nd's neck and cry on his shoulder; and he could
think of nothing to say but "Poor Anton! Poor Anton!"

"Don't pity me, damn you! don't pity me!" burst out Von Barwig. "And
don't sit there bleating like a lost sheep of Israel! I'm not a
woman--tears are no panacea for suffering like mine. Put the world
back five years, restore for me the past few months; then I could live
life over again, then I could see and know and act differently. Don't
sit there like a wailing widow, moaning and moping over other people's
miseries! That isn't sympathy, that's weakness! If you want to help
me, tell me to be a man, to face my troubles like a man; don't cry like
a baby!"

"That's right," assented Poons, "go on; it does you good. Give it to
me, I deserve it!"

"Poor old Poons, you do your best! Ah, your love does me good, old
friend; but there's hell to face! She threatens to leave me, to leave
me because I refused to allow him to come here. I've warned him! And
if he shows his face in Leipsic again, I'll kill him! Look!" Von
Barwig felt in his inner pocket. "Now you can understand why I
couldn't hold the men together at rehearsal this morning. My mind was
with her, with him. Ha! the mother of my little girl, my little
Helene! That's the pity of it, Poons, that's the pity of it!" and now
it was Von Barwig's turn to show weakness. "That's what I can't
understand. A woman's love for a man, yes, it can go here, there,
anywhere; but the mother instinct, how can that change?"

"Doesn't she love her little girl any more?" asked Poons in simple
astonishment.

"She loves _him_," said Anton. "Can there be room for the mother love
with such love as he inspires?"

He looked at the letter in his hand and passed it to Poons. "This
morning, just as I was leaving for rehearsal, the servant handed me
this. My little girl is all I have left now." His voice choked with
emotion as he turned once more toward the window.

At the sight of his friend's suffering Poons could no longer contain
himself, and he fairly blubbered as he read the following:

"DEAR ANTON: Henry Ahlmann is in Leipsic and I have seen him. I cannot
live a lie, so I am going away with him. Believe me, it is better so;
I feel that you can never forgive me and that we can never again be
happy together. Kiss my darling Helene for me, and oh, Anton, don't
tell the little one her unhappy mother's miserable history until she is
old enough to understand!