She opened the door a few inches and said through the crack: "It's me, Mr. Feuerstein--Sophie Liebers--from down in Avenue A--Hilda's friend." "Come in," was Mr. Feuerstein's reply, in a weary voice, after a pause. From Ganser's he had come straight home and had been sitting there ever since, depressed, angry, perplexed. Sophie pushed the door wide and stood upon the threshold. "Hilda's over in Stuyvesant Square," she said. "She thought you might be sick, so we came. But if you go to her, you must pretend you came by accident and didn't see me." Mr. Feuerstein reflected, but not so deeply that he neglected to pose before Sophie as a tragedy-king. And it called for little pretense, so desperate and forlorn was he feeling. Should he go or should he send Sophie about her business? There was no hope that the rich brewer would take him in; there was every reason to suspect that Peter would arrange to have the marriage quietly annulled. At most he could get a few thousands, perhaps only hundreds, by threatening a scandal. Yes, it would be wise, on the whole, to keep little Hilda on the string. "I am very ill," he said gloomily, "but I will go." Sophie felt hopeful and energetic again. "I won't come up to her till you leave her." "You are a good girl--a noble creature." Mr. Feuerstein took her hand and pretended to be profoundly moved by her friendship. Sophie gave him a look of simplicity and warm-heartedness. Her talent for acting had not been spoiled by a stage experience. "Hilda's my friend," she said earnestly. "And I want to see her happy." "Noble creature!" exclaimed Mr. Feuerstein. "May God reward you!" And he dashed his hand across his eyes. He went to the mirror on his bureau, carefully arranged the yellow aureole, carefully adjusted the soft light hat. Then with feeble step he descended the stairs. As he moved down the street his face was mournful and his shoulders were drooped--a stage invalid. When Hilda saw him coming she started up and gave a little cry of delight; but as she noted his woebegone appearance, a very real paleness came to her cheeks and very real tears to her great dark eyes. Mr. Feuerstein sank slowly into the seat beside her. "Soul's wife," he murmured. "Ah--but I have been near to death. The strain of the interview with your father--the anguish--the hope--oh, what a curse it is to have a sensitive soul! And my old trouble"--he laid his hand upon his heart and slowly shook his head--"returned. It will end me some day." Hilda was trembling with sympathy. She put her hand upon his. "If you had only sent word, dear," she said reproachfully, "I would have come. Oh--I do love you so, Carl! I could hardly eat or sleep--and--"