I gazed and forgave the sour-faced
landlady her dining room; forgave the elderly parties
their shawls and barley soup; forgot for a moment
my weary thoughts of Peter Orme; forgot everything except
that it was June, and moonlight and good to be alive.
All the changes and events of that strange, eventful
year came crowding to my mind as I crouched there at the
window. Four new friends, tried and true! I conned
them over joyously in my heart. What a strange contrast
they made! Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still
more elastic heart; Frau Nirlanger, of the smiling lips
and the lilting voice and the tragic eyes--she who had
stooped from a great height to pluck the flower of love
blooming below, only to find a worthless weed sullying
her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the unquenchable light of
gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to
act as buffer between myself and the world, tender as a
woman, gravely thoughtful, with the light of devotion
glowing in his steady eyes.
"Here's richness," said I, like the fat boy in
Pickwick Papers. And I thanked God for the new energy
which had sent me to this lovely city by the lake. I
thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a
burden to Max and Norah, growing sour and crabbed with
the years.
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