Sydney found Max lying in a lumberman’s bunk, partially restored and able to give greeting with both hand and word.

“The jig’s up, you runaway; you’ve got to come home with me.” Sydney was still panting from his long run.

Max shook his head wearily, but not before his eyes had flashed tell-tale joy at the word “home.” “I can’t, Sydney. I must not bring shame to my friends, Mrs. Schmitz, you—”

“Shame, nothing! We’re only ashamed that you ran away.”

“But Walter Buckman—”

“Be hanged! The bunch he runs with would have troubles of their own if they were investigated. Jim Barney—rotten bad, he was—he was Walter’s particular pal last year; and Walter’s stand for high morals is too thin. He can’t put it over. Come on.”

“But Mrs. Schmitz?”

“She says she’ll be everlastingly ashamed of you if you don’t come home.”

Max had not dreamed he was doing less than right by her in taking himself permanently out of her life. Sydney’s report of her attitude put a new light on the matter. It was enough. He would go back, would meet the issue; in Sydney’s parlance, take what was coming.

There was no boat till morning; and by that time, he was able with the help of his friend to make the trip and arrive at the nursery home where Mrs. Schmitz, apprised by Sydney’s telephone message, had Dr. Carter waiting. His examination resulted in a mild prescription, mostly rest; and Mrs. Schmitz took charge.

“You get to bed mit you, right away quick—you, Max. A boy when he runs away gets punished mit the bed.”

The twinkle in her eye and the mother-tone in her voice were very welcome to the overwrought boy who had lived, it seemed, years of misery since the hour he left the schoolhouse.

He was not really ill, though his exhaustion, following his protracted illness of the winter, was serious. But Mrs. Schmitz had no use for “mollygrups.” She petted, coaxed, scolded, and laughed at him in turn, and soon had him on his feet again, “so goot as efer.”

The “bunch,” instigated by Billy, did a beautiful thing on the trying morning of Max’s return to school. They stood together in one of the halls where, by appointment, Sydney brought Max—the “cream of the seniors,” “Sis” Jones declared in a hissing whisper as Walter passed.

When the two came the greeting was not noisy; just hearty handshakes, and silent messages from, sympathetic eyes, with quiet jokes and, “on the side,” promises of friendship.

When Max reached his desk he found a fat letter containing “welcome” notes from Billy, Bess, May Nell, and many others. By the light in his teacher’s eye when she spoke to him, Max knew he was still trusted; and he lifted his head with courage, and entered upon his task of “living down” any accusations Walter Buckman and his friends might make, a task that loomed very large to him.

Billy’s efforts, enlisted by Sydney in behalf of Ida Jones, had long before this borne fruit. May Nell’s own shining electric motor stood more than once in front of the house where Ida lived, impressing the family little less than when she was driven up in her mother’s great limousine. And Bess Carter, whether she walked, came by trolley, or was dropped from his motor car by Dr. Carter, radiated power and a bluff sort of queenliness all her own that was even more impressive than evidence of wealth.

The Pattons, with whom Ida lived, were not unkind to her. They received her as one of the family, including her in such privileges as they enjoyed, which were few enough. For there was a houseful of small children to be cared for on slender means, entailing hard work for both Ida and her employer, who was uneducated and not in sympathy with the girl’s intense devotion to school.

Yet when she saw the friends Ida had made, and that their visits were not merely formal, she looked with increased respect upon her little helper, and planned for her more leisure, to the end that Ida found herself in a new world, the world of music and refinement.

One of the homes opened to her was Billy’s. Mrs. Bennett and her daughter often asked the girl to dine, and in delicate ways assisted her, lending books, suggesting reading, and helping her with bits of sewing.

During one of these visits she met Mrs. Schmitz, who had been invited with her two protÉgÉs to hear the quartette sing; and unknown to herself Ida acquired a new and ardent friend in the bright German woman.

Mrs. Wright discovered that Ida could sing, not in a trained way but in a true, sweet voice “placed” by nature; and she asked her frequently to the house, giving her many valuable lessons.

These occasions were often on Friday afternoons, when she would stay to dinner and to the “quartette practice.” Then it fell to Sydney to take her home; and the friendship thus fostered was the best thing that could have happened to him; for he was compelled to talk, and soon learned to do it “the same as if she were a chap.”

