To cover his consciousness he answered, gayly: “Then, it's 'auf wiedersehen' with us. Well!” “Also!” The old man took his hand, and made a mechanical movement with his mutilated arm, as if he would have taken it in a double clasp. He laughed at himself. “I wanted to gif you the other handt, too, but I gafe it to your gountry a goodt while ago.” “To my country?” asked March, with a sense of pain, and yet lightly, as if it were a joke of the old man's. “Your country, too, Lindau?” The old man turned very grave, and said, almost coldly, “What gountry hass a poor man got, Mr. Marge?” “Well, you ought to have a share in the one you helped to save for us rich men, Lindau,” March returned, still humoring the joke. The old man smiled sadly, but made no answer as he sat down again. “Seems to be a little soured,” said Fulkerson, as they went down the steps. He was one of those Americans whose habitual conception of life is unalloyed prosperity. When any experience or observation of his went counter to it he suffered--something like physical pain. He eagerly shrugged away the impression left upon his buoyancy by Lindau, and added to March's continued silence, “What did I tell you about meeting every man in New York that you ever knew before?” “I never expected to meat Lindau in the world again,” said March, more to himself than to Fulkerson. “I had an impression that he had been killed in the war. I almost wish he had been.” “Oh, hello, now!” cried Fulkerson. March laughed, but went on soberly: “He was a man predestined to adversity, though. When I first knew him out in Indianapolis he was starving along with a sick wife and a sick newspaper. It was before the Germans had come over to the Republicans generally, but Lindau was fighting the anti-slavery battle just as naturally at Indianapolis in 1858 as he fought behind the barricades at Berlin in 1848. And yet he was always such a gentle soul! And so generous! He taught me German for the love of it; he wouldn't spoil his pleasure by taking a cent from me; he seemed to get enough out of my being young and enthusiastic, and out of prophesying great things for me. I wonder what the poor old fellow is doing here, with that one hand of his?” “Not amassing a very 'handsome pittance,' I guess, as Artemus Ward would say,” said Fulkerson, getting back some of his lightness. “There are lots of two-handed fellows in New York that are not doing much better, I guess. Maybe he gets some writing on the German papers.” “I hope so. He's one of the most accomplished men! He used to be a splendid musician--pianist--and knows eight or ten languages.” “Well, it's astonishing,” said Fulkerson, “how much lumber those Germans can carry around in their heads all their lives, and never work it up into anything. It's a pity they couldn't do the acquiring, and let out the use of their learning to a few bright Americans. We could make things hum, if we could arrange 'em that way.”