Christopher and Columbus

When the St. Luke was so near its journey’s end that people were packing up, and the word Nantucket was frequent in the scraps of talk the twins heard, they woke up from the unworried condition of mind Mr. Twist’s kindness and the dreamy monotony of the days had produced in them, and began to consider their prospects with more attention.  This attention soon resulted in anxiety.  Anna-Rose showed hers by being irritable.  Anna-Felicitas didn’t show hers at all.

It was all very well, so long as they were far away from America and never quite sure that a submarine mightn’t settle their future for them once and for all, to feel big, vague, heroic things about a new life and a new world and they two Twinklers going to conquer it; but when the new world was really upon them, and the new life, with all the multitudinous details that would have to be tackled, going to begin in a few hours, their hearts became uneasy and sank within them.  England hadn’t liked them.  Suppose America didn’t like them either?  Uncle Arthur hadn’t liked them.  Suppose Uncle Arthur’s friends didn’t like them either?  Their hearts sank to, and remained in, their boots.

Round Anna-Rose’s waist, safely concealed beneath her skirt from what Anna-Felicitas called the predatory instincts of their fellow-passengers, was a chamois-leather bag containing their passports, a letter to the bank where their £200 was, a letter to those friends of Uncle Arthur’s who were to be tried first, a letter to those other friends of his who were to be the second line of defence supposing the first one failed, and ten pounds in two £5 notes.

Uncle Arthur, grievously grumbling, and having previously used in bed most of those vulgar words that made Aunt Alice so miserable, had given Anna-Rose one of the £5 notes for the extra expenses of the journey till, in New York, she should be able to draw on the £200, though what expenses there could be for a couple of girls whose passage was paid Uncle Arthur was damned, he alleged, if he knew; and Aunt Alice had secretly added the other.  This was all Anna-Rose’s ready money, and it would have to be changed into dollars before reaching New York so as to be ready for emergencies on arrival.  She judged from the growing restlessness of the passengers that it would soon be time to go and change it.  How many dollars ought she to get?

Mr. Twist was absent, packing his things.  She ought to have asked him long ago, but they seemed so suddenly to have reached the end of their journey.  Only yesterday there was the same old limitless sea everywhere, the same old feeling that they were never going to arrive.  Now the waves had all gone, and one could actually see land.  The New World.  The place all their happiness or unhappiness would depend on.

She laid hold of Anna-Felicitas, who was walking about just as if she had never been prostrate on a deck-chair in her life, and was going to say something appropriate and encouraging on the Christopher and Columbus lines; but Anna-Felicitas, who had been pondering the £5 notes problem, wouldn’t listen.

“A dollar,” said Anna-Felicitas, worrying it out, “isn’t like a shilling or a mark, but on the other hand neither is it like a pound.”

“No,” said Anna-Rose, brought back to her immediate business.

“It’s four times more than one, and five times less than the other,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “That’s how you’ve got to count.  That’s what Aunt Alice said.”

“Yes.  And then there’s the exchange,” said Anna-Rose, frowning.  “As if it wasn’t complicated enough already, there’s the exchange.  Uncle Arthur said we weren’t to forget that.”

Anna-Felicitas wanted to know what was meant by the exchange, and Anna-Rose, unwilling to admit ignorance to Anna-Felicitas, who had to be kept in her proper place, especially when one was just getting to America and she might easily become above herself, said that it was something that varied. (“The exchange, you know, varies,” Uncle Arthur had said when he gave her the £5 note.  “You must keep your eye on the variations.”  Anna-Rose was all eagerness to keep her eye on them, if only she had known what and where they were.  But one never asked questions of Uncle Arthur.  His answers, if one did, were confined to expressions of anger and amazement that one didn’t, at one’s age, already know.)

“Oh,” said Anna-Felicitas, for a moment glancing at Anna-Rose out of the corner of her eye, considerately not pressing her further.

“I wish Mr. Twist would come,” said Anna-Rose uneasily, looking in the direction he usually appeared from.

“We won’t always have him” remarked Anna-Felicitas.

“I never said we would,” said Anna-Rose shortly.

