Chapter I: SUPPOSE it is needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted

till morning by Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly from pillow to pillow, going over in memory every circumstance from our meeting to our parting; that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the air and that Veronika presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should boil over with rage when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. I could hardly contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, “Why, it is not impossible that some day she may love you—not impossible that some day she may consent to become your wife.” One doubt, the inevitable one, harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there perchance another suitor there before me? Perhaps her affections were already spoken. Still, on the whole, probably not. For, where had he kept himself during the evening? Surely, if he had existed at all, he would have been at her side. Yet on the other hand she was so beautiful, it could scarcely be believed that she had attained the age of one-and-twenty without taking some heart captive. And that sad, mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it come about except through love?—Thus between despair and hope I swung, pendulum-like, all night.

Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven days still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination faltered at the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of intoxication. My footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five minutes my heart jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils suffered.

I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her house and lived through the whole happy episode again.

Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me. What if they had moved away?

What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? My hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the worst in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The door was opened by Veronika herself!

“Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said.

I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly.

Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began to apologize. Tikulski stopped me.

“You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall now have occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a player.”

“But I have dined,” I protested.

“But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of pudding.”

Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a plate and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding.

“Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a melody materialized, is it not?”

We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease.

“I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for then we can have a first and second.”

“Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered.

And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old man’s first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own manuscript music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika sang to us. And then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed that we betake ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and spend the rest of the evening in the open air. We sat at a round table under an ailanthus tree, and watched the people come and go, and listened to light tunes discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by had a delicious little supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed a long, delightful confidential talk in which our minds got wonderfully close together, and during which one scrap of information dropped from her lips that afforded me infinite relief. Speaking of her nocturnal pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I go over by myself in the summer because it is still light; but coming home, the organist takes me to the ferry, where uncle meets me.”

“So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there were, of course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about putting in a word for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in church,” I said. “Your voice can not attain its full effect between the narrow walls of a parlor.”

And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and that we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and I afterward going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a freemasonry, so far as we were concerned. This was only our second interview; and already we treated each other like old and intimate friends.

A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief to protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and lo! it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, and for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty odor. It was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily before me whenever I desired.

As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if he could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. I am not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with my violin I should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give utterance to my idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to take my violin and play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu in C-sharp minor:—Sotto voce.

0030

It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when he composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and withal its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical portrait. Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously abode in my thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, and her naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as different from other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had seen but few women except as I passed them in the street or rode with them in the horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at any rate, as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse flower, as daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is different from Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, she was simple and natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark eyes, and the smile that came and went like a melody across her lips, and the way she wore her hair, and the way she dressed, and the way she played, sang, spoke, and her gestures, and the low, sad, musical laughter that I heard only once or twice from the beginning to the end—all were simple, and natural, and serene. And yet there was a mystery attaching to each of them, a something beyond my comprehension, a something that tinged my love for her with awe. A mystery that would neither be defined nor penetrated nor ignored, brooded over her, as the perfume broods over a rose. I doubt whether an American woman can be like this unless she is older and has had certain experiences of her own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience of her own to account for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and all the experience of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered hosts, were hers by inheritance.

No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or reading, or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was always conscious of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as through all the vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive in one form or another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so through all the changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered in my mind. I can not tell how completely the whole aspect of the world had been altered since the night I first saw her standing in the moonlight. It was as if my life up to that moment had been passed beneath gray skies, and suddenly the clouds had dispersed and the sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad things became plain and clear that had been invisible until now, and old things acquired a new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for all living creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her. All my senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute than before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: she had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit with her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my whole pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight instead of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man in love, and stands without telling. Suffice it that before our acquaintance was a month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with Mr. Tikulski and Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening at their house but also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to Hoboken as regularly as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man than I at those junctures when, with her hand pressed tightly under my arm, I felt that she was trusting herself entirely to my charge and that I was answerable for her safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats became to my thinking vastly more interesting than the most romantic of Venetian gondolas; and to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy odor that always pervades a ferry-boat cabin without being transported back across the years to that happy, happy time. I actually blessed the necessity that forced her to journey so far for her livelihood; and it was with an emphatic pang that I listened to the plans which she and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby she was shortly to get an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her pale, tired cheek reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no concealment of a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at my arrival; she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call forth my opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed by my criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would say precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their blemishes and indicating how an effective point might be improved.

