“Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?” pleaded Von Gerhard. “This golden pathway will end in a neat little glass-roofed restaurant, with tables and chairs outside, and comfortable German papas and mammas and pig-tailed children sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer. There will be stout waiters, and a red-faced host. And we will seat ourselves at one of the tables, and I will wave my hand, and one of the stout waiters will come flying. ‘Will you have coffee, _Fraulein_, or beer?’ It sounds prosaic, but it is very, very good, as you will see. Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen and waiters in white aprons.” But, “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, for his mood was infectious. “This is France. Please! The golden pathway will end in a picturesque little French farm, with a dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there will be a red-skirted peasant woman, with a white cap! and a baby on her arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will wear sabots!” “Most certainly she will wear sabots,” Von Gerhard said, heatedly, “and blue knitted stockings. And the baby’s name is Mimi!” We had taken hands and were skipping down the pathway now, like two excited children. “Let’s run,” I suggested. And run we did, like two mad creatures, until we rounded a gentle curve and brought up, panting, within a foot of a decrepit rail fence. The rail fence enclosed a stubbly, lumpy field. The field was inhabited by an inquiring cow. Von Gerhard and I stood quite still, hand in hand, gazing at the cow. Then we turned slowly and looked at each other. “This pathway of glorified maples ends in a cow,” I said, solemnly. At which we both shrieked with mirth, leaning on the decrepit fence and mopping our eyes with our handkerchiefs. “Did I not say you were sixteen?” taunted Von Gerhard. We were getting surprisingly well acquainted. “Such a scolding as we shall get! It will be quite dark before we are home. Norah will be tearing her hair.” It was a true prophecy. As we stampeded up the steps the door was flung open, disclosing a tragic figure. “Such a steak!” wailed Norah, “and it has been done for hours and hours, and now it looks like a piece of fried ear. Where have you two driveling idiots been? And mushrooms too.” “She means that the ruined steak was further enhanced by mushrooms,” I explained in response to Von Gerhard’s bewildered look. We marched into the house, trying not to appear like sneak thieves. Max, pipe in mouth, surveyed us blandly. “Fine color you’ve got, Dawn,” he remarked. “There is such a thing as overdoing this health business,” snapped Norah, with a great deal of acidity for her. “I didn’t tell you to make them purple, you know.” Max turned to Von Gerhard. “Now what does she mean by that do you suppose, eh Ernst?”