little, out of the crowd. Then he spoke for the first time.

"God! I'm glad to see you, Fanny." There was tragedy, not
profanation in his voice. His hand gripped hers. He
turned, and now, for the first time, Fanny saw that at his
elbow stood a buxom, peasant woman, evidently a nurse, and
in her arms a child. A child with Molly Brandeis' mouth,
and Ferdinand Brandeis' forehead, and Fanny Brandeis' eyes,
and Theodore Brandeis' roseleaf skin, and over, and above
all these, weaving in and out through the whole, an
expression or cast--a vague, undefinable thing which we call
a resemblance--that could only have come from the woman of
the picture, Theodore Brandeis' wife, Olga.

"Why--it's the baby!" cried Fanny, and swung her out of the
nurse's protesting arms. Such a German-looking baby. Such
an adorably German-looking baby. "Du kleine, du!" Fanny
kissed the roseleaf cheek. "Du suszes--" She turned
suddenly to Theodore. "Olga--where's Olga?"

"She did not come."

Fanny tightened her hold of the little squirming bundle in
her arms. "Didn't come?"

Theodore shook his head, dumbly. In his eyes was an agony
of pain. And suddenly all those inexplicable things in his
face were made clear to Fanny. She placed the little Mizzi
in the nurse's arms again. "Then we'll go, dear. They
won't be a minute over your trunks, I'm sure. Just follow