"Well, Miezchen, what was the rest of the story which Otto did not allow you to finish? You say he called you a dreadful name, raised his stick at you, and--?" "Then, then," began Miezi,--she realized, now, that she had told, and must sacrifice the candy rooster in consequence,--"then he didn't kill me, anyway." The father laughed heartily. "It was good of him not to kill my little girl, but what then?" "That was all." "The story has a happy ending," said the father. "The stick remains poised in the air and little Miezchen comes home as the artichoke. Now let us forget everything except that this is my birthday and that we are to do justice to the feast provided." Otto, however, still felt somewhat disturbed, and after dinner went off to a corner by himself. He seemed to be reading, but instead, he was thinking about what had happened, for he was very sure that his mother would never again let him go with the others to coast by moonlight. Miezi went to her room to take a last look at the candy rooster with which she must part, now that she had failed to keep her promise. Mrs. Ritter was seated at the window trying to explain to herself the strange actions of her children. She became more and more restless as she thought about it, and finally went in search of Miezi, whom she found at the foot of the bed in a very unhappy state of mind. "Miezchen, mamma has come to have a talk with you. I want you to tell me when it was that you were frightened by that man." "The night that we went coasting by moonlight. I know he called me that word papa used at the table to-night." Mrs. Ritter now went to find her husband. "I should like to tell you something, Otto," she said. The colonel laid his newspaper aside and looked inquiringly at his wife. "I have been thinking about the scene at the table to-night, and I have come to the conclusion that the children were frightened by the same man that tried to kill the joiner. I have just found out from Miezi that it happened the evening I gave the children permission to coast by moonlight, and that was the very night the joiner was hurt. It is much more likely that the man called her 'aristocrat' than 'artichoke.' If so, I should say that the man was Andreas's brother. He is the only one in the world who would think of using that word, and I am sure the only one who would hurt Andreas. Don't you think it likely that it was Andreas's brother George?" "It does seem probable," answered the colonel, thoughtfully; "I will see what can be done about it." He rang for the coachman to bring the carriage, and a few moments later he was on his way to the city.