and I will come back to fetch you a quarter of an hour before
that, so that you may walk down the street and enter the banqueting
place in the company of your mother, as it is fitting that you should
do. And don't let anyone see you before then: for that is not proper.
When you fix the bunda round your father's shoulders, make all the men
go out of the house before you enter the room. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mother."

"You know how particular Bela is that everything should be done in
orderly and customary style, don't you?"

"Yes, mother," replied Elsa, without the slightest touch of irony; "I
know how much he always talks about propriety."

"Though you are not his wife," continued Irma volubly, "and won't be
until to-morrow, you must begin to-day to obey him in all things. And
you must try and be civil to Klara Goldstein, and not make Bela angry by
putting on grand, stiff airs with the woman."

"I will do my best, mother dear," said Elsa, with a quick short sigh.

"Good-bye, then," concluded Irma, as she finally turned toward the door,
"don't crumple your petticoats when you sit down, and don't go too near
the hearth, there is some grease upon it from this morning's breakfast.
Don't let anyone see you and wait quietly for my return."

Having delivered herself of these admonitions, which she felt were
incumbent upon her in her interesting capacity as the mother of an
important bride, Irma at last sailed out of the door. Elsa--obedient to
her mother and to convention, did not remain standing beneath the lintel
as she would have loved to do on this beautiful summer morning, but drew
back into the stuffy room, lest prying eyes should catch sight of the
heroine of the day before her state entry into the banqueting hall.

With a weary little sigh she set about thinking what she could do to
kill the next two hours before Moritz and Jeno and those other kind lads
came to take her father away. With the door shut the room was very dark:
only a small modicum of light penetrated through the solitary, tiny
window. Elsa drew a chair close beside it and brought out her mending
basket and work-box. But before settling down she went back into the
sleeping-room to see that the invalid was not needing her.

Of course he always needed her, and more especially to-day, one of the
last that she would spend under his roof. He was not tearful about her
departure--his senses were too blunt now to feel the grief of
separation--he on