I thought of the cheap little flat, with the ugly
sideboard, and the bit of weedy yard in the rear, and the
alley beyond that, and the red and green wall paper in
the parlor. The next moment, to my horror, Alma Pflugel
had dropped to her knees before the table in the damp
little arbor, her face in her hands, her spare shoulders
shaking.
"Ich kann's nicht thun!" she moaned. "Ich kann
nicht! Ach, kleine Schwester, wo bist du denn! Nachts
und Morgens bete ich, aber doch kommst du nicht."
A great dry sob shook her. Her hand went to her
breast, to her throat, to her lips, with an odd, stifled
gesture.
"Do that again!" I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel
sharply by the shoulder. "Do that again!"
Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. What do you
mean?" she asked.
"That--that gesture. I've seen it--somewhere--that
trick of pressing the hand to the breast, to the throat,
to the lips--Oh!"
Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and
rumpled its neat braids, and laughed down into the
startled face.
"She's here!" I shouted, and started a dance of
triumph on the shaky floor of the old arbor. "I know
her. From the moment I saw you the resemblance haunted
me.
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