"The long narrow street was deserted, and I sprinted along making good time, though my feet were soaking wet and I could feel the water gurgle in my shoes at every step. As I started across a muddy street within two blocks of Frau Henich's, a sudden gust of wind blew my umbrella inside out. I righted it by facing about and holding it against the wind. Then clutching my bundles a little tighter, and still treading determinedly backwards, I bumped forcibly into a man who was coming towards me. The result was what might have been expected. We sat down in the street. The gingerbread went into his lap, the cakes fell about me like stars from a rocket, and from what I could see in the dusk the kraut seemed to be equally divided between us. We both sat perfectly still for a moment. Then six feet of masculinity arose from the mud, with the sound of a suction pump, and approached me, with the air of a count. 'Are you hurt, Fräulein?' he inquired, in irreproachable German that made me green with envy. I felt of myself in the cleanest places and decided that I was not. He helped me up with difficulty, for the mud had a strong attraction for me, too, and I feebly began to collect my thoughts, and my cakes, and to look about for my umbrella. "By this time my companion in misery had a beautiful un-German-like apology ready for me, and proposed that we move on, and repair damages by the street lamp. I replied, in very bad German, that my boarding-place was just around the corner, and that I would prefer to remove the signs of our collision at home. He graciously acceded to my humble request, and crossed the street with me, holding the remains of my umbrella over my head. When we reached the lamp I could fully appreciate the humour of the situation. The aristocratic chest of the Count was plastered with white frosting, his hat was caved in, and his noble face was covered with spatters of mud. My skirt dripped mud and water at each step, my hands were gloved with honest German soil, and my hair fell over my face in degraded little stringlets. We both fairly reeked with kraut. But the Count, courteously oblivious to our picturesque and barbaric appearance, walked by my side, with that skeleton of an umbrella gallantly protecting the remains of my Knox hat, and discoursing cheerfully upon the vagaries of the German climate. Naturally my answers were not so teeming with wisdom as usual, for I was fairly overcome with suppressed emotion and mud. Beside, I am awfully stupid about languages, and all the German I have learned since I have been here would rattle if it were shaken about in a peanut shell. If he had asked me about the lamb of the daughter of the gardener, or the pink frock of my sister's