The young lady of the nails appeared at that moment in a hat so gorgeous that the twins stopped dead to stare.  She had a veil on and white gloves, and looked as if she were going for a walk in Fifth Avenue the very next minute.

“Perhaps we ought to be getting ready too,” said Anna-Felicitas.

“Yes.  I wish Mr. Twist would come—­”

“Perhaps we’d better begin and practise not having Mr. Twist,” said Anna-Felicitas, as one who addresses nobody specially and means nothing in particular.

“If anybody’s got to practise that, it’ll be you,” said Anna-Rose.  “There’ll be no one to roll you up in rugs now, remember.  I won’t.”

“But I don’t want to be rolled up in rugs,” said Anna-Felicitas mildly.  “I shall be walking about New York.”

“Oh, you’ll see,” said Anna-Rose irritably.

She was worried about the dollars.  She was worried about the tipping, and the luggage, and the arrival, and Uncle Arthur’s friends, whose names were Mr. and Mrs. Clouston K. Sack; so naturally she was irritable.  One is.  And nobody knew and understood this better than Anna-Felicitas.

“Let’s go and put on our hats and get ready,” she said, after a moment’s pause during which she wondered whether, in the interests of Anna-Rose’s restoration to calm, she mightn’t have to be sick again.  She did hope she wouldn’t have to.  She had supposed she had done with that.  It is true there were now no waves, but she knew she had only to go near the engines and smell the oil.  “Let’s go and put on our hats,” she suggested, slipping her hand through Anna-Rose’s arm.

Anna-Rose let herself be led away, and they went to their cabin; and when they came out of it half an hour later, no longer with that bald look their caps had given them, the sun catching the little rings of pale gold hair that showed for the first time, and clad, instead of in the disreputable jerseys that they loved, in neat black coats and skirts—­for they still wore mourning when properly dressed—­with everything exactly as Aunt Alice had directed for their arrival, the young men of the second class could hardly believe their eyes.

“You’ll excuse me saying so,” said one of them to Anna-Felicitas as she passed him, “but you’re looking very well to-day.”

“I expect that’s because I am well,” said Anna-Felicitas amiably.

Mr. Twist, when he saw them, threw up his hands and ejaculated “My!”

“Yes,” said Anna-Felicitas, who was herself puzzled by the difference the clothes had made in Anna-Rose after ten solid days of cap and jersey, “I think it’s our hats.  They do somehow seem very splendid.”

“Splendid?” echoed Mr. Twist.  “Why, they’d make the very angels jealous, and get pulling off their haloes and kicking them over the edge of heaven.”

“What is so wonderful is that Aunt Alice should ever have squeezed them out of Uncle Arthur,” said Anna-Rose, gazing lost in admiration at Anna-Felicitas.  “He didn’t disgorge nice hats easily at all.”

And one of the German ladies muttered to the other, as her eye fell on Anna-Felicitas, “Ja, ja, die hat Rasse.”

And it was only because it was the other German lady’s hair that spent the night in a different part of the cabin from her head and had been seen doing it by Anna-Felicitas, that she cavilled and was grudging. “Gewiss,” she muttered back, “bis auf der Nase.  Die Nase aber entfremdet mich.  Die ist keine echte Junkernase.”

So that the Twinklers had quite a success, and their hearts came a little way out of their boots; only a little way, though, for there were the Clouston K. Sacks looming bigger into their lives every minute now.

Really it was a beautiful day, and, as Aunt Alice used to say, that does make such a difference.  A clear pale loveliness of light lay over New York, and there was a funny sprightliness in the air, a delicate dry crispness.  The trees on the shore, when they got close, were delicate too—­delicate pale gold, and green, and brown, and they seemed so composed and calm, the twins thought, standing there quietly after the upheavals and fidgetiness of the Atlantic.  New York was well into the Fall, the time of year when it gets nearest to beauty.  The beauty was entirely in the atmosphere, and the lights and shadows it made.  It was like an exquisite veil flung over an ugly woman, hiding, softening, encouraging hopes.

