nk, and cerise blossoms. Oh, she
did marvelous things that dull March day, did plain German Alma Pflugel!
And still more marvelous were the things that were to come.

But of these things we knew nothing as the door was opened and Alma
Pflugel and I gazed curiously at one another. Surprise was writ large on
her honest face as I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways of
newspaper reporters were foreign to the life of this plain German woman,
but she bade me enter with a sweet graciousness of manner.

Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim narrow hallway to
the sitting-room beyond. And there I saw that Norberg had known whereof
he spoke.

A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one corner of the
room. Back of the stove a sleepy cat opened one indolent eye, yawned
shamelessly, and rose to investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows
were aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving German
women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room twinkled and shone as the
polished surfaces of tables and chairs reflected the rosy glow from the
plethoric stove. I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that must have
been built for Grosspapa Pflugel's generous curves. Alma Pflugel, in a
chair opposite, politely waited for this new process of interviewing
to begin, but relaxed in the embrace of that great armchair I suddenly
realized that I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that
here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her French, and her
paint, and her pearls, and the prizefighter with his slang, and his
cauliflower ear, and his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet.
My eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and drowsy contentment
stole over me.

"Do listen to the purring of that cat!" I murmured. "Oh, newspapers have
no place in this. This is peace and rest."

Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. "You--you like it?"

"Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother were here in this
room, seated in one of those deep chairs, with a bit of sewing in her
hand; so near that I could touch her cheek with my fingers."

Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to me. She timidly placed
her hand on my arm. "Ah, I am so glad you are like that. You do not
laugh at the low ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned
rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say: 'No conveniences!
And why don't you try striped wall paper? It would make those dr