richness of the dress, from the pearl-embroidered
cap set jauntily on the reddish golden hair to the velvet bodice and the
satin peasant waist. The hands, small and dimpled like those of a child,
were clasped around a prayer-book and a bunch of wild flowers which had
evidently just been gathered. It was a marvelously beautiful face, pure
and sweet as that of a Madonna, and the workmen involuntarily bowed
their heads before it, calling it, not without some reason, a memorial
window, for the name Gretchen was under the picture, and one
unconsciously found himself looking for the date of birth and death. But
only the one word 'Gretchen' was there, with no sign to tell who she
was, or where, if living, she was now, or what relation she bore to the
strange man who often stood before her whispering to himself:

'Poor little Gretchen! Will you never come?'

For a few days after the rooms were completed, they were thrown open to
such of Arthur's friends as cared to see them, and the question 'Who is
Gretchen?' was often asked, but the answer was always the same: 'She is
Gretchen. I am expecting her every day.'

But if he were expecting her, he no longer asked that the carriage be
sent to meet her. That had been one of the proofs of his insanity as
alleged by his brother, and Arthur was sane enough and cunning enough to
avoid a repetition of that offence, but he often went himself to the
station, when the New York trains were due, for it was from the west
rather than the east that he was now looking for her.

Frank, who watched him nervously, with all his senses sharpened, guessed
what had caused the change and grew more nervous and morbid on the
subject of Gretchen than ever. At first his brother, who was greatly
averse to going out, had asked him to post his letters; business letters
they seemed to be, for they were addressed to business firms in New
York, London, and Paris, with all of which Arthur had relations. But one
morning when Frank went as usual to his brother's room asking if there
was any mail to be taken to the office, Arthur, who was just finishing a
letter, replied:

'No, thank you, I will post this myself. I have been writing to
Gretchen.'

'Yes, to Gretchen?' Frank said, quickly, as he advanced nearer to the
writing desk, hoping to see the address on the envelope.

But Arthur must have suspected his motive, for he at once turned over
the envelope and kept his hand upon it, while Frank said to him:

'Is