recognize the knob, failed utterly and said again, this time
with mingled curiosity and hospitality:

"Won't you come in?"

The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a bit, disclosing an
apologetically smiling face, with high check bones that glistened with
friendliness and scrubbing.

"Nabben', Fraulein," said the head.

"Nabben'," I replied, more mystified than ever. "Howdy do! Is there
anything--"

The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a pair of plump
shoulders as its support. Then the plump shoulders heaved into the room,
disclosing a stout, starched gingham body.

"Ich bin Frau Knapf," announced the beaming vision.

Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. Harris-like
mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, and I had partaken of certain
crispy dishes of German extraction, reported to have come from her deft
hands, but I had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts whisking around
a corner.

Therefore: "Frau Knapf!" I repeated. "Nonsense! There ain't no sich
person--that is, I'm glad to see you. Won't you come in and sit down?"

"Ach, no!" smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, clinging tightly to the
door knob. "I got no time. It gives much to do to-night yet. Kuchen
dough I must set, und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time."

Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had never had a glimpse
of her. Always, she got no time. For while Herr Knapf, dapper and
genial, welcomed new-comers, chatted with the diners, poured a glass of
foaming Doppel-brau for Herr Weber or, dexterously carved fowl for
the aborigines' table, Frau Knapf was making the wheels go round.
I discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German
Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and
hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, and
the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages
nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut. All the week Frau Knapf bakes
and broils and stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling crimson from
the fire over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau Knapf sheds her
huge apron and rolls down the sleeves from her plump arms. On Sunday
evening she leaves pots and pans and cooking, and is a transformed Frau
Knapf. Then does she don a bright blue silk waist and a velvet coat
that is dripping with jet, and a black bonnet on which are perched
palpitating birds and weary-looking plumes. Then she a