“So Karl met you himself,” she said, “although he is so busy; that was nice. He has a kind heart and I do hope you will like one another.” “Yes, I hope we shall,” assented Sophy, but her conscience protested that this hope was vain—already she disliked him. “He looks to you to step into Fernanda’s shoes; but of course I won’t have that. Fernanda had enormous wages. Oh, dear child, I can’t tell you how I miss her,” and tears stood in her dark eyes. “Karl has such odd, old-fashioned German ideas—you must not mind him—though he is getting more German every day. He says a woman is just a hausfrau, who must sew and cook and do whatever a man orders. She is to have no mind of her own—and very little amusement.” “Then, Aunt Flora, one thing is certain—I shall never marry a German.” “I dare say it strikes you as strange that I should have done so; but Karl has always been devoted to me. I suppose your mother has told you that, when I was eighteen, I ran away to marry Charlie Bellamy, whose regiment was under orders for Hong Kong; we were fearfully poor and fearfully happy; then in a dog-cart accident, Charlie was killed and I was taken up for dead. But I recovered, as you see. The Hong Kong people were angels to me—one’s own country folks always _are_, when you are in trouble abroad. I was laid up for months. When I was better, Karl came forward and implored me to marry him; I was almost penniless and loathed the idea of going home, so that was how it happened. Karl was wealthy in those days, but afterwards he lost his money—our fortunes go up and down like a see-saw. I am afraid he is too fond of speculating and taking huge risks; he likes to be a man or a mouse. Just now he is not a mouse, but very, very rich. Well, my dear, I’ll leave you to have a bath and dress; we shall meet at breakfast; it is many a day since I appeared there. Do you know I feel as if you’d done me good already!” and with a clinging embrace she departed. As hours and days wore on, Mrs. Krauss became more and more charmed with her companion; it did not take her long to discover her unselfish character, amazing adaptability to these strange surrounding’s and, above all, her gift of music. The invalid would lie prone on her sofa with a handkerchief over her face—rather suggesting the idea of a laid-out corpse—motionless and spell-bound, and when she spoke it was merely to murmur: “Please go on, please go on, Sophy darling; your music is wonderful; you are my David and I am gloomy Saul. Oh, my dearest child, your exquisite gift has given me new thoughts, and opened the door of many delicious and half-forgotten memories!”