Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1910-01-23

return had lost its glamourous charm. Yet he
felt that he must go. 1t was not BETTING that
a man of his future station should be untraveled.
He sat with dropping head while the western
sun slipped from sight, its yellow rays touching
with soft fingers his whitened hair.
For a long time after it was gone he did not
turn on the lights; then, vaguely troubled by
unaccustomed idleness, he slipped into his
toward Schillers Haus. Formerly he had
thrust aside the big swinging doors with pro-
prietary air; now he entered slowly, guest.
Everything was the same and yet had under
gone marvellous and hostile change. Fur
lively, almost, he sought a chair in the corner,
carefully avoiding the seats invariably claimed
by the doctor, the delicatessen man, and
der Professor"
The waiter greeted him with annoying defer
ence. 1t emphasized that he was no longer
part of the house, but guest, and the white
haired old fellow who had been wont to greet
him with cordial familiarity now stood at at
tention when he took Herr Schmdt's order. 1t
was foolish one, such as man struggling be-
tween lifes habit of economy and unexpected
affluence must give. Herr Schmidt stammered
when giving it.
He ate heedlessly, without zest, absorbed in
hearing the tones of the piano under the younger
hands Once the new director turned and
fastened tempo Herr Schmidt did not like
that. He was certain that he knew temPos and
interpretations. He was gratifed that the deli
catessen man, who had come in, paused, be-
tween mouthfuls and looked back over his
shoulder with surprise. But Herr Schmidt was
more gratified that the orchestra which ne had
brought out-from the time when he and they
were young-declined to accept the new and
vulgarly fastened time.
"It is not accelerando," he muttered to him
self. "They forgot not that take it So, and
hummed it softly to himself. Some one stared
at him. 1t made him nervous. He paid his
count with a surreptitious air, lingering the roll
of bills beneath the table as though fearing that
Hans the waiter would accuse him of display
ing new-gained wealth.
He hurried from the place to wander through
the streets, to stop before the playhouses which
| he had never entered, to watch crowds of mer-
rvmakers whom he had never known. Once IN
awhile some of them had been seen at Schiller S
| Haus and were familiar. One man turned
| to look at him. Another addressed him. as
| tonished that he should be there in the street
| In the very tail of the procession he made his
way home, to toss on his bed until dawn, the
hour at which through all his life he had gone
to sleep.
HE awoke in great surge of loneliness, went
IL to his window and leaned out where he
could watch the children play-httle tots that
were his friends One of them sighted him and
in childish treble shouted greeting and clapped
her hands,
Aren't you coming down toto play with
us?" she called, sensing from that distance with
childish intuition the vague droop in his atti-
tude. He tried to answer as gally as he usually
did; but choked. Pretty soon he would see
them no more, and they would forget the white
old playmate who devoted an hour each day to
their amusement.
He was sorry entertainer that afternoon;
for despite his bravest effort he would become
distracted and drop to a bench where, with
bent head, he would look at nothing for a long
time till aroused by some little ones demand
He fought off the desire to hurry to Schiller's
Haus at four o'clock and, long after the chill
dren had gone to their homes, still huddled on
the park bench. He had believed, before this
catastrophe of inheritance, that the new home
on 11Oth-st. could never be the same the old
one on 10th; but, now that he was about to
leave it, subtle charm had enveloped it. He
thought, with melancholy usefulness, that the
room would miss him, though he had lived in it
but five years; that each inanimate object
might hunger for his touch; that there was no
place in that distant Leipsic of his boyhood
where he could look out through all the seasons
and see familiar trees. Why the very one be-
meath which he sat had been named by him
How often he had looked from his window be-
fore retiring at dawn and said. Zach, Herr Bis
marck, you chust wake up, helm? We geht's,
nein frennds l see you shake the little branch
up at the top in greeting!' Perhaps Herr Bis
marck would watch his window in the coming
dawns and be sorry that he was gone.
A S eight o'clock approached he grew more
= lonely. He donned his evening clothes as
if he was again to direct the orchestra and
slowly made his way to the hole in the ground