"I don't know," replied Sophie in a strained, nervous manner. "I always hated to see Hilda go with him. No good ever comes of that sort of thing."
"I supposed she was going to marry him."
Sophie became very uneasy indeed. "It don't often turn out that way," she said in a voice that was evidently concealing something—apparently an ugly rent in the character of her friend.
Walpurga Hunneker opened her eyes wide. "You don't mean—" she exclaimed. And, as Sophie looked still more confused,
"Well, I THOUGHT so! Gracious! Her pride must have had a fall. No wonder she looks so disturbed."
"Poor Hilda!" said Sophie mournfully. Then she looked at Walpurga in a frightened way as if she had been betrayed into saying too much.
Walpurga spent a busy evening among her confidantes, with the result that the next day the neighborhood was agitated by gossip—insinuations that grew bolder and bolder, that had sprung from nowhere, but pointed to Hilda's sad face as proof of their truth. And on the third day they had reached Otto's mother. Not a detail was lacking—even the scene between Hilda and her father was one of the several startling climaxes of the tale. Mrs. Heilig had been bitterly resentful of Hilda's treatment of her son, and she accepted the story—it was in such perfect harmony with her expectations from the moment she heard of Mr. Feuerstein. In the evening, when he came home from the shop, she told him.
"There isn't a word of truth in it, mother," he said. "I don't care who told you, it's a lie."
"Your love makes you blind," answered the mother. "But I can see that her vanity has led her just where vanity always leads—to destruction."
"Who told you?" he demanded.