rant, touched by his rough kindness. He
himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy.

That evening after _table-d'hote_, or rather after he had finished his
dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual. He generally went off
without a remark. But to-night he said:

"Good-night, and thank you for your companionship. It has been my
birthday to-day, and I've quite enjoyed it."

CHAPTER XI.

"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE."

THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt,
had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days
previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a
bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious
agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take
him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which
was on the top shelf of his cupboard.

"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him
the case.

"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up
from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange;
but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild
and strange in the Kurhaus?

"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you."

She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming
unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to
send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown chalet at Gruesch.

So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to
drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the
lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged
carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her
writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants
know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each
other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was
bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests.

She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose
before her.

"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!"

And then she put down her pen, and sighed.

"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo
ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_."

Marie was something of a philosopher.

Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report.