t into a hotel
there, and he asked why they should not go to Wurzburg, where they could
see all the sovereigns except the King of Italy.

"Wurzburg? Wurzburg?" March queried of his wife. "Where did we hear of
that place?"

"Isn't it where Burnamy said Mr. Stoller had left his daughters at
school?"

"So it is! And is that on the way to the Rhine?" he asked the Bavarian.

"No, no! Wurzburg is on the Main, about five hours from Ansbach. And it
is a very interesting place. It is where the good wine comes from."

"Oh, yes," said March, and in their rooms his wife got out all their
guides and maps and began to inform herself and to inform him about
Wurzburg. But first she said it was very cold and he must order some fire
made in the tall German stove in their parlor. The maid who came said
"Gleich," but she did not come back, and about the time they were getting
furious at her neglect, they began getting warm. He put his hand on the
stove and found it hot; then he looked down for a door in the stove where
he might shut a damper; there was no door.

"Good heavens!" he shouted. "It's like something in a dream," and he ran
to pull the bell for help.

"No, no! Don't ring! It will make us ridiculous. They'll think Americans
don't know anything. There must be some way of dampening the stove; and
if there isn't, I'd rather suffocate than give myself away." Mrs. March
ran and opened the window, while her husband carefully examined the stove
at every point, and explored the pipe for the damper in vain. "Can't you
find it?" The night wind came in raw and damp, and threatened to blow
their lamp out, and she was obliged to shut the window.

"Not a sign of it. I will go down and ask the landlord in strict
confidence how they dampen their stoves in Ansbach."

"Well, if you must. It's getting hotter every moment." She followed him
timorously into the corridor, lit by a hanging lamp, turned low for the
night.

He looked at his watch; it was eleven o'clock. "I'm afraid they're all in
bed."

"Yes; you mustn't go! We must try to find out for ourselves. What can
that door be for?"

It was a low iron door, half the height of a man, in the wall near their
room, and it yielded to his pull. "Get a candle," he whispered, and when
she brought it, he stooped to enter the doorway.

"Oh, do you think you'd better?" she hesitated.

"You can come, too, if you're afraid. You've always said you wanted to
die with me."

"Well. But you go f