nothing, he thought over the events
that had come to him since his sojourn in America. For the past seven
years he had devoted every thought, every energy, and nearly every
penny he had to the search for his loved ones. And he had failed,
failed, failed.

When the first shock of his loss came upon him in Leipsic he had asked
himself the meaning of it, and the answer had come to him that Art had
been his mistress, and that she had stepped in between him and the ones
he loved. He had been selfish, he had loved his Art as much, more
perhaps, than his own flesh and blood--and this was his punishment.
Yet he had given up his mistress, Art; he no longer lived for her; he
would live for his wife and child, if he could only find them, if, if,
if! He felt that there was indeed nothing to live for! Then why live,
he asked himself? Better be dead; far better be dead! Who would care
if he were no more? At this moment Von Barwig caught himself up, and
realising his own danger refused to allow himself to drift along that
line of thought. Life meant nothing to him now, but live he must, live
he would; that he was determined on. Complex as the problem was, he
would go on with it. He was not a coward, and for this he thanked his
Creator.

In thanking Him he gained a little courage, and he asked for a sign,
something to indicate that he was not the sport of fate, the creature
of circumstance; something, anything, to indicate that God had not
completely forgotten him. With bowed head Von Barwig prayed that he
might be saved from himself; that thoughts of self-destruction might
never again come into his mind; for he felt that he might not always
have the power to reject them. He asked that the desire to live might
again come upon him; for it dawned upon him that perhaps his duty lay
in the direction of serving others. Desire is prayer, and Von Barwig's
prayer was answered, for when he looked into the street he saw life
once more. Opening his window he heard the voices of the children at
play. He saw their joy, and rejoicing with them, he thanked God that
he could rejoice. As he arose from his chair he sighed, a deep, deep
sigh, and the darkest moment in his life had passed.

"Was that a knock?" Anton asked himself as he turned toward his door.
"Surely not a visitor?"

Lighting his lamp, he looked at the cuckoo clock upon the wall. It
said a quarter past nine o'clock; he had not heard the cuckoo strike
seven, eight,