At one point in these extensive grounds—entirely surrounded by Lombardy poplars now leafless—there stood a fountain drained of its water for the winter. But upon the pedestal, upon a bronze rock, at the foot of which washed bronze waves of the Rhine, a Rhine maiden of the blonde German Lorelei type, standing erect and a-dream, in youth, in love. And at her feet, on his knees, a German lover of the Ritter type—vigorous, uniformed, his fair blond head and face turned upward to the beauty about whose hips his arms were clasped—his look seeking, urgent. And upon his fair bronze hair, her right hand, the while she bent on him a yearning, yielding glance. Oh, Edward! Oh, love! Spring! She must not come out here any more. And yet evening after evening in early December, once the first great gust of this terrific storm had subsided and she was seeing things in a less drastic light, she was accustomed to return to look at it. And sometimes, even in January, a new moon overhead would suggest King Lake Park! The little boats gliding here and there! She and Edward in one. Herself leaning back and dreaming as now—now—this figure of the girl on the rock was doing. And he—he—at her knees. To be sure, he had cursed her. He had said the indifferent, cruel words that had at last driven her to madness. But once he had loved her just this way. It was there, and only there, that she found spiritual comfort in her sorrow— But then, in due course, the child—with all these thoughts, moods enveloping it. And after that the trial, with her prompt acquittal. A foreseen conclusion. And with loud public acclaim for that verdict also, since it was all for romance and drastic drama. And then the final leaving of these great rooms and this personal intimate affection that had been showered upon her. For after all the legal, if not the emotional problem, had now been solved. And since her father was not one who was poor or welcomed charity—a contemplated and finally accomplished return to a new world—the new home and store which had been established in a very different and remote part of the city. The child a boy. That was good, for eventually he could care for himself. He would not need her. The new paint shop was near another cross business street, near another moving-picture theatre. And boys and girls here as elsewhere—on the corners—going arm in arm—and herself again at home cooking, sewing, cleaning as before. And with Mrs. Zobel as reserved and dubious as before. For after all, had she not made a mess of her life, and for what? What now? Here forever as a fixture? And even though Zobel, in spite of his grimness, was becoming fond of the child. How wretched, how feeble life really was!