Everybody on the ship was crowding eagerly to the sides.  Everybody was exhilarated, and excited, and ready to be friendly and talkative.  They all waved whenever another boat passed.  Those who knew America pointed out the landmarks to those who didn’t.  Mr. Twist pointed them out to the twins, and so did the young man who had remarked favourably on Anna-Felicitas’s looks, and as they did it simultaneously and there was so much to look at and so many boats to wave to, it wasn’t till they had actually got to the statue of Liberty that Anna-Rose remembered her £10 and the dollars.

The young man was saying how much the statue of Liberty had cost, and the word dollars made Anna-Rose turn with a jump to Mr. Twist.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, clutching at her chamois leather bag where it very visibly bulged out beneath her waistband, “I forgot—­I must get change.  And how much do you think we ought to tip the stewardess?  I’ve never tipped anybody yet ever, and I wish—­I wish I hadn’t to.”

She got quite red.  It seemed to her dreadful to offer money to someone so much older than herself and who till almost that very morning had treated her and Anna-Felicitas like the naughtiest of tiresome children.  Surely she would be most offended at being tipped by people such years younger than herself?

Mr. Twist thought not.

“A dollar,” said the young man.  “One dollar.  That’s the figure.  Not a cent more, or you girls’ll get inflating prices and Wall Street’ll bust up.”

Anna-Rose, not heeding him and clutching nervously the place where her bag was, told Mr. Twist that the stewardess hadn’t seemed to mind them quite so much last night, and still less that morning, and perhaps some little memento—­something that wasn’t money—­

“Give her those caps of yours,” said the young man, bursting into hilarity; but indeed it wasn’t his fault that he was a low young man.

Mr. Twist, shutting him out of the conversation by interposing a shoulder, told Anna-Rose he had noticed stewardesses, and also stewards, softened when journeys drew near their end, but that it didn’t mean they wanted mementos.  They wanted money; and he would do the tipping for her if she liked.

Anna-Rose jumped at it.  This tipping of the stewardess had haunted her at intervals throughout the journey whenever she woke up at night.  She felt that, not having yet in her life tipped anybody, it was very hard that she couldn’t begin with somebody more her own size.

“Then if you don’t mind coming behind the funnel,” she said, “I can give you my £5 notes, and perhaps you would get them changed for me and deduct what you think the stewardess ought to have.”

Mr. Twist, and also Anna-Felicitas, who wasn’t allowed to stay behind with the exuberant young man though she was quite unconscious of his presence, went with Anna-Rose behind the funnel, where after a great deal of private fumbling, her back turned to them, she produced the two much-crumpled £5 notes.

“The steward ought to have something too,” said Mr. Twist.

“Oh, I’d be glad if you’d do him as well,” said Anna-Rose eagerly.  “I don’t think I could offer him a tip.  He has been so fatherly to us.  And imagine offering to tip one’s father.”

Mr. Twist laughed, and said she would get over this feeling in time.  He promised to do what was right, and to make it clear that the tips he bestowed were Twinkler tips; and presently he came back with messages of thanks from the tipped—­such polite ones from the stewardess that the twins were astonished—­and gave Anna-Rose a packet of very dirty-looking slices of green paper, which were dollar bills, he said, besides a variety of strange coins which he spread out on a ledge and explained to her.

“The exchange was favourable to you to-day,” said Mr. Twist, counting out the money.

“How nice of it,” said Anna-Rose politely.  “Did you keep your eye on its variations?” she added a little loudly, with a view to rousing respect in Anna-Felicitas who was lounging against a seat and showing a total absence of every kind of appropriate emotion.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Twist after a slight pause.  “I kept both my eyes on all of them.”

Mr. Twist had, it appeared, presented the steward and stewardess each with a dollar on behalf of the Misses Twinkler, but because the exchange was so favourable this had made no difference to the £5 notes.  Reducing each £5 note into German marks, which was the way the Twinklers, in spite of a year in England, still dealt in their heads with money before they could get a clear idea of it, there would have been two hundred marks; and as it took, roughly, four marks to make a dollar, the two hundred marks would have to be divided by four; which, leaving aside that extra complication of variations in the exchange, and regarding the exchange for a moment and for purposes of simplification as keeping quiet for a bit and resting, should produce, also roughly, said Anna-Rose a little out of breath as she got to the end of her calculation, fifty dollars.

