could see
the light in her eyes, and in his turn he, too, was shamed.

"Dear Fraeulein Fredrika," he went on, "I have not much to offer, but all
I have is yours. I am old, and the woman I loved died, never knowing
that I loved her. If she had known, it would have made no difference.
Perhaps you think it an empty gift, but it is my all. You, too, may
have dreamed of something quite different, but in the end God knows
best. Fredrika, will you come?"

The maidenly heart within her rioted madly in her breast, but she was
used to self-repression. "I thank you," she said, with gentle dignity;
"it is one compliment which is very high, but I cannot leave mine Franz.
All the way from mine Germany I have come to mend, to cook, to wash, to
sew, to scrub, to sweep, to take after him the many things which he
forgets and leaves behind, even the most essential. What should he think
of me if I should say: 'Franz, I will do this for you no more, but for
someone else?' You will understand," she concluded, in a pathetic little
voice which stirred him strangely, "because you are mine brudder's
friend."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, "I am his friend, and so, do you think I
would come without his permission? Dear Fraeulein, Franz knows and is
glad. That is why I left him. Almost the last words he said to me were
these: 'If you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask.'"

"Franz!" she cried. "Mine dear, unselfish Franz! Always so good, so
gentle! Did he say that!"

"Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fredrika? Shall we try to make each
other happy?"

She was standing by the window now, with her hand upon her heart, and
her face alight with more than earthly joy.

"Dear Fraeulein," said the Doctor, rejoicing because it was in his power
to give any human creature so much happiness, "will you come?"

Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand upon her shoulder and
drew her toward him. Then the heavens opened for Fraeulein Fredrika, and
star-fire rained down upon her unbelieving soul.

XXI

The Cremona Speaks

The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood
watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart.

The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, there
was nothing but a desert of roofs. "Roofs," thought Iris, "always roofs!
Who would think there were so many in the world!"

Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed.
Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she