But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all.

But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a song she had just been learning.

“What is it?” I asked.

“From Le Désert of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music.

It was the “O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente,” originally written for tenor.

“I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the music.

“Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began.

Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. As the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her life out upon my shoulder.

By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I mustered voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?”

Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer.

I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first.

“It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?”

No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single question, imposed but a single condition.

I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged that we should be married the first week in August.

Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo?

“It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?”

“Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.”

Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was all radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such perfect bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to last. And yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the promise with a kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was useless for me to go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. I put on my hat and went out and spent the night pacing up and down before her door. And as soon as the morning was far enough advanced I rang the bell and invited myself to breakfast with her; and after breakfast I helped her to wash the dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s unutterable disapproval—it was “unteeknified,” he said—and after that I accompanied her as far as the first house where she had to give a lesson.

While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead.

III.

YES, she is dead. That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim it to be, then goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is the truth which lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads me along as I tell this tale. And the manner of her death and the speediness of it—I must tell all.

And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God help me, I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I can scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to be in utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have abandoned faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, “Nature is provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with beauty.” And at most times, it seems as if these assertions were not to be contested. Yet, how can they be true when Nature contained the possibility of Veronika’s death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have permitted that maiden life to be destroyed?—provident, and yet have flung away her finest product?—beneficent, and yet have torn bleeding from my life all that made my life worth living?—beautiful, and yet have quenched the beautifying light of Veronika’s presence, and hushed the voice that made the world musical? The mere fact that Veronika could die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. In the light of that fact, or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery to sing songs of praise to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me to believe—to believe a thing which annihilates the harmony of the universe, and proclaims the optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, a superstition. How could I believe my senses if I should hear Christine Nilsson utter a hideous false note? So is it hard for me to believe that Nature has allowed Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the unmistakable, irrevocable, relentless truth.

I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that other lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours was—happiness so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love that burst suddenly into our lives, and filled each cranny full to overflowing, was so pure and bright as almost to blind us. The happiness was all the keener, the light all the brighter, because of the hardship and the monotony of our daily tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had leisure and friends and many resources for diversion, then most likely our delight in each other would not have been so great. But as we were—poor, hard worked, and alone in the world—we found all the happiness we had, in ourselves, in communing together; and happiness concentrated, was proportionately more intense. The few hours in the week which we were permitted to spend side by side glittered like diamonds against the dull background of the rest. And we improved them to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to stay and perpetuate itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had to wait so many years before he could do the same. The season was divine, clear skies and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily accessible, we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the country whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact the turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not critical so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our characters were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each called for the other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for and needs its tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an aspiration, but it was shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual passion which we pursued together. When Veronika was seated at the piano and I stood at her side with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of contentment was full to the brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, one evening, in the middle of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she wheeled around and lifted her eyes upon my face.—“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.—“I only want to look at you to realize that it isn’t a dream,” she answered.—And yet she is dead.

June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to him just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he had gone out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no means sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without talking it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy thoughts that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human life that came in by the window.

Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure in the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had boasted all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to talking of the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the past. We spoke of how strange it was that we should have come together in the way we had—by the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted if it was indeed an accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our footsteps that memorable night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle and I had been but a few moments earlier or later, we never should have seen each other at all. Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we had never known each other!” and her fingers tightened around mine.

“And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a strange lady, and that you should have answered!”

“It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before I stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad of it now.”

“I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all pre-ordained in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to speak and you to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each other, were left to find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t credible.”

“But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.”

Here we stopped talking for a while.