“Correct,” said Mr. Twist, who had listened with respectful attention.  “Here they are.”

“I said roughly,” said Anna-Rose.  “It can’t be exactly fifty dollars.  The tips anyhow would alter that.”

“Yes, but you forget the exchange.”

Anna-Rose was silent.  She didn’t want to go into that before Anna-Felicitas.  Of the two, she was supposed to be the least bad at sums.  Their mother had put it that way, refusing to say, as Anna-Rose industriously tried to trap her into saying, that she was the better of the two.  But even so, the difference entitled her to authority on the subject with Anna-Felicitas, and by dint of doing all her calculations roughly, as she was careful to describe her method, she allowed room for withdrawal and escape where otherwise the inflexibility of figures might have caught her tight and held her down while Anna-Felicitas looked on and was unable to respect her.

Evidently the exchange was something beneficent.  She decided to rejoice in it in silence, accept whatever it did, and refrain from asking questions.

“So I did.  Of course.  The exchange,” she said, after a little.

She gathered up the dollar bills and began packing them into her bag.  They wouldn’t all go in, and she had to put the rest into her pocket, for which also there were too many; but she refused Anna-Felicitas’s offer to put some of them in hers on the ground that sooner or later she would be sure to forget they weren’t her handkerchief and would blow her nose with them.

“Thank you very much for being so kind,” she said to Mr. Twist, as she stuffed her pocket full and tried by vigorous patting to get it to look inconspicuous.  “We’re never going to forget you, Anna-F. and me.  We’ll write to you often, and we’ll come and see you as often as you like.”

“Yes,” said Anna-Felicitas dreamily, as she watched the shore of Long Island sliding past.  “Of course you’ve got your relations, but relations soon pall, and you may be quite glad after a while of a little fresh blood.”

Mr. Twist thought this very likely, and agreed with several other things Anna-Felicitas, generalizing from Uncle Arthur, said about relations, again with that air of addressing nobody specially and meaning nothing in particular, while Anna-Rose wrestled with the obesity of her pocket.

“Whether you come to see me or not,” said Mr. Twist, whose misgivings as to the effect of the Twinklers on his mother grew rather than subsided, “I shall certainly come to see you.”

“Perhaps Mr. Sack won’t allow followers,” said Anna-Felicitas, her eyes far away.  “Uncle Arthur didn’t.  He wouldn’t let the maids have any, so they had to go out and do the following themselves.  We had a follower once, didn’t we, Anna-R.?” she continued her voice pensive and reminiscent.  “He was a friend of Uncle Arthur’s.  Quite old.  At least thirty or forty.  I shouldn’t have thought he could follow.  But he did.  And he used to come home to tea with Uncle Arthur and produce boxes of chocolate for us out of his pockets when Uncle Arthur wasn’t looking.  We ate them and felt perfectly well disposed toward him till one day he tried to kiss one of us—­I forget which.  And that, combined with the chocolates, revealed him in his true colours as a follower, and we told him they weren’t allowed in that house and urged him to go to some place where they were, or he would certainly be overtaken by Uncle Arthur’s vengeance, and we said how surprised we were, because he was so old and we didn’t know followers were as old as that ever.”

“It seemed a very shady thing,” said Anna-Rose, having subdued the swollenness of her pocket, “to eat his chocolates and then not want to kiss him, but we don’t hold with kissing, Anna-F. and me.  Still, we were full of his chocolates; there was no getting away from that.  So we talked it over after he had gone, and decided that next day when he came we’d tell him he might kiss one of us if he still wanted to, and we drew lots which it was to be, and it was me, and I filled myself to the brim with chocolates so as to feel grateful enough to bear it, but he didn’t come.”

“No,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “He didn’t come again for a long while, and when he did there was no follow left in him.  Quite the contrary.”

