d in gilt,
and its color was a nauseous green and blue, and it was altogether the
sort of thing to grace the chill and funereal best room in a Wisconsin
farmhouse. Ferdinand Brandeis marked it at six dollars and stood it
up for the Christmas trade. That had been ten years before. It was too
expensive; or too pretentious, or perhaps even too horrible for the
bucolic purse. At any rate, it had been taken out, brushed, dusted, and
placed on its stand every holiday season for ten years. On the day after
Christmas it was always there, its lightning-struck plush face staring
wildly out upon the ravaged fancy-goods counter. It would be packed
in its box again and consigned to its long summer's sleep. It had seen
three towns, and many changes. The four dollars that Ferdinand Brandeis
had invested in it still remained unturned.

One snowy day in November (Ferdinand Brandeis died a fortnight later)
Mrs. Brandeis, entering the store, saw two women standing at the
fancy-goods counter, laughing in a stifled sort of way. One of them was
bowing elaborately to a person unseen. Mrs. Brandeis was puzzled. She
watched them for a moment, interested. One of the women was known to
her. She came up to them and put her question, bluntly, though her quick
wits had already given her a suspicion of the truth.

"What are you bowing to?"

The one who had done the bowing blushed a little, but giggled too, as
she said, "I'm greeting my old friend, the plush album. I've seen it
here every Christmas for five years."

Ferdinand Brandeis died suddenly a little more than a week later. It was
a terrible period, and one that might have prostrated a less resolute
and balanced woman. There were long-standing debts, not to speak of the
entire stock of holiday goods to be paid for. The day after the funeral
Winnebago got a shock. The Brandeis house was besieged by condoling
callers. Every member of the little Jewish congregation of Winnebago
came, of course, as they had come before the funeral. Those who had not
brought cakes, and salads, and meats, and pies, brought them now, as was
the invariable custom in time of mourning.

Others of the townspeople called, too; men and women who had known and
respected Ferdinand Brandeis. And the shock they got was this: Mrs.
Brandeis was out. Any one could have told you that she should have been
sitting at home in a darkened room, wearing a black gown, clasping
Fanny and Theodore to her, and holding a black-bordered h