l she asked.

As he walked up Third Avenue and turned into Union Square, he went into
a florist's.

"A bunch of violets, please," he said, and the young man tied up a very
small quantity of violets with a very large silk tassel and a lot of
green leaves, tin foil, oil paper and wire; putting the whole into a
box, which he carefully tied up with more ribbon.

"What a ceremony over a few violets!" thought Von Barwig, as he laid a
twenty-five cent piece on the counter.

"One dollar, please," said the young man, surveying the quarter with a
somewhat pitying smile.

Von Barwig's heart sank. He had forgotten that it was winter, that
flowers were expensive, that coloured cardboard and tin foil and ribbon
cost money, too. He searched his pockets and found the necessary
dollar, but it was within a few cents of all he had. "They are not too
good for her," thought Von Barwig as he carried the box away. He
walked up Broadway into Fifth Avenue, and stopped at the corner of
Fifty-seventh Street. The number he sought was inscribed on the door
of a large brownstone mansion with a most imposing entrance, one of
those palatial residences that cover the space of four ordinary houses
and stamp its owner as a multi-millionaire. As he nervously pulled the
bell, he upbraided himself for having dared to think that she was like
his child. It was a trick of the fading light, an optical illusion.
His reflection was cut short, for the door was opened by a man-servant.

"Have you a card?" inquired the footman, as Von Barwig asked for Miss
Stanton.

The old man shook his head.

"Herr Von Barwig is the name; I have an appointment."

"You can wait in there; I'll see if Miss Stanton is in," said the
flunky, as he turned on his heel. Such nondescript visitors were most
unusual.

"An old person without a card, Mr. Joles," he confided to that
individual below stairs; "name Barkwick or something, says he has an
appointment. Quite genteel, but--" and he shrugged his shoulders
significantly.

Joles made no reply, but went up to interview Mr. "Barkwick." The
Stantons had so many applications from persons who needed charity for
themselves or others that the standing order had gone forth to admit no
stranger, under any pretext, unless of course he had complete
credentials.

Herr Von Barwig was standing in the reception-room, hat in hand, when
Joles entered.

"No card, eh? Ah--um--dear me," and Mr. Joles rubbed his chin in a
perplex