"Is there a livery here?" he asked. "Yes; at the street end--the side to the left hand." "Thanks. I'll be back with you this evening." Hans Becher stared, open-mouthed, as the man moved off. "You will not to dinner return?" The little man stopped, and smiled without apparent reason. "No. Keep the grip. I expect to lunch," again he smiled without provocation, "elsewhere. By the way," he added, as an afterthought, "can you tell me where Mr. Maurice--Ichabod Maurice--lives?" The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by his free hand. "Straight out, eight miles. Little house with _paint_"--strong emphasis on the last--"_white_ paint." "Thanks." Hans saw the escape of an opportunity. "They are friends of yours, perhaps?"--he grasped at it. The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit, sprang to his face. "Yes, they're--friends of mine," he corroborated. Hans, personification of knowledge, stood bobbing on the doorstep, until the trail of smoke vanished from sight, then brought the satchel inside and set it down hard. "Her brother has come," he announced to the wide-eyed Minna. "_Wessen Bruder?_" Minna was obviously excited, as attested by the lapse from English. "Are we not now Americans naturalized?" rebuked Hans, icily. Suddenly he thawed. "Whose brother! The brother of Camilla Maurice, to be sure." Minna scrutinized the bag, curiously. "Did he so--inform you?" she questioned unadvisedly. "It was not necessary. I have eyes." Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door; instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue. "You are so wise, Hans!" And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher. Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air. "Buffalo grass, I'll wager! I've heard of it," and in the instinctive action of every newcomer he sniffed again. Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sun warm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoid the light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous _chug!_ _chug!_ of the tumbling cream drowning all other sounds. Suddenly the shadow of a horse passed her and a rough livery buggy stopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped the crank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily she returned to her work, and the _chug!_ _chug!_ continued. "Does Ichabod Maurice," drawling emphasis on the name, "live here?" asked a voice. "He does." Camilla's chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly. The man looked down at her, genuine amusement depicted upon his face. "Won't you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?"