She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the
sound. She saw Waerli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his
letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54.

It was the Dutchman's room.

Help arrived. The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead.
The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa. When
Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice.
Her tender heart overflowed with grief.

Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall,
and sobbed.

"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case.
But how was I to know?"

They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain.

"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them."

It was all in vain that Waerli gave her a letter for which she had been
longing for many days.

"It is from your _Mutterli_," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I
give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters
I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!"

But nothing could cheer her. Waerli went away shaking his curly head
sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's
sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that
evening.

Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie
answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was
tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob.

Bernardine drew the girl to her.

"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and
then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And
I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it
hot, and it will do you good."

The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a
time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her
pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs.

"Fraeulein Holme, I hate them." she said. "I could never keep them. How
could I send them now to my old mother? They would bring her ill luck--
indeed they would."

The matter was solved by Bernardine in a masterly fashion. She suggested
that Marie should buy flowers with the money, and put them on the
Dutchman's coffin. This idea comforted Marie beyond Bernardine's most
sanguine expectations.

"A beautiful tin wreath," she said several times. "I know the exa