"I will even marry you with the children," he said, "but never with the Grossvater who hindered and spoiled everything." "He has cared for me always, even when he was hard," said Lotte. "I shall care for him now;" and Franz rushed away and had come no more. For a year Lotte's struggle went on. She knew only the one form of work; and she dared not take time to learn another. "If it were not for the Grossvater," she said, "and the children, I should have a place and work in the country and grow strong, but I cannot. If I die before them what can they do?" There was other trouble. Gretchen's light little head could never guard her pretty face. She was fourteen now, and tall and fair, fretting against the narrow life and refusing to stay indoors when evening came. One day she did not come home; and when Lotte sought her she saw only the evil smile and triumphant eyes of the foreman who had followed her a year ago and who laughed in her face as he shut the door. "You'd better come in yourself," he called. "You'd fare better if you did." Lotte went home dumb, and sat down at her machine. There was no money in the house, nor would be till she had taken home this work; but as she bent over it the blood poured in a stream from her mouth. She tried to rise, but fell back; and when the screaming children had brought in neighbors, Lotte's struggle was quite over. When they had buried her in the Potter's Field by Lisa, they took the bundle of work stained with her life-blood and carried it back to its owners. "She'll need no more," said the old neighbor from the floor above as she laid it on the counter. "You've cut her down and cut her down, till there wasn't life left to stand it longer. There's not one of you to blame, you say, but I that know, know you've fastened her coffin-lid with nails o' your own makin', an' that sooner or later you'll come face to face, an' find that red-hot is cowld to the hate that's makin' ready for you. An' as for him that stands there smilin', if it weren't for the laws that spare the guilty and send the innocent to their deaths, God knows it would be the best thing these hands ever did to tear him to bits. But there's no one to blame. Ye're sure o' that. Wait a while. The day's comin' when you'll maybe think different; an' may God speed it!" CHAPTER NINTH. THE EVOLUTION OF A JACKET.