disfigured by her physical pain, for it was a
comfort to be helped by so strong and kind a friend. The comfort
brightened almost into pleasure, as they drove homeward in a shabby
_droschky_, with all the circuit of the horizon flooded with softest
rose and gold, reflecting the cloudless glory of the west. Borne along
through that unreal and lovely radiance, past the hills checkered with
vineyards and ripening grain, which the sunlight blazoned in green and
gold like the initials of an old missal; they talked as one friend would
talk to another. At least that was her phrase, and she admitted to
herself that she had not been so nearly happy since Elly died. "I didn't
know a man could be so--so kind," she said.

He told her of his country and his home; and how he loved the hills that
his fathers had always owned, and the rugged, simple, faithful people;
he told her of the plans of his father and himself for them; he told her
of his father, who had the best heart in the world, but was credited
with a fierce temper simply because his voice was loud; and his mother,
who was so gentle that every one loved her; and his handsome sister, and
his brother, who was a diplomat and far cleverer than he; and his little
brother who died and would have no one carry him in his pain but Max
("Ah, he was the most clever and the most beautiful of us all!"), and
Max, his little nephew, who looked like the dead boy. "I hope you will
see my home and them all," he said; "to-morrow, I shall see them, then,
the same day, I shall be back here--with you."

And then, by degrees, she won him to talk of his profession, of his
hopes, his ambitions, his ideals; of all those intimate and cherished
things which lie at the bottom of the soul and only rise for a friend's
eyes. It seemed to her that she could read his character in the hints
given by his words, as one would fill an outline sketch with perspective
and details. There was certainly a fascination in this revelation;
candor, after all, was a virtue, as well as reticence. Perhaps her new
friend was a little mediaeval, but he was as refined as if he had been
all modern.

By now they were rattling through the modern town of Heidelberg, the
plain walls of which looked bare after the lawless pomp of carving and
form on the old castle; they had not even the bizarre, affected grace of
the architecture then decking American countrysides. But Margaret
thought how homelike and honest the houses looked; st