"Let me tell you a story, my child, it may help you to bear the burden of life, as your story has helped me!"
Von Barwig reseated himself by the girl's side and recounted to her the whole story of his miserable unhappy existence from beginning to end. This stranger was the only one to whom he had ever told it all. The girl was intensely interested, and it had the desired effect of taking her thoughts off her own misery. When Von Barwig took his leave of her an hour or so later, the colour had come into her waxen cheeks and she was quietly nursing her baby.
"I have been asleep," he said to himself, "but I am awake now. Life is all about me; I must not be blind to it again!"
As Von Barwig turned the corner of Houston Street and the Bowery, he glanced at the clock in the watchmaker's on the corner. It was eleven o'clock. He did not go to the Museum that night.
"Are you quite sure there is no letter for me, Joles?" Hélène asked anxiously, as she came in late that night.
"Quite sure, miss."
Hélène thought a moment. "It's very strange," she said. "I've written to him so many times."
Joles's face expressed nothing. Hélène shook her f head slowly and walked upstairs. Before she went to bed that night she sent the following note:
"MY DEAREST BEVERLY: Come to-morrow morning and take me to lunch. I want you to do a little diplomatic work for me.
"Your loving
"HÉLÈNE."