By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other arts. I think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I know that in the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to cry out continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps this was because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most sympathetic. Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, the pain of being alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most thorough musician; but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I did, and he did not. He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed himself to be carried away, never forgot the intellectual side of the things I would play. But now—now that you are with me, my music is a constant source of joy. And then, the thought that we are going to work together all our lives, the thought of the music we are going to make together—oh, it is too great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare to believe it. I am afraid all the time that something will happen to prevent it coming true.”

Again for a while we did not speak.

Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely I was in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little tenderness. Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good to me; but do you think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more affection than he gave me? I mean a little more manifest affection; because I know that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. But I longed for somebody to show a little care for me, and uncle is very undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it was so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the day—not to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You see, other girls have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and friends: but I had nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and regarded things so differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for me to wish for some one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I felt so weak and helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to my uncle! or what if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the rest and security that you brought to me!”

What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent to bear recording.

“And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work, work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but almost every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single day that I could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter how tired I was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow was ankle deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting to Hoboken, made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework too, you know. We couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the money we had to send abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I had to clean the rooms and cook the dinner; though I am afraid that sometimes I did not more than half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the dust lie for a week on the mantle-piece. And every day was just the same as the day that had gone before. It was like traveling in a circle. When I would go to bed at night my weariness would be all the harder because of the thought, ‘To-morrow will be just the same, the same round of lessons, the same dead fatigue, the same monotonous drudgery from beginning to end.’ And as I saw no promise of change, as I thought it would be the same all my life, I could not help asking what the use was of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful grumbler? Yet, what could I do? I think it is natural when one is young to long for something to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just a little companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do you remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then with a mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was LIGHT?’ Do you remember how one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It was like that when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt unhappy or discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s end made my heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an object, to my life—made me feel that I was working to a purpose, that I should have my reward. I had been growing hard and indifferent, even indifferent to music. But now I began to love my music more than ever: and no matter how tired I might be, when I had a moment of leisure I would sit down and practice so as to be able to play well for you. Music seemed to express all the unutterable feeling that you inspired me with. One day I had sung the Ave Maria of Cherubini to you, and you said, ‘It is so religious—it expresses precisely the emotions one experiences in a church.’ But for me it expressed rather the emotions a woman has when she is in the presence of the man she loves. All the time I had no idea that you would ever feel in the same way toward me.”

My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s Stabat Mater, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said so.

“Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he has one of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am quite accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.”

“In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may embarrass her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.”

I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as I reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found myself in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on the curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the light being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I set my face toward home.

I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her eyes.

I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street.

Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as abruptly and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.”

“Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in.

“I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my noticing.”

I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.”

Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside to let some one pass.

“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so early?”

I explained.

“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will play it for you.”

He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.

Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp.

“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.”

Again he went away—to fetch his instrument.

He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. Still he remained.

At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At first he did not answer.

“Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated.

I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil? paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has seen a ghost.

“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried.

He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question.

He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. “L-look,” he gasped.

I looked. How can I tell what I saw?

IV.

AND yet I must tell it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment. That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me, fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered.

Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently awake. Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I flung myself upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms and covered her with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to speak, to come back to life. And although her hands were icy cold and her body rigid and her face as white as marble, and although—ah, no! I may leave out the horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could not believe—yet how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my promised bride, deaf to my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my despair, beyond the reach of my strongest love, never to care for me again—Veronika, my tender, sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, murdered! And still, with the knife-hilt staring at me like the face of Satan, still I could not believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, the fact that extinguished the light of the sun and stars and flooded the universe with blackness: and still, in spite of it, I called to her and crushed her in my embrace and kissed her and caressed her and was sure it could not be true. And meantime people came and filled the room.

I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were there, heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance off. I had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My eyes were burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar of a thousand devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I knew that I hated them because they would not leave us two alone. I remember I rose and faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. And then I took her in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and forgot every thing but that she would not answer.

Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed to be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of the pain I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me insensible. I heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded may still hear something of the din of battle.

I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand was placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get up and come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same person, pushing me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor.

Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a second time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them was in uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of police. He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one who is half asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only I gathered, that he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much dazed to care what I did or what was done with me. He took my arm and led me away. He led me into the street. There was a a great crowd. I shut my eyes and tottered along at his side. We entered a house. Somebody asked me a lot of questions—my name and where I lived and so forth—to which my lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember nothing more.

