ng smiling glances at
the passers by from under her pink parasol. Edwin had just noticed her
face in a photographer's show window, and beneath it the name of a well
known ballet dancer. Behind this couple, with his arms folded across
his breast in true jockey insolence, sat a tall, fair lad, in a green
livery embroidered with silver, with a stiff shirt collar reaching to
his ears, and the round glassy eyes in his beardless, boyish face, were
upturned with a saucy, yet wearied expression to the sky.

Neither of the three had noticed the unpretending pedestrian, who
remained rooted to the spot, as if he could not believe his eyes. A
feeling of repugnance, such as one experiences when rudely awakened
from enthusiastic dreams to a prosaic reality, where hopeless
commonplace or shallow every day life prevails or occupies the largest
place, overpowered Edwin and accompanied him as he walked through the
shady paths of the Thiergarten to his father-in-law's house. Even there
the painful impression did not instantly leave him. He was grave and
silent, and as the others knew, or fancied they knew, where he had been
that morning, they respected his feelings and did not trouble him with
questions.

In the afternoon he asked Leah to drive with him. She was unwilling to
leave the child, though it was well taken care of by the grandmother
and nurse, for in spite of her philosophy, she was the most anxious and
unreasonably careful of mothers. But she felt that Edwin needed to be
alone with her, and instantly prepared to accompany him.

They had driven quite a distance in the direction of Charlottenburg,
when he first broke the silence, and holding her hand in his, and now
and then gently pressing it, he told her the events and experiences of
his morning. When he mentioned his meeting with the count, he said: "I
do not understand why it moved me so deeply. To return from the
pilgrimage to the 'Promised Land,' and then fill the empty seat in the
carriage with such a creature--many of the most trivial natures could
not bring their hearts to it. But I did not know him, was not aware
what a 'perfect gentleman' he was, to be able to console himself by
'noble passions' for what he might have suffered in the higher
emotions. And yet I instantly felt as if I owed her memory a silent
ceremonial, to conciliate her insulted shade. The Catholics have the
clever invention of their silent masses. We must help ourselves in our
own way."

Meantime