Mr. Twist listened with the more interest to this story because it was the first time Anna-Felicitas had talked since he knew her.  He was used to the inspiriting and voluble conversation of Anna-Rose who had looked upon him as her best friend since the day he had wiped up her tears; but Anna-Felicitas had been too unwell to talk.  She had uttered languid and brief observations from time to time with her eyes shut and her head lolling loosely on her neck, but this was the first time she had been, as it were, an ordinary human being, standing upright on her feet, walking about, looking intelligently if pensively at the scenery, and in a condition of affable readiness, it appeared, to converse.

Mr. Twist was a born mother.  The more trouble he was given the more attached he became.  He had rolled Anna-Felicitas up in rugs so often that to be not going to roll her up any more was depressing to him.  He was beginning to perceive this motherliness in him himself, and he gazed through his spectacles at Anna-Felicitas while she sketched the rise and fall of the follower, and wondered with an almost painful solicitude what her fate would be in the hands of the Clouston Sacks.

Equally he wondered as to the other one’s fate; for he could not think of one Twinkler without thinking of the other.  They were inextricably mixed together in the impression they had produced on him, and they dwelt together in his thoughts as one person called, generally, Twinklers.  He stood gazing at them, his motherly instincts uppermost, his hearty yearning over them now that the hour of parting was so near and his carefully tended chickens were going to be torn from beneath his wing.  Mr. Twist was domestic.  He was affectionate.  He would have loved, though he had never known it, the sensation of pattering feet about his house, and small hands clinging to the apron he would never wear.  And it was entirely characteristic of him that his invention, the invention that brought him his fortune, should have had to do with a teapot.

But if his heart was uneasy within him at the prospect of parting from his charges their hearts were equally uneasy, though not in the same way.  The very name of Clouston K. Sack was repugnant to Anna-Rose; and Anna-Felicitas, less quick at disliking, turned it over cautiously in her mind as one who turns over an unknown and distasteful object with the nose of his umbrella.  Even she couldn’t quite believe that any good thing could come out of a name like that, especially when it had got into their lives through Uncle Arthur.  Mr. Twist had never heard of the Clouston Sacks, which made Anna-Rose still more distrustful.  She wasn’t in the least encouraged when he explained the bigness of America and that nobody in it ever knew everybody—­she just said that everybody had heard of Mr. Roosevelt, and her heart was too doubtful within her even to mind being told, as he did immediately tell her within ear-shot of Anna-Felicitas, that her reply was unreasonable.

Just at the end, as they were all three straining their eyes, no one with more anxiety than Mr. Twist, to try and guess which of the crowd on the landing-stage were the Clouston Sacks, they passed on their other side the Vaterland, the great interned German liner at its moorings, and the young man who had previously been so very familiar, as Anna-Rose said, but who was only, Mr. Twist explained, being American, came hurrying boldly up.

“You mustn’t miss this,” he said to Anna-Felicitas, actually seizing her by the arm.  “Here’s something that’ll make you feel home-like right away.”

And he led her off, and would have dragged her off but for Anna-Felicitas’s perfect non-resistance.

“He is being familiar,” said Anna-Rose to Mr. Twist, turning very red and following quickly after him.  “That’s not just being American.  Everybody decent knows that if there’s any laying hold of people’s arms to be done one begins with the eldest sister.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t realize that you are the elder,” said Mr. Twist.  “Strangers judge, roughly, by size.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble with her,” said Anna-Rose, not heeding his consolations.  “It isn’t a sinecure, I assure you, being left sole guardian and protector of somebody as pretty as all that.  And the worst of it is she’s going on getting prettier.  She hasn’t nearly come to the end of what she can do in that direction.  I see it growing on her.  Every Sunday she’s inches prettier than she was the Sunday before.  And wherever I take her to live, and however out of the way it is, I’m sure the path to our front door is going to be black with suitors.”

This dreadful picture so much perturbed her, and she looked up at Mr. Twist with such worried eyes, that he couldn’t refrain from patting her on her shoulder.

“There, there,” said Mr. Twist, and he begged her to be sure to let him know directly she was in the least difficulty, or even perplexity,—­“about the suitors, for instance, or anything else.  You must let me be of some use in the world, you know,” he said.

