Semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on before she caught me alone, out in a dark passageway.  Then she began as she always did when excited, with:  “Clara, now Clara, you know I told my vater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvays say—­not’ing.  Dat day I come tell you vat his work vas, I vent home und I say, ‘Vater Waacker, I told my fraeulein you made your livin’ in de tombstone yard,’ und he say, quvick like, ’Vell,’—­you know my vater no speak ver goot English” (Semantha’s own English was weakening fast),—­“’vell, I s’pose she make some big fool laugh, den, like everybodies, eh?’ Und I say, ’No, she don’t laugh! de lips curdle a little’” (curdle was Semantha’s own word for tremble or quiver.  If she shivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), “’but she don’t laugh, und she say, “It vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, ’cause it must be satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody’s tombstone."’”

“Oh, Semantha!” I cried, “why did you tell him that?”

“But vy not?” asked the girl, innocently.  “Und he look at me hard, und his mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, pig laughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, ’Mein Gott! mein Gott! satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody’s tombstones—­somebody’s.  Und she don’t laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh?  Vell, vell! dat fraeulein she tinks sometings!  Say, Semantha, don’t it dat you like a Kriss-Krihgle present to make to her, eh?’ Und I say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoes for all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left.  Und he shlap me my back, une! say, ‘Never mindt, I’ll make him,’ und so he did, und here it is,” thrusting some small object into my hand.  “Und if you laugh, fraeulein, I tink I die, ’cause it is so mean und little.”

Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark with “it” in my hand.  Poor Semantha! “it” lies here now, after all these years; but where are you, Semantha?  Are you still dragging heavily through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are hungry never more, but filled with love divine?

“It” is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly carved to imitate a tiny Bible.  A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my possession, a far older one, which cost a human life.

Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again.  For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing.  Then she became curiously absent-minded.  She would stop sometimes in the midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate surroundings.  Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be making.  Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the theatre door with her.  The night was bad, too, but I noticed that she carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his pocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her.