d
through him, as he struck a match and lighted his lamp,--so
automatically the commonplace actions of life are performed while the
spirit surges within.

Reverently he thanked God for the love that filled him, and for the
hope of return that had come to him. Then he stretched his arms upward
to their fullest height, merely for the sake of feeling his physical
strength, and broke into a torrent of tender German epithets,--_Englein
Geliebte_, _Herzenfreude_, _Liebling_. He took out the little handkerchief
and kissed it again and again, and walked restlessly about his room, too
glad and too happy to be quiet.

The nickel clock upon the mantel-shelf struck eleven, and at the same
time something like the sound of wheels penetrated his exaltation. He
stopped in his march and listened. No one could have turned by mistake
into his road in such brilliant moonlight, yet he knew no one who would
visit him at that hour. He thought it possible that some one was taking
the back road to Bud's cabin, so he made no move until the vehicle
stopped before his house. Then he stepped hastily into his bedroom and
slipped his revolver into his pocket before he responded to a gentle
rap.

Flinging back the door he saw standing on the porch a woman, a girl,
about whom the breeze blew a scarf of thin black stuff. Two trembling
hands were held out to him as if to implore a greeting, and a white
face looked up from its dark inwrapment like the face of a wistful
child. The moon, sailing high in the zenith, cast no light beneath the
porch's roof, and von Rittenheim stood unrecognizing.

She spoke in German.

"Friedrich, you do not know me?"

"Hilda!"

There was dismay in his tone and surprise unspeakable. He made no offer
to take her hands, and they sank at her side. The driver seeing that
his fare had found whom she sought, deposited her trunk and a valise
upon the floor of the porch, with a succession of heavy thumps, and
drove off with a relieved "Good-night," to which he received no
response.

"Friedrich, your welcome is not cordial. Surely you know me? You called
me 'Hilda.'"

"Yes, I know you. You are Hilda," he repeated, dully. "Why are you
here?"

"Won't you ask me in and let me tell you?"

"I beg your pardon." He stepped back that she might pass him. "You have
surprised me almost out of my senses--entirely out of my manners, as
you see."

He gave her a splint chair--one of the two which were the room's
complement--and sto