inside,
Peter made a mental image of the scene, for it was to be firmly imbedded
in his mind so that he would never forget the slightest detail for the
rest of his life--the wind blowing about the fierce visage, tossing up
the long strands of hair; the massive, veined hand that clutched the
wrought iron thumb-latch, and the way that the lamp struck his face,
highlighting the thin, ridged nose and high cheekbones.

"Peter Scheinberger, heh?" the man spoke in perfect German. "Peter
Scheinberger, the last of your clan here in America."

It was several seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to
answer him. Drawing back slowly he braced himself against the table, and
in a thick, guttural German asked, "Who are you?"

The stranger shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room and,
with an air of one who was accustomed to having his own way wherever he
went, scanned the shelves of Peter's larder with a practiced eye.

Peter watched him closely as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke the
neck against a beam above him, and settled down in Peter's easy chair.
He poured a glass full and shoved it across the table towards the
anxious Peter, and then poured another glass for himself.

"Mirestone," the stranger finally answered, "Martin G. Mirestone." Then,
draining his glass, he added, "Student of German history."

All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No one ever had the audacity
to walk into his house and help himself to whatever he wanted--he was
indeed unheard of in his tiny social world.

"Well, what are you staring at?" Mirestone boomed out. "Take my cloak,
please, then be seated. We'll talk."

Taking the cloak and draping it over a wooden peg in the wall, Peter
moved cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized his
small house. Carefully seating himself opposite the man, he moved the
table so that it set between them as a protective barrier.

"I'll make myself clear to you," Mirestone explained, "For I want my
stay to be as brief as possible."

He poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in the chair,
half closing his eyes. "You see, I am a student, you might say, of
German history or folklore. I am in the process of writing a collective
history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, their habits, beliefs, and--" he
broke off for an instant as he leaned forward across the table, staring
into the frightened eyes of Peter "--and their superstitions."

Shifting his chai