'Yes. I lie," said Feodor easily; "I know nothing of it, but I take your word. Perhaps you loved her?"

"I-I-" and Andreas choked.

"Yes, that would have been a fine revenge for your blows." "She was an angel of Heaven."

'They all are," Feodor answered, stripping off his working clothes. "Come wash up and have something to eat with me. I am going courting after supper."

A terrible fear seized Andreas.

"With whom, Feodor, if I may ask?"

"Ah," said Feodor mysteriously, "that is my affair. See, Andreas, I do not want you to shove your head into my business."

"No-" he said simply, "I do not wish that. Is it anyone I know?"

But Feodor smiled provokingly and whistled as he went on with his toilet.

He did not repeat his invitation to supper, and Andreas, when he had seen him go out dressed in his best clothes, sat and dreamt. It was nearly eight o'clock when he thought of eating, and going out to the stall at the corner he bought some cakes and a baked apple. All about him the crowd elbowed among the pushcarts, bargaining with the vendors. Hands clutched at his coat and wheedling voices besought him to buy clothesbeautiful clothes. Once a girl jostled his arm and whispered to him; but seeing there was nothing to be got from him, moved on. Andreas looked after her. Even she, he thought bitterly. It seemed as if he were no longer a man, but a being apart.

The crowds were thick about the moving picture shows; but he passed on. He did not understand what they were and, besides, he had no money for amusements. Also he was not a Jew and could not read the bills outside. It disturbed him vaguely to find so many Jews about and prosperous. Two young girls seeing him staring at them giggled and made bold eyes at him, but he was thinking of Marya. He was gradually building a shrine about the girl instead of seizing her in his strong arms. The habits of early upbringing are not to be broken by impulse.

When he had walked to the end of Grand Street, he walked back and into Rutgers. Here he passed through the talking crowds with steady step and made for his lodging. When he came to the door, Feodor, smoking a cigar, was joking with Marya. He could see her little white teeth gleam in the lamplight.

"Well, Andreas," said Feodor coarsely, "you have been out seeing the girls, eh?"

"Hullo, Feodor, and you, too, Marya," stammered Andreas, stopping; "I have been taking the air.'

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"A mysterious person is Andreas," said Feodor insinuatingly; "he has his affairs, no doubt, on the sly."

Marya looked at Andreas strangely. Her lips parted, but he had hurried into the house. Almost immediately after, Feodor followed him. They went to bed in silence. After the lamp was extinguished Feodor turned and looked at the other mattress, but there was no movement of the clothes.

"It is only the fool who sleeps well," he said to himself, and shut his eyes.

From that night there was a gradually widening breach between the two friends. They would sit together and be ill at their ease. Andreas grew still more moody and silent. To Feodor he was as much a mystery as printed books, for which he had no use. Not that he said anything to offend. No. But this silence, this dumbness chilled the affection of others. If a cigar was offered to him it was refused, until Feodor began to hate this clumsy fellow who could not put two words together. Regularly after work was over Feodor would disappear and be seen no more till bedtime. Andreas would sit at the window staring at the houses opposite and wondering what was happening in them. His comrades in the workroom could make nothing of him. He was perfectly friendly, but there was an impassable barrier between their minds and his. "He is a deep one," Boris Girshel would say over and over again; "he is a deep one."

In the evening when the bell rang and they all flung down their work, Andreas would carefully fold up the pants he was sewing, put on his hat and bow solemnly to them all as he went

out softly. It was useless to ask him to the weekly balls, and yet in his heart he knew he would have danced the lightest of all, if he had only had the courage. What does such a man think of? Of the next day. Of women, possibly. But if he does not speak, who can tell?

One night he met Marya. Her cheeks were flushed and she wore furs that seemed to exhale an intoxicating perfume. Something made her stop him.

"Where are you hurrying to?" she asked.

"I do not know. Home," he faltered.

"Why do you not go out more?" she asked gravely; "you are growing paler every day."

He could find no answer and was silent. He could see her look at him strangely. He almost felt a longing in her look and some force seemed to be driving words to his lips. She still hesitated. He could see the firm lines of her neck, covered by the fur as it was, and he found he could not take his eyes from her face. She was trembling as she fathomed some of his thoughts.

