Hilda returned to her father's shop and was busy there until nine o'clock. Then Sophie Liebers came and they went into the Avenue for a walk. They pushed their way through and with the throngs up into Tompkins Square -- the center of one of the several vast districts, little known because little written about, that contain the real New York and the real New Yorkers. In the Square several thousand young people were promenading, many of the girls walking in pairs, almost all the young men paired off, each with a young woman. It was warm, and the stars beamed down upon the hearts of young lovers, blotting out for them electric lights and surrounding crowds. It caused no

   "There's Otto Heilig dogging us," said Hilda to Sophie, as they walked up and down. "Do you wonder I hate him?" They talked in American, as did all the young people, except with those of their elders who could speak only German.

   Sophie was silent. If Hilda had been noting her face she would have seen a look of satisfaction.

   "I can't bear him," went on Hilda. "No girl could. He's so stupid and -- and common!" Never before had she used that last word in such a sense. Mr. Feuerstein had begun to educate her.

   Sophie's unobserved look changed to resentment. "Of course he's not equal to Mr. Feuerstein," she said. "But he's a very nice fellow -- at least for an ordinary girl." Sophie's father was an upholsterer, and not a good one. He owned no tenements -- was barely able to pay the rent for a small corner of one. Thus her sole dower was her pretty face and her cunning. She had an industrious, scheming, not overscrupulous brain and -- her hopes and plans. Nor had she time to waste. For she was nearer twenty-three than twenty-two, at the outer edge of the marriageable age of Avenue A, which believes in an early start at what it regards as the main business of life -- the family.

   "You surely couldn't marry such a man as Otto!" said Hilda absently. Her eyes were searching the crowd, near and far.

   Sophie laughed. "Beggars can't be choosers," she answered. "I think he's all

   Just then Hilda caught sight of Mr. Feuerstein -- the godlike head, the glorious hair, the graceful hat. Her manner changed -- her eyes brightened, her cheeks reddened, and she talked fast and laughed a great deal. As they passed near him she laughed loudly and called out to Sophie as if she were not at her elbow -- she feared he would not see. Mr. Feuerstein turned his picturesque head, slowly lifted his hat and joined them. At once Hilda became silent, listening with rapt attention to the commonplaces he delivered in sonorous, oracular tones.

   As he deigned to talk only to Hilda, who was walking between Sophie and him, Sophie was free to gaze round. She spied Otto Heilig drooping dejectedly along. She adroitly steered her party so that it crossed his path. He looked up to find

   Then she and Mr. Feuerstein went on, and Sophie drew the reluctant Otto in behind them. She gradually slackened her pace, so that she and Heilig dropped back until several couples separated them from Hilda and Mr. Feuerstein. A few minutes and Hilda and Mr. Feuerstein were seated on a bench in the deep shadow of a tree, Sophie and Heilig walking slowly to and fro a short distance away.

   Heilig was miserable with despondent jealousy. He longed to inquire about this remarkable-looking new friend of Hilda's. For Mr. Feuerstein seemed to be of

   Heilig laughed unnaturally. He did not feel like laughing, but wished to show his gratitude to Sophie for this shrewd blow at his enemy. "He's rigged out like a lunatic, isn't he?" Otto was thinking of the long hair, the low-rolling shirt collar and the velvet collar on his coat, -- light gray, to match his hat and suit.

   "I don't see what Hilda finds in him," continued Sophie. "It makes me laugh to

   Heilig did not answer this, nor did he heed the talk on love and marriage which the over-eager Sophie proceeded to give. And it was talk worth listening to, as it presented love and marriage in the interesting, romantic-sensible Avenue A light. Otto was staring gloomily at the shadow of the tree. He would have been gloomier could he have witnessed the scene to which the unmoral old elm was lending its impartial shade.

