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 handkerchief
at intervals to her reddened eyes. And that is what she
really wanted to do, for she had loved her husband, and she