ld in my house--put up, you call it?" he inquired in labored
English, while the little woman polished two speckless chairs with her
apron, and with instinctive photographic art placed them stiffly side
by side for the visitors.

"Yes, we'd like to stay with you for a time," corroborated the tall
man.

The little German ran his fingers uncertainly through his hair for a
moment; then his round face beamed.

"We should then become to each other known. Is it not so?" Without
pausing for an answer, he put out a big hand to each in turn. "I am
Hans Becher, and this"--with elaborate indications--"this my wife
is--Minna."

Minna courtesied dutifully, lower than before. The little Bechers were
not classified, but their connection was apparent. They calmly sucked
their thumbs.

The lords of creation obviously held the rostrum. It was the tall man
who responded.

"My name is Maurice, Ichabod Maurice." He looked at the woman, his
companion, from the corner of his eye. "Allow me, Camilla, to present
Mr. Becher." Then turning to his hosts, "Camilla Maurice: Mr. and Mrs.
Becher."

The tall lady shook hands with each.

"Pleased to meet you," she said, and smiled a moment into their eyes.
Thus Camilla Maurice made friends.

There were a few low-spoken words in German and Minna vanished.

"She will dinner make ready," Hans explained.

The visitors sat down in their chairs, with Hans opposite studying
them narrowly; singly and together.

"The town is very new," suggested Ichabod.

"One year ago it was not." The German's short legs crossed each other
nervously and their owner seized the opportunity to make further
inspection. "It is very new," he repeated absently.

Camilla Maurice stood up.

"Might we wash, Mr. Becher?" she asked.

The ultimate predicament was all at once staring the little man in the
face.

"To be sure.... I might have known.... You will a room--desire." ...
He ran his fingers through his hair, and inspiration came. "Mr.
Maurice," he motioned, "might I a moment with you--speak?"

"Certainly, Mr. Becher."

The German saw light, and fairly beamed as he sought the safe
seclusion of the doorway.

"She is your sister or cousin--_nein_?" he asked.

There was the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corners of
Ichabod's mouth.

"No, she is neither my sister nor my cousin, Mr. Becher."

Hans heaved a sigh of relief: it had been a close corner.

"She is your wife. One must know," and he mopped h