And then he told me the story in a dull and weary tone. An epidemic of scarlet fever had broken out in the city. His wife had demanded that he should refuse to treat severe cases, in consideration for herself and the child. He would not comply with her wish and brought the infection into the house. “From her point of view, Theresa is quite right in hating me,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she acts and talks as if it were only her child--it was _my_ son also.” We set out for a restaurant that he had recommended. He was quiet and absent-minded. Suddenly he looked at his watch and said: “You’re an independent woman. You don’t mind going there alone, do you? I have a patient to visit and will meet you there later. Will this suit you?” I assented, understanding that he had already repented of his confession and wished to be alone. I waited the rest of the afternoon, but without the hope of seeing him again. He did not come, and I left the town that evening. * * * * * It was in quite another city, in another corner of Germany, where I was visiting relatives, when one day some one asked me: “Aren’t you a friend of Dr. Philip Hartens? According to the directory he lives here now, quite near us. Would you want to look him up?” “Of course I would.” An hour later I might have believed that the six years which had passed between that day and my first visit to the young couple had been a dream only. For I sat beside the very same table at which I had waited before. The friendly spring sunshine shone on the gold lettering of the large books that surrounded the majolica plate, mirrored itself in the vase with fresh flowers, and awoke a delicate play of color from the little mother-of-pearl bowl. There were also the amulet with the head of Apollo and the little glass bottle. The sight of these old friends caused me to smile, just as Theresa entered. The delicate outlines of her figure had not changed, she had become frozen into them, as it were. There was something of the old maid about her, and the stubbornness, which had been a piquant touch in her soft young face, was now hardened into the chief quality of its expression. She took my hand. “I’m very sorry to hear that Philip is away.” “My husband has left me,” was her short, sharp answer. I looked at her, dazed. “Why--?” “Yes. I suppose you did not imagine that he would forget himself to that extent?” She smoothed her little black silk apron and looked at me with an expression that was almost scorn. “No--I certainly should not have believed that,” I answered candidly. “How could it have happened?”