ext morning Daniel left home. He wore a brown hunting jacket
buttoned close up to his neck with hartshorn buttons. Over this hung a
top-coat and a cape. His broad-brimmed hat overshadowed his face, which
looked young, although so serious and distracted that voices, glances,
and sounds of any kind seemed to rebound from it like swift-running
water from a smooth stone wall.

Philippina carried his luggage to the station. Her dress was literally
smothered in garish, gaudy ribbons. The women in the market-place
laughed on seeing her until they got a colic.

When Daniel took leave from her and boarded the train, she did not open
her mouth; she wrinkled her forehead, rubbed the ends of her fingers
against each other, stood perfectly quiet, and looked at the ground.
Long after the train had left the station, she was still to be seen
standing there in that unique position. A station official went up to
her, and, with poorly concealed ridicule at the rare phenomenon, asked
her what she was waiting for.

She turned her back on him, and started off. She came back by way of St.
James's Place, and talked for a quarter of an hour with her friend Frau
Hadebusch. It was Sunday. Benjamin Dorn was just coming home from
church. Seeing Philippina, he made a profound bow.

Frau Hadebusch slapped Philippina on the hip, and smiled at her
knowingly.

Herr Francke was no longer living at Frau Hadebusch's: he was in jail.
He had promised to marry the cook of a certain distinguished family; but
instead of hastening the coming of the happy day, he had gambled away
the savings of his bride-to-be.

II

Daniel had a letter of introduction to the Prior of the Monastery at
Loehriedt. He was looking for a manuscript that was supposed to have been
written by a contemporary of Orlando di Lasso, if not by Di Lasso
himself.

He remained for over two months, working at his collection. He found his
association with the monks quite agreeable, and they liked him. One of
them, who held him in especially high regard because of his ability as
an organist, gave him to understand that it was a matter of unaffected
regret to him that he could not greet him, Protestant that he was, with
the confidence that a man of his singular distinction deserved.

"So! I wish I were a Jew," said Daniel to him, "then you would have a
really unqualified opportunity to see what God can do without your
assistance."

The monk in question