The street-car did not land her anywhere near a market; it whirled her past the lines of low wooden houses into the big brick shops with their arched windows and terra-cotta ornaments that showed the ambitious architecture of a growing Western town, past these into mills and factories and smoke-stained chimneys. Here, she stopped. An acquaintance would hardly have recognized her, her ruddy cheeks had grown so pale. But she trotted on to the great building on the corner from whence came a low, incessant buzz. She went into the first door and ran against Carl Olsen. “Carl, I got to see Mr. Lossing,” said she breathlessly. “There ain't noding----” “No, Gott sei dank', but I got to see him.” It was not Carl's way to ask questions; he promptly showed her the office and she entered. She had not seen young Harry Lossing half a dozen times; and, now, her anxious eyes wandered from one dapper figure at the high desks, to another, until Lossing advanced to her. He was a handsome young man, she thought, and he had kind eyes, but they hardened at her first timid sentence: “I am Mrs. Lieders, I come about my man----” “Will you walk in here, Mrs. Lieders?” said Lossing. His voice was like the ice on the window-panes. She followed him into a little room. He shut the door. Declining the chair that he pushed toward her she stood in the centre of the room, looking at him with the pleading eyes of a child. “Mr. Lossing, will you please save my Kurt from killing himself?” “What do you mean?” Lossing's voice had not thawed. “It is for you that he will kill himself, Mr. Lossing. This is the dird time he has done it. It is because he is so lonesome now, your father is died and he thinks that you forget, and he has worked so hard for you, but he thinks that you forget. He was never tell me till yesterday; and then--it was--it was because I would not let him hang himself----” “Hang himself?” stammered Lossing, “you don't mean----”