I must have mentioned him dozens of times
in my letters."
"Never."
"Queer," commented Max, "he runs up here every now
and then to spend a quiet Sunday with Norah and me and
the Spalpeens. Says it rests him. The kids swarm all
over him, and tear him limb from limb. It doesn't look
restful, but he says it's great. I think he came here
from Berlin just after you left for New York, Dawn.
Milwaukee fits him as if it had been made for him."
"But you're not going to drag this wonderful being up
here just for me!" I protested, aghast.
Max pointed an accusing finger at me from the
doorway. "Aren't you what the bromides call a bundle of
nerves? And isn't Von Gerhard's specialty untying just
those knots? I'll write to him to-night."
And he did. And Von Gerhard came. The Spalpeens
watched for him, their noses flattened against the
window-pane, for it was raining. As he came up the path
they burst out of the door to meet him. From my bedroom
window I saw him come prancing up the walk like a boy,
with the two children clinging to his coat-tails, all
three quite unmindful of the rain, and yelling like
Comanches.
Ten minutes later he had donned his professional
dignity, entered my room, and beheld me in all my limp
and pea-green beauty.
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