While she wept softly, Dr. Harpe inspected her with deliberation. She was tall and awkward, with long, flat feet, and a wide face with high cheek bones that was Scandinavian in its type. Her straight hair was the drab shade which flaxen hair becomes before it darkens, and her large mouth had a solemn, unsmiling droop. Her best feature was her brown, melancholy, imaginative eyes. She looked like the American-born daughter of Swedish or Norwegian emigrants and her large-knuckled hands, too, bespoke the peasant strain. "Quit it, Niobe, and tell me your name." The girl raised her tearful eyes. "Kunkel--Augusta Kunkel." "Oh, German?" The girl nodded. "Well, Miss Kunkel"--she suppressed a smile--"tell me your troubles and perhaps you'll feel better." More tears was the girl's reply. "Look here"--there was impatience in her voice--"there's no man worth bawling over." "But--but----" wept the girl, "he said he'd marry me!" "Isn't he going to?" "I don't know--he's going away in a few days and he won't talk any more about it. He's waltzed every waltz to-night with Essie Tisdale and has not danced once with me." "So? And who's Essie Tisdale?" "She's the waitress here." "Downstairs? In this hotel?" Augusta Kunkel nodded. "I don't blame him," Dr. Harpe replied bluntly, "I saw her at supper. She's a peach!" "She's the belle of Crowheart," admitted the girl reluctantly. "And who is _he_? What's _his name_?" The girl hesitated but as though yielding to a stronger will than her own, she whimpered: "Symes--Andy P. Symes." "Why don't you let Andy P. Symes go if he wants to? He isn't the only man in Crowheart, is he?" "But he promised!" The girl wrung her hands convulsively. "He promised _sure_!" A look of quick suspicion flashed across Dr. Harpe's face. "He _promised_--oh, I _see_!" She arose and closed the door. The interview was interrupted by a bounding step upon the stairs and a little tap upon the door, and when it was opened the belle of Crowheart stood flushed and radiant on the threshold. "We want you to come down," she said in her vivacious, friendly voice. "It must be lonely for you up here, and Mr. Symes--he's giving the dance, you know--he sent me up to ask you." She caught sight of the girl's tear-stained face and stepped quickly into the room. "Why, Gussie." She laid her arm about her shoulder. "What's the matter?" Augusta Kunkel drew away with frank hostility in her brown eyes and answered: "Nothing's the matter--I'm tired, that's all." Though she flushed at the rebuff, she murmured gently: "I'm sorry, Gussie." Turning to Dr. Harpe, she urged persuasively: "Please come down. We're having the best time _ever_!" Dr. Harpe hesitated, for she thought of Alice Freoff, but the violin was shrieking enticingly and the voice of the master of ceremonies in alluring command floated up the stairway: "Choose your partners for a waltz, gents!" She jerked her head at Augusta Kunkel. "Come along--don't sit up here and mope."