written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and
anger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found
the house where Christine was staying. He was received at first very
shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery,
the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help
it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very
miserable.

Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, "just for five
minutes." The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and,
weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The five
minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back
to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been
broken in two for this life.

One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz,"
he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old
Clarke?"

"Yes."

"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine."

"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a woman
appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her
forcing her to do it."

"I thought she was to be your wife."

"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that.