red again in the corners of the German blue
eyes. Some fiend of rudeness seized me.

"Laugh!" I commanded.

Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. "Pardon?" inquired he, as one who is
sure that he has misunderstood.

"Laugh!" I snapped again. "I'll dare you to do it. I'll double dare you!
You dassen't!"

But he did. After a moment's bewildered surprise he threw back his
handsome blond head and gave vent to a great, deep infectious roar of
mirth that brought the Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of
their mother's strict instructions.

After that we got along beautifully. He turned out to be quite human,
beneath the outer crust of reserve. He continued his examination only
after bribing the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious
demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly.

There followed a process which reduced me to a giggling heap but which
Von Gerhard carried out ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps
at my knees, and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands
to--"look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my finger! Look at the
wall!"

"So!" said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of finality. I sank my
battered frame into the nearest chair. "This--this newspaper work--it
must cease." He dismissed it with a wave of the hand.

"Certainly," I said, with elaborate sarcasm. "How should you advise me
to earn my living in the future? In the stories they paint dinner cards,
don't they? or bake angel cakes?"

"Are you then never serious?" asked Von Gerhard, in disapproval.

"Never," said I. "An old, worn-out, worked-out newspaper reporter, with
a husband in the mad-house, can't afford to be serious for a minute,
because if she were she'd go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it all."
And I buried my face in my hands.

The room was very still for a moment. Then the great Von Gerhard came
over, and took my hands gently from my face. "I--I do beg your pardon,"
he said. He looked strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he said it. "I
was thinking only of your good. We do that, sometimes, forgetting that
circumstances may make our wishes impossible of execution. So. You will
forgive me?"

"Forgive you? Yes, indeed," I assured him. And we shook hands, gravely.
"But that doesn't help matters much, after all, does it?"

"Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, is it not so? You say
you can only write for a living. Then why not write here at home? Surely
these years