LITMIR.BIZ

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my country it is a joy, and not a calamity. Wounds are the misfortune of valor. Pray, be seated, Mr. Lorry is it not?” she said, pronouncing it quaintly.

      He sat down rather suddenly on hearing her utter his name. How had she learned it? Not a soul on the train knew it, he was sure.

      “I am Caspar Guggenslocker. Permit me, Mr. Lorry, to present my wife and my niece, Miss Guggenslocker,” said the uncle, more gracefully than he had ever heard such a thing uttered before.

      In a daze, stunned by the name—Guggenslocker, mystified over their acquaintance with his own when he had been foiled at every fair attempt to learn theirs, Lorry could only mumble his acknowledgments. In all his life he had never lost command of himself as at this moment. Guggenslocker! He could feel the dank sweat of disappointment starting on his brow. A butcher—a beer maker—a cobbler—a gardener—all synonyms of Guggenslocker. A sausage manufacturer's niece—Miss Guggenslocker! He tried to glance unconcernedly at her as he took up his napkin, but his eyes wavered helplessly. She was looking serenely at him, yet he fancied he saw a shadow of mockery in her blue eyes.

      “If you were a novel writer, Mr. Lorry, what manner of heroine would you choose?” she asked, with a smile so tantalizing that he understood instinctively why she was reviving a topic once abandoned. His confusion was increased. Her uncle and aunt were regarding him calmly—expectantly, he imagined.

      “I—I have no ambition to be a novel writer,” he said, “so I have not made a study of heroines.”

      “But you would have an ideal,” she persisted.

      “I'm sure I—I don't—that is, she would not necessarily be a heroine. Unless, of course, it would require heroism to pose as an ideal for such a prosaic fellow as I.”

      “To begin with, you would call her Clarabel Montrose or something equally as impossible. You know the name of a heroine in a novel must be euphonious. That is an exacting rule.” It was an open taunt, and he could see that she was enjoying his discomfiture. It aroused his indignation and his wits.

      “I would first give my hero a distinguished name. No matter what the heroine's name might be—pretty or otherwise—I could easily change it to his in the last chapter.” She flushed beneath his now bright, keen eyes and the ready, though unexpected retort. Uncle Caspar placed his napkin to his lips and coughed. Aunt Yvonne studiously inspected her bill of fare. “No matter what you call a rose, it is always sweet,” he added, meaningly.

      At this she laughed good-naturedly. He marveled at her white teeth and red lips. A rose, after all. Guggenslocker, rose; rose, not Guggenslocker. No, no! A rose only! He fancied he caught a sly look of triumph in her uncle's swift glance toward her. But Uncle Caspar was not a rose—he was Guggenslocker. Guggenslocker—butcher! Still, he did not look the part—no, indeed. That extraordinary man a butcher, a gardener, a—and Aunt Yvonne? Yet they were Guggenslockers.

      “Here is the waiter,” the girl observed, to his relief. “I am famished after my pleasant drive. It was so bracing, was it not Mr. Grenfall Lorry?”

      “Give me a mountain ride always as an appetizer,” he said, obligingly, and so ended the jest about a name.

      The orders for the dinner were given and the quartette sat back in their chairs to await the coming of the soup. Grenfall was still wondering how she had learned his name, and was on the point of asking several times during the conventional discussion of the weather, the train and the mountains. He considerately refrained, however, unwilling to embarrass her.

      “Aunt Yvonne tells me she never expected to see me alive after the station agent telegraphed that we were coming overland in that awful old carriage. The agent at P—— says it is a dangerous road, at the very edge of the mountain. He also increased the composure of my uncle and aunt by telling them that a wagon rolled off yesterday, killing a man, two women and two horses. Dear Aunt Yvonne, how troubled you must have been.”

      “I'll confess there were times when I thought we were rolling down the mountain,” said Lorry, with a relieved shake of the head.

      “Sometimes I thought we were soaring through space, whether upward or downwards I could not tell. We never failed to come to earth, though, did we?” she laughingly asked.

      “Emphatically! Earth and a little grief,” he said, putting his hand to his head.

      “Does it pain you?” she asked, quickly.

      “Not in the least. I was merely feeling to see if the cut were still there. Mr—Mr. Guggenslocker, did the conductor object to holding the train?” he asked, remembering what the conductor had told him of the old gentleman's actions.

      “At first, but I soon convinced him that it should be held,” said the other, quietly.

      “My husband spoke very harshly to the poor man,” added Aunt Yvonne. “But, I am afraid, Caspar, he did not understand a word you said. You were very much excited.” The sweet old lady's attempts at English were much more laborious than her husband's.

      “If he did not understand my English, he was very good at guessing,” said her husband, grimly.

      “He told me you had threatened to call him out,” ventured the young man.

      “Call him out? Ach, a railroad conductor!” exclaimed Uncle Caspar, in fine scorn.

      “Caspar, I heard you say that you would call him out,” interposed his wife, with reproving eyes.

      “Ach, God! God! I have made a mistake! I see it all! It was the other word I meant—down not out! I intended to call him down, as you Americans say. I hope he will not think I challenged him.” He was very much perturbed.

      “I think he was afraid you would,” said Lorry.

      “He should have no fear. I could not meet a railroad conductor. Will you please tell him I could not so condescend? Besides, dueling is murder in your country, I am told.”

      “It usually is, sir. Much more so than in Europe.” The others looked at him inquiringly. “I mean that in America when two men pull their revolvers and go to shooting at each other, some one is killed—frequently both. In Europe, as I understand it, a scratch with a sword ends the combat.”

      “You have been misinformed,” exclaimed Uncle Caspar, his eyebrows elevated.

      “Why, Uncle Caspar has fought more duels than he can count,” cried the girl, proudly.

      “And has he slain his man every time?” asked Grenfall, smilingly, glancing from one to the other. Aunt Yvonne shot a reproving look at the girl, whose face paled instantly, her eyes going quickly in affright to the face of her uncle.

      “God!” Lorry heard the old gentleman mutter. He was looking at his bill of fare, but his eyes were fixed and staring. The card was crumpling between the long, bony fingers. The American realized that a forbidden topic had been touched upon.

      “He has fought and he has slain,” he thought as quick as a flash, “He is no butcher, no gardener, no cobbler. That's certain!”

      “Tell us, Uncle Caspar, what you said to the conductor,” cried the young lady, nervously.

      “Tell them, Caspar, how alarmed we were,” added soft-voiced Aunt Yvonne. Grenfall was a silent, interested spectator. He somehow felt as if a scene from some tragedy had been reproduced in that briefest of moments. Calmly and composedly, a half smile now in his face, the soldierly Caspar narrated the story of the train's run from one station to the other.

      “We did not miss you until we had almost reached the other station. Then your Aunt Yvonne asked me where you had gone. I told her I had not seen you, but went into the coach ahead to search. You were not there. Then I went on to the dining car. Ach, you were not there. In alarm I returned to our car. Your aunt and I looked everywhere. You were not anywhere. I shall never forget your aunt's face when she sank into a chair, nor shall I feel again so near like dying as when she suggested that you might have

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