“When will Meister Peter come home?”

“In an hour,” replied Maria.  “Sit down, Doctor.”

“Another time.  It will keep me too long to wait for your husband.  After all, you can come with me even without his consent.”

“Certainly; but we are expecting visitors.”

“Yes.  If I find time, I shall come too.  The gentlemen can do without me, but you are necessary to the sick person to whom I wish to take you.”

“I have no idea of whom you are speaking.”

“Haven’t you?  Then once more, it is of some one who is suffering, and that will be enough for you at first.”

“And you think I could—­”

“You can do far more than you know.  Barbara is attending to affairs in the kitchen, and now I tell you again:  You must help a sufferer.”

“But, Doctor—­”

“I must beg you to hurry, for my time is limited.  Do you wish to make yourself useful; yes or no?” The door of the dining-room had remained open.  Maria again glanced at the table, and all the pleasures she had anticipated this evening passed through her mind.  But as the doctor was preparing to go, she stopped him, saying: 

“I will come.”

The manners of this blunt, but unselfish and clever man were familiar to Maria who, without waiting for a reply, brought her shawl, and led the way downstairs.  As they passed by the kitchen, Bontius called to Barbara: 

“Tell Meister Peter, I have taken his wife to see Fraulein Van Hoogstraten in Nobelstrasse.”

Maria could scarcely keep up with the doctor’s rapid strides and had some difficulty in understanding him, as in broken sentences he told her that all the Glipper friends of the Hoogstraten family had left the city, the old Fraulein was dead, the servants had run away from fear of the plague, which had no existence, and Henrica was now deserted.  She had been very ill with a severe fever, but was much better during the past few days.  “Misfortune has taken up its abode in the Glipper nest,” he added.  “The scythe-man did the old lady a favor when he took her.  The French maid, a feeble nonentity, held out bravely, but after watching a few nights broke down entirely and was to have been carried to St. Catharine’s hospital, but the Italian steward, who is not a bad fellow, objected and had her taken to a Catholic laundress.  He has followed to nurse her.  No one is left in the deserted house to attend to the young lady, except Sister Gonzaga, a good little nun, one of the three who were allowed to remain in the old convent near you, but early this morning, to cap the climax of misfortune, the kind old woman scalded her fingers while heating a bath.  The Catholic priest has faithfully remained at his post, but what can we men do in nursing the sick girl!  You doubtless now suspect why I brought you with me.  You ought not and cannot become the stranger’s nurse permanently; but if the young lady is not to sink after all, she must now have some face about her which she can love, and God has blessed you with one.  Look at the sick girl, talk with her, and if you are what I believe you—­but here we are.”