh I stop, se betteh for ever’body,” meaning specially herself, I fancy, speaking, as she rose, in a tone of such happy decision, and yet so melodiously, that two or three strings in the piano replied.

Her hostess took her hands and said there was one thing she could and must do; she and her husband must spend the night with us. There was a bed-chamber connected with the room where the Baron was still at work, and, really–this and that, and that and this–until in the heat of argument they called each other “My dear,” and presently the ayes had it. The last word I heard from our fair guest was to her hostess at the door of her chamber, the farthest down the hall. It was as to shutting or not shutting the windows. “No,” she said, “I sink sare vill be no storm, because sare is yet no sunder vis se lightening.” And so it turned out. But at the same time—-

IX

My room adjoined the Baron’s in frontas his wife’s did farther back. A door of his and window of mine stood wide open on the one balcony, from which a flight of narrow steps led down into the side garden. Thus, for some time after I was in bed I heard him stirring; but by and by, with no sound to betoken it except the shutting of this door, it was plain he had lain down.

I awoke with a sense of having been some hours asleep, and in fact the full moon, shining gloriously, had passed the meridian. The balcony was lighted up by it like noon, and on it stood the entomologist, entirely dressed. The door was shut behind him. He was looking in at my window, but he did not know the room was mine, and with eyes twice as good as he had he could not have seen through my mosquito-bar. I wondered, but lay still till he had started softly down the steps. Then I sprang out of bed on the dark side, and dressed faster than a fireman.

When half-clad I went and looked out a parlor window. He was trying the gate, which was locked. But he knew where the key always hung, behind the post, and turned to get it. I went back and finished dressing, stole down the inner, basement stairs and out into the deep shadows of the garden, and presently saw my guest passing in through the Fontenettes’ gate, whose bolt he had drawn from the outside. As angry now as I had been amazed I hurried after.