“But we shouldn’t like it at all if we thought you were practising being useful on us,” said Anna-Rose “It’s wholly foreign to our natures to enjoy being the objects of anybody’s philanthropy.”

“Now I just wonder where you get all your long words from,” said Mr. Twist soothingly; and Anna-Rose laughed, and there was only one dimple in the Twinkler family and Anna-Rose had got it.

“What do you want to get looking at that for?” she asked Anna-Felicitas, when she had edged through the crowd staring at the Vaterland, and got to where Anna-Felicitas stood listening abstractedly to the fireworks of American slang the young man was treating her to,—­that terse, surprising, swift hitting-of-the-nail-on-the-head form of speech which she was hearing in such abundance for the first time.

The American passengers appeared one and all to be rejoicing over the impotence of the great ship.  Every one of them seemed to be violently pro-Ally, derisively conjecturing the feelings of the Vaterland as every day under her very nose British ships arrived and departed and presently arrived again,—­the same ships she had seen depart coming back unharmed, unhindered by her country’s submarines.  Only the two German ladies, once more ignoring their American allegiance, looked angry.  It was incredible to them, simply unfassbar as they said in their thoughts, that any nation should dare inconvenience Germans, should dare lay a finger, even the merest friendliest detaining one, on anything belonging to the mighty, the inviolable Empire.  Well, these Americans, these dollar-grubbing Yankees, would soon get taught a sharp, deserved lesson—­but at this point they suddenly remembered they were Americans themselves, and pulled up their thoughts violently, as it were, on their haunches.

They turned, however, bitterly to the Twinkler girl as she pushed her way through to her sister,—­those renegade Junkers, those contemptible little apostates—­and asked her, after hearing her question to Anna-Felicitas, with an extraordinary breaking out of pent-up emotion where she, then, supposed she would have been at that moment if it hadn’t been for Germany.

“Not here I think,” said Anna-Rose, instantly and fatally ready as she always was to answer back and attempt what she called reasoned conversation.  “There wouldn’t have been a war, so of course I wouldn’t have been here.”

“Why, you wouldn’t so much as have been born without Germany,” said the lady whose hair came off, with difficulty controlling a desire to shake this insolent and perverted Junker who could repeat the infamous English lie as to who began the war.  “You owe your very existence to Germany.  You should be giving thanks to her on your knees for her gift to you of life, instead of jeering at this representative—­” she flung a finger out toward the Vaterland—­“this patient and dignified-in -temporary-misfortune representative, of her power.”

“I wasn’t jeering,” said Anna-Rose, defending herself and clutching at Anna-Felicitas’s sleeve to pull her away.

“You wouldn’t have had a father at all but for Germany,” said the other lady, the one whose hair grew.

“And perhaps you will tell me,” said the first one, “where you would have been then.”

“I don’t believe,” said Anna-Rose, her nose in the air, “I don’t believe I’d have ever been at a loss for a father.”

The ladies, left speechless a moment by the arrogance as well as several other things about this answer gave Anna-Rose an opportunity for further reasoning with them, which she was unable to resist.  “There are lots of fathers,” she said, “in England, who would I’m sure have been delighted to take me on if Germany had failed me.”

“England!”

“Take you on!”

“An English father for you?  For a subject of the King of Prussia?”

“I—­I’m afraid I—­I’m going to be sick,” gasped Anna-Felicitas suddenly.

“You’re never going to be sick in this bit of bathwater, Miss Twinkler?” exclaimed the young man, with the instant ungrudging admiration of one who is confronted by real talent.  “My, what a gift!”

