ts, he slunk from the car like an escaping convict, and looked
toward the narrow moonlit valley which was as a gate leading into this
unknown Spenersberg. The path looked obscure and inviting, and so,
without exchanging a word with any one, he walked forward, a more
pitiable object than is pleasant to consider, for he was no coward and
no fool.

CHAPTER II.

IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.

About the time that Leonhard Marten was paying for his ticket in the
depot at A----, how many events were taking place elsewhere! Multitudes,
multitudes going up and down the earth perplexed, tempted, discouraged.
What were _you_ doing at that hour? I wonder.

Even here, at this Spenersberg, was Frederick Loretz--with reason deemed
one of the most fortunate of the men gathered in the happy
valley--asking himself, as he walked homeward from the factory, "What is
the use?"

When he spied his wife on the piazza he seemed to doubt for a second
whether he should go backward or forward. Into that second of
vacillation, however, the voice of the woman penetrated: "Husband, so
early? Welcome home!"

The voice decided him, and so he opened his gate, passed along the
graveled walk to the piazza steps, ascended, wiping the perspiration
from his bald head, dropped his handkerchief into his hat and his hat
upon the floor, and sat down in one of the great wide-armed wooden
chairs which visitors always found awaiting them on the piazza.

His wife, having bestowed upon him one brief glance, quickly arose and
went into the house: the next moment she came again, bringing with her a
pitcher of iced water and a goblet, which she placed before him on a
small rustic table. But a second glance showed her that he was suffering
from something besides the heat and fatigue. There was a look on his
broad honest face that told as distinctly as color and expression could
tell of anguish, consternation, remorse. He drank from the goblet she
had filled for him, and said, without looking at his wife, "I have
brought you the worst news, Anna, that ever you heard." She must have
guessed what it was instantly, but she made neither sign nor gesture.
She could have enumerated there and then all the sorrows of her life;
but for a moment it was not possible even for her to say that this
impending affliction was, in view of all she had endured, a light one,
easy to be borne.

"It has gone against us," said Mr. Loretz, picking up his red silk
handkerchief and passing it