this humble and yet, in so far as his particular home was concerned, comfortable world.  I have no space here for more than the barest outline.  I have already indicated his views, most emphatically expressed and forecasted.  He fulfilled them all to the letter, up to the day of his death.  In so far as I could make out, he made about as satisfactory a husband and father and citizen as I have ever seen.  He did it deliberately, in cold reason, and yet with a warmth and flare which puzzled me all the more since it was based on reason and forethought.  I misdoubted.  I was not quite willing to believe that it would work out, and yet if ever a home was delightful, with a charming and genuinely “happy” atmosphere, it was Peter’s.

“Here she is,” he observed the day he married her, “me frau—­Zuleika.  Isn’t she a peach?  Ever see any nicer hair than that?  And these here, now, pink cheeks?  What?  Look at ’em!  And her little Dutchy nose!  Isn’t it cute?  Oh, Dutchy!  And right here in me vest pocket is the golden band wherewith I am to be chained to the floor, the domestic hearth.  And right there on her finger is my badge of prospective serfdom.”  Then, in a loud aside to me, “In six months I’ll be beating her.  Come now, Zuleika.  We have to go through with this.  You have to swear to be my slave.”

And so they were married.

And in the home afterward he was as busy and helpful and noisy as any man about the house could ever hope to be.  He was always fussing about after hours “putting up” something or arranging his collections or helping Zuleika wash and dry the dishes, or showing her how to cook something if she didn’t know how.  He was running to the store or bringing home things from the downtown market.  Months before the first child was born he was declaring most shamelessly, “In a few months now, Dreiser, Zuleika and I are going to have our first calf.  The bones roll for a boy, but you never can tell.  I’m offering up prayers and oblations—­both of us are.  I make Zuleika pray every night.  And say, when it comes, no spoiling-the-kid stuff.  No bawling or rocking it to sleep nights permitted.  Here’s one kid that’s going to be raised right.  I’ve worked out all the rules.  No trashy baby-foods.  Good old specially brewed Culmbacher for the mother, and the kid afterwards if it wants it.  This is one family in which law and order are going to prevail—­good old ‘dichtig, wichtig’ law and order.”

I used to chuckle the while I verbally denounced him for his coarse, plebeian point of view and tastes.

In a little while the child came, and to his immense satisfaction it was a boy.  I never saw a man “carry on” so, make over it, take such a whole-souled interest in all those little things which supposedly made for its health and well-being.  For the first few weeks he still talked of not having it petted or spoiled, but at the same time he was surely and swiftly changing, and by the end of that time had