When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted.

“But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember.

The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made all the inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem it my duty to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I am bound to hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last night, the time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the fact that you were the last person known to have been in her company, make it incumbent upon me to place you under arrest.”

I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least suspected, of having murdered Veronika—I!

I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. They were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could see and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity for feeling.

V.

AND so it continued throughout the inquest and throughout the trial—for, yes, they tried me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, drank, slept, and answered the questions that were put to me, all in a dazed, dull way, but suffered no pain, no surprise, no indignation, had no more sensation than a dead man. That Veronika had been killed, and that I was accused of having killed her, were the facts which I heard told and told again from morning till night each day; yet I had not the least conception of what they signified. I was too stunned and benumbed to realize.

The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days as one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, noisy vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in the latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my home for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused one—a crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, endless talking, endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers to me. I remember that by and by these journeys came to an end: but what the verdict of the inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I troubled myself to ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days spent alone in my cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” and inquired whether I wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? My attorney? I did not comprehend. I do not remember what I answered.

Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot.

I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my violin and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden flash of light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world had been reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single instant I realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the rest. The truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body quake with pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the stupor returned.

Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, so far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice and to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate what was said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I was quite competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how Veronika had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the murderer—still I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might have been a log of wood.

My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I had accepted them without even inquiring his name.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked.

I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before.

“My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.”

“Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied.

Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs.

“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope lies in an alibi.”

“What is that?” I inquired dully.

He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?”

“At about midnight.”

“And went directly home?”

“Directly home.”

“After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of your fellow-lodgers?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you must make an effort to remember. Try.”

“I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me.

“You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and that was the truth.

Next day his face wore a somber expression.

“This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.”

At last the trial began.

I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it.

The first day was used in securing a jury.

The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.”

The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted between Veronika and myself.

“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney.

“In its usual condition.”

“That is to say, locked?”

“Precisely.”

“It had not been broken open or tampered with?”

“Not so far as I could see.”

“That’s all.”

On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.

“And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my lawyer, “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?”

“He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous blow.”

“You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” began Tikulski, “that I do not believe——”

“Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any expression of opinion by the witness.”

“No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to Tikulski.

“But——-”

“But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.”

The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side.

“What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I believe you are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. They compelled me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of your innocence. I don’t know why they hushed me up.”

Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under arrest.

“Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you seen it before?” handing a key to the witness.

“I have,” was the reply.

“Tell us when and where.”

“I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.”

“What further can you say about it?”

“Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by the deceased.”

“Did you try it yourself?”

“I did. It fitted the lock.”

“How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever having had it in my possession.”

“But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.”

“Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave me alone.”

“A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your neck,” muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed.

“Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. Do you recognize this handkerchief?”

“Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched at the station-house.”

My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It was stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it happen?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could respond. Epstein looked more uneasy than before.

“That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor.

“But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us what the prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the premises down to the time you locked him up.”

“At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house he fainted away.”

“Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?”

“No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great shock to him.”

“You can go.”

Next came a physician.

He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning of July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had examined the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There were three separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in technical language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any one of them was sufficient to have caused immediate death.

“Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many hours—prior to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?”

“From seven to ten hours.”

“So that—?”

“So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two o’clock.”

“Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says he took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize it?”

“I do.”

“Go on—what about it?”

“It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the substance, with which it is discolored.”

“And you found?”

“I found that it was stained with blood,”

“Human blood?”

“Precisely.”

“About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?”

“From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much more than twelve hours.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your witness.”

“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?”

The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.”

“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a nose-bleed on the night in question?”

“I know nothing at all about it.”

The next witness was a woman.

She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock.

“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?”

“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out a little before twelve o’clock.”

“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, meanwhile, whom else did you admit?”

“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except Mr. Neuman.”

“Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?”

“Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.”

“You can swear positively on this score?”

“Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul could have passed us without our seeing.”

“Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have charge than the street door?”

“Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.”

“What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?”

