rwig for the past few
moments and was struck by the sweet, gentle sadness of his face.

"He's a sort of a composer, miss; that is, he writes songs and things.
He's a music master, I fancy, in one of the poorer quarters of the city,"
said the clerk, taking out the manuscript he had just thrown into a
drawer.

"Yes," he added, as she saw the address, "he has a studio at 970 Houston
Street. Rather far downtown," he added.

"Nine hundred and seventy Houston Street," repeated the girl; "that must
be near our settlement headquarters." She made some purchases, and a few
moments later the footman opened the door, and she was whisked rapidly
away by a pair of fine blooded horses.

"Who is that?" asked a fellow-clerk.

"Why don't you know?" asked the other with a slight tinge of superiority.
"It's Miss Stanton, the heiress."

"Is that so? She's a beauty!"

"Yes," went on his informant, "her father is only worth about twenty-five
millions!"

The other clerk whistled.

During Von Barwig's absence from his room that morning, young Poons had
taken possession of it for the purpose of practising on his 'cello, but
this was not his only reason. Jenny invariably made it a point to
straighten out Von Barwig's room at just about the time that Poons
happened to arrive. There he could look at her and speak to her in
little broken bits of the English language, without fear of being
interrupted by Miss Husted. Jenny's knowledge of German was as
hopelessly nil as his ideas of English; so they made up their minds to
study "each other's language from each other." To help matters along,
they bought two English-German "Conversation Made Easy" books, and in the
security of Von Barwig's studio they exchanged cut and dried sentences by
the page, neither understanding what the other said. On this particular
morning young Poons, with the assistance of Fico, had written out an
English sentence, which he had recited to himself dozens of times that
morning, for he had made up his mind to declare himself.

The opportunity came quickly. Poons had scarcely been practising three
minutes before the door opened, and in walked Jenny with Mr. Barwig's
table-cloth.

"Ach, Fraeulein Chenny!" said Poons, blushing.

"Mr. Poons," gasped Jenny, in complete astonishment, although she must
have heard him playing as she came through the hall.

"Ach, Fraeulein Chenny," he repeated, trying to remember his declaration,
but by this time the English