"I must be going," she said in a low voice; "good-night to you, Andreas."

Then he found words.

"Do not go, Marya," he said, the words leaping from his heart to his lips; " do not go. Do not leave me so lonely. It is so lonely in this town. I have been thinking of you for months and could not tell you. Listen, Marya

Her crimson lips were apart, and there was a look in her eyes that he had not seen before.

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Listen, do not laugh at me. I love you, Marya. Ah, you are so wonderful,-like my old mistress, such a lady that I could not speak to. I see you are listening, Marya. I will work, work for you till my eyes are blind. I shall never heed the passing of the hours at the shop-praise God, I shall not always be there. They will fly if I know I am coming home to you, Marya. Ah, that would be wonderful-to have a home, and you my wife to smile welcome to me, to be waiting for me! I am frightening you." He stopped suddenly as she seemed to step back; "what is it? It is not too late?"

He hung upon her answer in agony. He had found himself, and all his passion ran riot through his brain in a crimson flood.

She flushed red and then white.

It is too late, Andreas," she said painfully. "It is too late. You have spoken too late."

He stood staring at her, his arms outstretched.

"There is another?"

"There is another," she repeated in a faltering voice. "Do not despise me, Andreas. There may be-I shall soon be a mother."

Andreas looked at her in a dream.

Marya! Marya!" he said in a choked whisper. “Oh, that I could bear your pains and your sorrow!" and he made as if to clasp her in his arms.

She looked at him with infinite love. Her arms went out and then fell by her side, and she walked away with bowed head, leaving him standing. He took a step or two forward and stopped. An hour passed and he was still standing, staring in the direction she had gone.

When he got home Feodor was packing up his few belongings.

"Andreas," he said abruptly, "I am leaving. I cannot stand it any longer. Your silence is driving me crazy." Andreas heard him in silence.

"I am going to take up house now. I have a girl." "You are married?" said Andreas, a terrible suspicion crowding all other thoughts out of his mind.

Feodor laughed coarsely.

That is enough. We

Why should I? She loves me. have been going together for some time. I may be father to a squalling brat soon. Who knows? Let me advise you to do the same. There's no ill feeling, Andreas. I'll keep the key and come and see you soon. I must be on my way," he continued uneasily, awed by the silence of his comrade. "Good-night."

Andreas heard the door shut and the steps die away, and then fell on his knees in an agony of tears. He knew perfectly well where Feodor was going.

From that night he never saw Marya again. She went. Where do women of her kind go? But ever in his mind there remained the image of her standing there in her furs, her little feet in velvet boots, her eyes wet with tears. He sought her everywhere, but both she and Feodor had moved and he could find no trace of her. Every evening after his work he would wander about the streets, hoping against hope that they would accidentally meet. He felt sure that he had only to see her to forgive all and to give her that happiness she had sought in vain elsewhere. He knew Feodor by now, and he saw nothing but unhappiness for Marya.

He began to have queer fancies and whims. When a man lives alone he has a neighbor next door who comes visiting once in a while, then frequently till it becomes a companionship which leads to the madhouse. In his case it took a curious form.

One day he saw in a shoe store a small pair of golden shoes. They were a special pair and they caught his eye with their gayness so small and yet so perfect. The first time he saw them he seemed to see Marya's little feet in them dancing, dancing over the floor of his room. He stopped before the window in a dream. In the evenings as he hurried home he would stop and see if they were still there. He began to have a feeling of ownership in them. He wondered how they would look in his room. If he had them, would not Marya be sure to come? He built up a romance about them. They almost seemed part of Marya, something that she might have worn. The fancy grew upon him intolerably, and one evening as he stood at the window, the proprietor came to the door.

"Some shoes, eh? You want a pair of shoes."

"No. No. I was looking

Something for your girl, then?"

"I have none," he said shortly.

"You will have one soon, a fine gentleman like you. A pair of slippers. There is a fine gold pair now. Fifteen dollars. There's a bargain for you."

Andreas hurried home. He counted up his money-seven dollars. That was all. One saves slowly on the East Side.