kie. "Say Dawn--in the story
books--they--always--are strong on the--good-by kiss, what?"

And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, disapproval on her face,
I stooped and gently pressed my lips to the pain-lined cheek.

CHAPTER XXI. HAPPINESS

We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city that he had
loved so well, and I think his cynical lips would have curled in a
bitterly amused smile, and his somber eyes would have flamed into sudden
wrath if he could have seen how utterly and completely New York had
forgotten Peter Orme. He had been buried alive ten years before--and
Newspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. Peter Orme was not even a
memory. Ten years is an age in a city where epochs are counted by hours.

Now, after two weeks of Norah's loving care, I was back in the pretty
little city by the lake. I had come to say farewell to all those who
had filled my life so completely in that year. My days of newspaper work
were over. The autumn and winter would be spent at Norah's, occupied
with hours of delightful, congenial work, for the second book was to be
written in the quiet peace of my own little Michigan town. Von Gerhard
was to take his deferred trip to Vienna in the spring, and I knew that
I was to go with him. The thought filled my heart with a great flood of
happiness.

Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel's cottage, and the
garden was blooming in all its wonder of color and scent as we opened
the little gate and walked up the worn path. We found them in the cool
shade of the arbor, the two women sewing, Bennie playing with the
last wonderful toy that Blackie had given him. They made a serene and
beautiful picture there against the green canopy of the leaves. We spoke
of Frau Nirlanger, and of Blackie, and of the strange snarl of events
which had at last been unwound to knit a close friendship between us.
And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time in many months
up the flower-bordered path, the scarlet and pink, and green and gold of
that wonderful garden swam in a mist before my eyes.

Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she caught her breath
sharply.

"Vienna!" she repeated, and the longing in her voice was an actual
pain. "Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see it again? Vienna! My boy is there.
Perhaps--"

"Perhaps," I said, gently. "Stranger things have happened. Perhaps if
I could see them, and talk to them--if I could tell them--they mi