“They were locked and bolted.”

“What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?”

“At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and bolted.”

“Meantime could they have been unlocked?”

“No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.”

“Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. Tikulski?”

“The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the house.”

“Any other?”

“No, your honor.”

“Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the officer had identified.

“I do, sir.”

“Well?”

“It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?”

Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed.

“Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is entirely trustworthy?”

“It is, sir.”

“Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?”

“I did, sir.”

“Tell us what they were.”

“Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under a lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s windows, and then—”

“For how long?”

“I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you to walk around the block.”

“For five minutes?”

“Yes, or more likely for ten.”

“And then—?”

“Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the avenue.”

“Toward what avenue?”

“Toward Second avenue.”

“And disappeared?”

“And disappeared.”

“Did you see any thing more of him that night?”

“I did, sir.”

“When and under what circumstances?”

“In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back and stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty soon crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters the house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer turned sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is entirely false,” I answered. But I did not care.

“This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?”

“Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after twelve.”

“Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?”

“It was after one o’clock.”

“Had the prisoner meantime gone out?”

“He had not.”

“So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the hour of your closing up, he was in the house?”

“He was, sir.”

“Meanwhile, who else had entered?”

“Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants of the first flat.”

“Any one else?”

“No one else.”

“That will do, Mrs. Marshall.”

My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had already sworn to.

“John Marshall!” called the prosecutor.

It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults.

“That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge.

“Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter.

I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein joined me in my cell.

“How about that key?” he demanded.

“I know nothing about it.”

“How about the blood on your handkerchief?”

“I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.”

“You are sure you did not reenter the house?”

“Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.”

“Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?”

“They have.”

“Will you take the stand?”

“What for?”

“Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.”

“No.”

“I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.”

“What do I care for my life?”

“But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’

“No,” I replied, stubbornly.

He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He went his way.

“Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.”

“I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your honor.”

“Do so,” replied the Court.

Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time.

He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged by the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. That Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July 12th, and that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will even admit that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon him: all that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that suspicion and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, of a human being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the shadow over him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his guilt, you must acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and sincerity, I ask: Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave room for a reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand than Neuman’s dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her death? If such a possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of it; you must acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was the betrothed of the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; consider that absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to him; consider that on the contrary he was the one man who above all others most desired that she might live; consider these matters, and then decide whether in reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. Remember that it is not sufficient that there should be a presumption against him. Remember that there must be proof. Remember also what a grave duty yours is, and how grave the consequences, should you send an innocent man to the gallows.

“Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon the stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. Neuman’s position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily be of a passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could you say? Why, only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and innocent despite appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the mystery involving it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say were he able to go upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He would impugn the veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they lied in toto when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you that when he left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went directly home and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the next morning. And he would leave you to choose between his story and that of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an alibi, then?’ Because, when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house late that night, every body, as might have been expected, was asleep. He encountered no one in the hall or on the stairs. He mounted straight to his own bed-chamber and went to bed.

“I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh it carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a fellow man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if there be not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I am confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of a felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. It lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an ordinary process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon the prisoner at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman had been the only person in the victim’s company at the time of the commission of the crime, he was consequently the only person who by a physical possibility could be guilty. He warned the jury against allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, and read at length from a law book respecting the value of circumstantial proof. He ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the Marshalls, and added that even without their testimony the doctor’s story and the police-captain’s story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” were conclusive. It was the obvious duty of the jury to convict.

The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the case.

Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge that in the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable doubt in Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.”

“I so charge,” assented the judge.

“I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the jurymen consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient to establish a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must acquit.”

“I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge.

The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began to empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, the district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of the attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to me, “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, followed him to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the prisoner’s pen.

It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my faculties like a frost.

It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same attendant again said, “Come.”

The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.”

The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk.

I stood up.

“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like.

In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic voice of the clerk rang out.

The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered.

“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the offense for which he stands indicted?”

“Not guilty,” said the foreman.

Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did not speak.

“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word.

I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my breast.

Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come with me.”

He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant.

“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?”

“I am not hungry,” I answered.

“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.”

I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

VI.