Hans Becher did not belie his name. He was very German. Likewise the little woman who courtesied at his side. Ditto the choice assortment of inquisitive tow-heads, who stared wide-eyed from various corners. He shook hands at the door with each of his guests,--which action also was unmistakably German. "You would in my house--put up, you call it?" he inquired in labored English, while the little woman polished two speckless chairs with her apron, and with instinctive photographic art placed them stiffly side by side for the visitors. "Yes, we'd like to stay with you for a time," corroborated the tall man. The little German ran his fingers uncertainly through his hair for a moment; then his round face beamed. "We should then become to each other known. Is it not so?" Without pausing for an answer, he put out a big hand to each in turn. "I am Hans Becher, and this"--with elaborate indications--"this my wife is--Minna." Minna courtesied dutifully, lower than before. The little Bechers were not classified, but their connection was apparent. They calmly sucked their thumbs. The lords of creation obviously held the rostrum. It was the tall man who responded. "My name is Maurice, Ichabod Maurice." He looked at the woman, his companion, from the corner of his eye. "Allow me, Camilla, to present Mr. Becher." Then turning to his hosts, "Camilla Maurice: Mr. and Mrs. Becher." The tall lady shook hands with each. "Pleased to meet you," she said, and smiled a moment into their eyes. Thus Camilla Maurice made friends. There were a few low-spoken words in German and Minna vanished. "She will dinner make ready," Hans explained. The visitors sat down in their chairs, with Hans opposite studying them narrowly; singly and together. "The town is very new," suggested Ichabod. "One year ago it was not." The German's short legs crossed each other nervously and their owner seized the opportunity to make further inspection. "It is very new," he repeated absently. Camilla Maurice stood up. "Might we wash, Mr. Becher?" she asked. The ultimate predicament was all at once staring the little man in the face. "To be sure.... I might have known.... You will a room--desire." ... He ran his fingers through his hair, and inspiration came. "Mr. Maurice," he motioned, "might I a moment with you--speak?" "Certainly, Mr. Becher." The German saw light, and fairly beamed as he sought the safe seclusion of the doorway. "She is your sister or cousin--_nein_?" he asked. There was the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corners of Ichabod's mouth. "No, she is neither my sister nor my cousin, Mr. Becher." Hans heaved a sigh of relief: it had been a close corner. "She is your wife. One must know," and he mopped his brow. "Certainly--one must know," very soberly. Alone together in the little unfinished room under the rafters, the woman sat down on the corner of the bed, physical discomfort forgotten in feminine curiosity.