dress the part. So when next you see me I shall be a perfectly safe and
sane comrade in petticoats. And I promise you--no more outbursts."

So it happened that on the afternoon of New Year's day Von Gerhard and
I gravely wished one another many happy and impossible things for the
coming year, looking fairly and squarely into each other's eyes as we
did so.

"So," said Von Gerhard, as one who is satisfied. "The nerfs are steady
to-day. What do you say to a brisk walk along the lake shore to put us
in a New Year frame of mind, and then a supper down-town somewhere, with
a toast to Max and Norah?"

"You've saved my life! Sit down here in the parlor and gaze at the
crepe-paper oranges while I powder my nose and get into some street
clothes. I have such a story to tell you! It has made me quite contented
with my lot."

The story was that of the Nirlangers; and as we struggled against a
brisk lake breeze I told it, and partly because of the breeze, and
partly because of the story, there were tears in my eyes when I had
finished. Von Gerhard stared at me, aghast.

"But you are--crying!" he marveled, watching a tear slide down my nose.

"I'm not," I retorted. "Anyway I know it. I think I may blubber if I
choose to, mayn't I, as well as other women?"

"Blubber?" repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful and cautious English.
"But most certainly, if you wish. I had thought that newspaper women did
not indulge in the luxury of tears."

"They don't--often. Haven't the time. If a woman reporter were to burst
into tears every time she saw something to weep over she'd be going
about with a red nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a day
passes that does not bring her face to face with human suffering in some
form. Not only must she see these things, but she must write of them
so that those who read can also see them. And just because she does
not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is supposed to be a
flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who rampages up and down the land,
seeking whom she may rend with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon scenes
of horrid bloodshed."

"And yet the little domestic tragedy of the Nirlangers can bring tears
to your eyes?"

"Oh, that was quite different. The case of the Nirlangers had nothing to
do with Dawn O'Hara, newspaper reporter. It was just plain Dawn O'Hara,
woman, who witnessed that little tragedy. Mein Himmel! Are all German
husbands like that?"

"Not all. I have a ve