   Mr. Feuerstein was holding Hilda's hand while he looked soulfully down into

   "Yes, my adorable little princess," he rolled out, in the tones which wove a spell over Hilda. "I adore you. How strange

   Hilda pressed his clasping hand and her heart fluttered. But she was as silent and shy as Heilig with her. What words had she fit to express response to these exalted emotions? "I -- I feel it," she said timidly. "But I can't say it to you. You must think me very foolish."

   "No -- you need not speak. I know what you would say. Our hearts speak each to the other without words, my beautiful jewel. And what do you think your parents will say?"

   "I -- I don't know," stammered Hilda.

   "They are so set on my marrying" -- she glanced toward Otto -- how ordinary he looked! -- "marrying another -- a merchant like my father. They think only of what is practical. I'm so afraid they won't understand -- us."

   Feuerstein sighed -- the darkness prevented her from seeing that he was also frowning with impatience and irritation.

   "But it must be settled at once, my heart's bride," he said gently. "Secrecy, deception are horrible to me. And I am mad to claim you as my own. I could not take you without their consent -- that would be unworthy. No, I could not grieve their honest hearts!"

   Hilda was much disturbed. She was eminently practical herself, aside from her fondness for romance, which Mr. Feuerstein was developing in a way so unnatural in her surroundings, so foreign to her education; and she could see just how her father would look upon her lover. She feared he would vent plain speech that would cut Mr. Feuerstein's sensitive soul and embattle his dignity and pride against his love. "I'll speak to them as soon as I can," she said.

   "Then you will speak to them to-morrow or next day, my treasure, and I shall see you on Sunday afternoon."

   "No -- not Sunday afternoon. I must stay at home -- father has ordered it."

   "Disappointment -- deception -- postponement!" Feuerstein struck his hand upon his brow and sighed tragically.

   "Oh, my little Erebus-haired angel, how you do test my love!"

   Hilda was almost in tears -- it was all intensely real to her. She felt that he was superfine, that he suffered more than ordinary folk, like herself and her people. "I'll do the best I can," she pleaded.

   "It would be best for you to introduce them to me at once and let me speak."

   "No -- no," she protested earnestly, terror in her voice and her hand trembling in his. "That would spoil everything. You wouldn't understand them, or they you. I'll speak -- and see you Monday night."

   "Let it be so," he conceded. "But I must depart. I am studying a new rôle." He had an engagement to take supper with several of his intimates at the Irving Place café, where he could throw aside the heaviest parts of his pose and give way to his appetite for beer and Schweizerkäse sandwiches. "How happy we shall be!" he murmured tenderly, kissing her cheek and thinking how hard it was to be practical and keep remote benefits in mind when she was so beautiful and so tempting and so trustful. He said aloud: "I am impatient, soul's delight! Is it strange?" And he bowed like a stage courtier to a stage queen and left her.

   She joined Sophie and Heilig and walked along in silence, Sophie between Otto and her. He caught glimpses of her face, and it made his heart ache and his courage faint to see the love-light in her eyes -- and she as far away from him as

   Sophie felt that she had done a fair evening's work -- not progress, but progress in sight. "At least," she reflected, "he's seeing that he isn't in it with Hilda and never can be. I must hurry her on and get her married to that fool. A pair of fools!"

   Heilig found his mother waiting up for him. As she saw his expression, anxiety left her face, but cast a deeper shadow over her heart. She felt his sorrow as keenly as he -- she who would have laid down her life for him gladly.

   "Don't lose heart, my big boy," she said, patting him on the shoulder as he bent to kiss her.

   At this he dropped down beside her and hid his face in her lap and cried like the

   Her tears fell on the back of his head. Her boy -- who had gone so bravely to work when the father was killed at his machine, leaving them penniless; her boy -- who had laughed and sung and whistled and diffused hope and courage and made her feel that the burden was not a burden but a joy for his strong, young shoulders.

   "Courage, beloved!" she said. "Hilda is a good girl. All will yet be well." And she felt it -- God would not be God if He could let this heart of gold be crushed to powder.