wig's astonishment. Once,
during breakfast, Pinac heard Poons sigh and kicked him under the
table, whereupon he immediately grinned. Von Barwig saw this lightning
change and wondered what was the matter.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"No," replied Poons, trying to smile, but only succeeding in grinning.
Then he laughed with real tears in his eyes.

"Are you laughing or crying?" asked Von Barwig. "If you are laughing,
please cry; and if you are crying, for heaven's sake laugh."

Poons nodded. "I am very happy," he said tearfully, "so happy."

"Then you don't know how to show it," commented Von Barwig; whereupon
they all laughed at him until he laughed too, in spite of himself.
They joked all through the breakfast. So noisy were they that they
attracted the attention of Galazatti, the proprietor or the _cafe_, who
came over to the four friends and shook hands with them. He had served
them for many years, and he was glad to see them enjoy themselves.

"How is the good lady of your house?" he asked.

"Miss Husted is at the top of the notch," replied Pinac, who generally
constituted himself spokesman for the party. "We are all top of the
notch," he added, "eh, Poonsie?" slapping the young man on the back.

"What a strange thing is this human existence!" thought Von Barwig, as
he left his friends and walked back to his studio alone. "Here I am in
the middle of Houston Street, giving music instructions for fifty cents
per lesson, playing out nights in a dime museum, and yet my heart, my
mind is with this daughter of a great millionaire. To-day at three I
shall be with her, and I can think of nothing else. What is she to me
that I should care so much? A chance likeness, perhaps no likeness at
all except that which exists in my brain! Am I mad? Is this world of
shadows real? What does it all mean? Who will tear the veil from this
mystery, and tell me why one human being is so much more to us than
another, why one human being so resembles another, and yet is not that
one?"

From time to time he looked at the clock wishing the time would pass
more quickly. He brushed his clothes very carefully that morning. The
frock coat he had worn for a dozen years now proved its claim to being
made of the finest texture, for it responded splendidly to the brush,
and gave up most of its spots; but it still retained its shine. When
he had put on a clean collar and cuffs and his best white dress shirt,
Von Barwig look