Anna-Rose darted at Anna-Felicitas’s drooping head, that which she had been going to say back to the German ladies dissolving on her tongue.  “Oh no—­no—­” she wailed.  “Oh no—­not in your best hat, Columbus darling—­you can’t—­it’s not done—­and your hat’ll shake off into the water, and then there’ll only be one between us and we shall never be able to go out paying calls and things at the same time—­come away and sit down—­Mr. Twist—­Mr. Twist—­oh, please come—­”

Anna-Felicitas allowed herself to be led away, just in time as she murmured, and sat down on the nearest seat and shut her eyes.  She was thankful Anna-Rose’s attention had been diverted to her so instantly, for it would have been very difficult to be sick with the ship as quiet as one’s own bedroom.  Nothing short of the engine-room could have made her sick now.  She sat keeping her eyes shut and Anna-Rose’s attention riveted, wondering what she would do when there was no ship and Anna-Rose was on the verge of hasty and unfortunate argument.  Would she have to learn to faint?  But that would terrify poor Christopher so dreadfully.

Anna-Felicitas pondered, her eyes shut, on this situation.  Up to now in her life she had always found that situations solved themselves.  Given time.  And sometimes a little assistance.  So, no doubt, would this one.  Anna-Rose would ripen and mellow.  The German ladies would depart hence and be no more seen; and it was unlikely she and Anna-Rose would meet at such close quarters as a ship’s cabin any persons so peculiarly and unusually afflicting again.  All situations solved themselves; or, if they showed signs of not going to, one adopted the gentle methods that helped them to get solved.  Early in life she had discovered that objects which cannot be removed or climbed over can be walked round.  A little deviousness, and the thing was done.  She herself had in the most masterly manner when she was four escaped church-going for several years by a simple method, that seemed to her looking back very like an inspiration, of getting round it.  She had never objected to going, had never put into words the powerful if vague dislike with which it filled her when Sunday after Sunday she had to go and dangle her legs helplessly for two hours from the chair she was put on in the enclosed pew reserved for the hohe gräfliche Herrschaften from the Slosh.

Her father, a strict observer of the correct and a pious believer in God for other people, attended Divine Service as regularly as he wound the clocks and paid the accounts.  He repräsentierte, as the German phrase went; and his wife and children were expected to repräsentieren too.  Which they did uncomplainingly; for when one has to do with determined husbands and fathers it is quickest not to complain.  But the pins and needles that patient child endured, Anna-Felicitas remembered, looking back through the years at the bunched-up figure on the chair as at a stranger, were something awful.  The edge of the chair just caught her legs in the pins and needles place.  If she had been a little bigger or a little smaller it wouldn’t have happened; as it was, St. Paul wrestling with beasts at Ephesus wasn’t more heroic than Anna-Felicitas perceived that distant child to have been, silently Sunday after Sunday bearing her legs.  Then one Sunday something snapped inside her, and she heard her own voice floating out into the void above the heads of the mumbling worshippers, and it said with a terrible distinctness in a sort of monotonous wail:  “I only had a cold potato for breakfast,”—­and a second time, in the breathless suspension of mumbling that followed upon this:  “I only had a cold potato for breakfast,”—­and a third time she opened her mouth to repeat the outrageous statement, regardless of her mother’s startled hand laid on her arm, and of Anna-Rose’s petrified stare, and of the lifted faces of the congregation, and of the bent, scandalized brows of the pastor,—­impelled by something that possessed her, unable to do anything but obey it; but her father, a man of deeds, rose up in his place, took her in his arms, and carried her down the stairs and out of the church.  And the minute she found herself really rescued, and out where the sun and wind, her well-known friends, were larking about among the tombstones, she laid her cheek as affectionately against her father’s head as if she were a daughter to be proud of, and would have purred if she had had had a purr as loudly as the most satisfied and virtuous of cats.

“Mein Kind,” said her father, standing her up on a convenient tomb so that her eyes were level with his, “is it then true about the cold potato?”

“No,” said Anna-Felicitas patting his face, pleased at what her legs were feeling like again.

“Mein Kind,” said her father, “do you not know it is wrong to lie?”

“No,” said Anna-Felicitas placidly, the heavenly blue of her eyes, gazing straight into his, exactly like the mild sky above the trees.

“No?” echoed her father, staring at her.  “But, Kind, you know what a lie is?”

“No,” said Anna-Felicitas, gazing at him tenderly in her satisfaction at being restored to a decent pair of legs; and as he still stood staring at her she put her hands one on each of his cheeks and squeezed his face together and murmured, “Oh, I do love you.”