Above the grinding of the wheels as the train slowed up for the station a block ahead, pleaded the tenor:—
Oh, promise me that you will take my hand,
The most unworthy in this lonely land—
Did she speak? Her face was hidden, but the blond curls moved with a nod so slight that only a lover's eye could see it. He seized her disengaged hand. The conductor stuck his head into the car.
A squad of stout, florid men with butchers' aprons started for the door. The girl arose hastily.
"Mamma!" she called, "steh' auf! Es ist Fourteenth Street."
The little woman woke up, gathered the umbrellas in her arms, and bustled after the marketmen, her daughter leading the way. He sat as one dreaming.
"Ach!" he sighed, and ran his hand through his dark hair, "so rasch!"
And he went out after them.