His look, his tone made his words sound revolutionary. And, in fact, his mood was revolutionary. He was puzzled at his own change of attitude. His sky had cleared of black clouds; the air was no longer heavy and oppressive. He wanted to work; he felt that by working he could accomplish something, could deserve and win the approval of people who were worthwhile--people like Madelene Schulze, for instance. Next day he lurked round the corner below the doctor's house until he saw him drive away; then he went up and rang the bell. This time it was the "blonde" that answered--small and sweet, pink and white, with tawny hair. This was disconcerting. "I couldn't get here earlier," he explained. "I saw the doctor just driving away. But, as these bandages feel uncomfortable, I thought perhaps his daughter--your sister, is she not?--might--might fix them." Walpurga looked doubtful. "I think she's busy," she said. "I don't like to disturb her." Just then Madelene crossed the hall. Her masses of black hair were rolled into a huge knot on top of her head; she was wearing a white work slip and her arms were bare to the elbows--the finest arms he had ever seen, Arthur thought. She seemed in a hurry and her face was flushed--she would have looked no differently if she had heard his voice and had come forth to prevent his getting away without having seen him. "Meg!" called her sister. "Can you--" Madelene apparently saw her sister and Arthur for the first time. "Good morning, Mr. Ranger. You've come too late. Father's out." Arthur repeated his doleful tale, convincingly now, for his hand did feel queer--as what hand would not, remembering such a touch as Madelene's, and longing to experience it again? "Certainly," said Madelene. "I'll do the best I can. Come in." And once more he was in her office, with her bending over him. And presently her hair came unrolled, came showering down on his arm, on his face; and he shook like a leaf and felt as if he were going to faint, into such an ecstasy did the soft rain of these tresses throw him. As for Madelene, she was almost hysterical in her confusion. She darted from the room. When she returned she seemed calm, but that was because she did not lift those tell-tale gray eyes. Neither spoke as she finished her work. If Arthur had opened his lips it would have been to say words which he thought she would resent, and he repent. Not until his last chance had almost ebbed did he get himself sufficiently in hand to speak. "It wasn't true--what I said," he began. "I waited until your father was gone. Then I came--to see you. As you probably know, I'm only a workman, hardly even that, at the cooperage, but--I want to come to see you. May I?" She hesitated.