ion here
and there, Grumbach was too deeply concerned with the essential points
to notice these variations in the theme.

"So she is gentle and beautiful? Why not? _Ach_! You should have seen
her mother. She was the most beautiful woman in all Germany, and she
sang like one of those Italian nightingales. I recall her when I was a
boy. I would gladly have died at a word from her. All loved her. The
king of Jugendheit wanted her, but she loved the grand duke. So the
Princess Hildegarde has come back to her own? God is good!" And
Grumbach bent his head reverently.

"Well," said Carmichael, beckoning to the waitress, and paying the
score, "if any trouble rises, send for me. You don't look like a man who
has done anything very bad." He offered his hand again.

Grumbach pressed it firmly, and there was a moisture in his eyes.

Together they returned to the Grand Hotel for lunch. On the way neither
talked very much. They were both thinking of the same thing, but from
avenues diametrically opposed. Grumbach declined Carmichael's invitation
to lunch, and immediately sought his own room.

Once there, he closed the shutters so as to admit but half the day's
light, and opened his battered trunk. From the false bottom, which had
successfully eluded the vigilance of a dozen frontiers, he took out a
small bundle. This he opened carefully, his eyes blurring. Mad fool that
he had been! How many times had he gazed at these trinkets in these
sixteen or more years? How often had he uttered lamentations over them?
How many times had the talons of remorse gashed his heart?

Two little yellow shoes, so small that they lay on his palm as lightly
as two butterflies; a little cloak trimmed with ermine; a golden locket
shaped like a heart!

CHAPTER VII

AN ELDER BROTHER

Grumbach was very fond of music, and in America there were never any
bands except at political meetings or at the head of processions; and
that wasn't the sort of music he preferred. There was nothing at the
Opera, so he decided to spend the earlier part of the evening in the
public gardens. He was lonely; he had always been lonely. Men who carry
depressing secrets generally are. He searched covertly among the many
faces for one that was familiar, but he saw none; and he was at once
glad, and sorry. Yes, there was one face; the rubicund countenance of
the bandmaster. It was older, more wrinkled, but it was the same. How
many years had the old fellow swung the b