One day he was alone with Mrs. Schmitz in the lily house. They had worked for some time in silence when she asked suddenly, “How old you think iss Miss Jones?”

“She said she was eighteen.”

A sigh that was almost a sob was her only reply, and she worked silently for some minutes, when she said abruptly, “Mine leetle Ida would be eighteen already.” She pronounced the name as if it were spelled Eda.

“How old was she when—when she—” Sydney could not make himself finish the sentence.

“Last time I saw her she was five. But if she live or if she iss dead I know not. Most times I think she iss dead. To think she lives makes me crazy almost, for I do not find her.”

“Are you still looking—hunting—”

“Always. All the time I have men paid to hunt. But they do not find—her. They say she iss dead.”

Sydney was troubled at her distress. She continued her work, but he saw tears falling on the plants she handled. He had never seen her cry before. Tears embarrassed him; and he pottered about awkwardly, waiting for her to speak, wondering if it would be more polite to “sneak” out of the lily house, or remain and give some sign of sympathy. As a compromise he turned his back and coughed apologetically, thoroughly uncomfortable.

Absorbed in her thoughts she forgot him and time—which was passing so slowly for him—till she needed his help in moving some fertilizer. When they were both at work again she spoke.

“I have never told you of mine family for it was too much sorrow to speak of them. It iss for that I like not to see girls. Some people think I am down on girls. Not so. To see them makes me think of mine leetle Ida. Miss Jones iss a nice girl. I look at her last efening at Mrs. Wright’s, look at her much; ant all night I think of her; I cannot sleep.”

“That’s too bad.” Sydney wished he could think of something less inane to say, but no words would come.

“It was the shipwreck—when we came to America, three of us, mine husband, leetle Ida, and mineself. All passengers they put in boats; first the women; in the other boats some of the men. I went down the shipside mit Ida on mine arm, but the sailors say,’No,’ ant take her from me to give me again when I am in the leetle boat. Then comes the captain’s call to put no more in that boat, ant a big wave takes us away, ant I mitout mine baby go on the sea.” She stopped and turned aside.

“Gee! That was rough!” If the words were not consoling the tone was, for Mrs. Schmitz reached out and gave Sydney a grateful pat.

“We came by another ship that took us on board. One other boat full of people they save by another ship that newspapers say went to California. Ant in that paper passengers say mine husband iss drowned in that third boat. No one sees mine leetle Ida.”

“Did you never hear any more?”

“Not from her. I came by New York. I advertise, I wait—wait. I am all alone; I speak leetle English. I think some days I am crazy. Then goes the money. I see I must make some more. I come then to California, ant there I hear that some of those people of the shipwreck have already gone to Washington, so I come too.”

“Was that long ago?”

“Thirteen years already. I know something about plants, so I get a job working here by a nurseryman, by name Walker. I do well. I make some new flowers for him that make him much money. He dies four years ago already, ant I buy this place from Mrs. Walker.”

“Gee! You didn’t save all that money from your wages, did you?”

She smiled. “No. I make one big—bluff some people call it; I call it trust in God. I pay the leetle I have ant give a mortgage for the rest.” She chuckled softly, ending with a sigh, the echo of the sorrow she had combated with all her forceful, cheery nature. “Mrs. Walker—she thought I’d never pay; but I have.”

“What? Not for all of it?”

“Yes. Since you came I got mine deed. Next thing iss to buy some new furniture that iss not all the time fighting mit the colors.”

Sydney looked at her with deeper respect. He knew the property was valuable. “I can’t see how—other nurserymen make money, but not so fast.”

She stepped nearer and laid her hand impressively on his. “Seedney, there iss a secret—love.”

He looked his wonder, his mystification.

“Listen. I tell you. Plant, tree, insect, animal—all are God’s. His life iss in all. He gifes all breath the same as man; that iss, life. Then all are brothers; nicht wahr? I think so; ant so I do. I love mine leetle plants same as if they could speak. I watch them close, every leetle thing I see. I talks mit them; for that they better grow. That iss how I can make new plants—what you say in English? create new colors, new roses. Those I send to Germany; for them mine friends pay much money.”

“Friends?”

“Yes. Already I make many friends mit the nurserymen. I do most business there because I write not the English goot, ant Germans like the flowers grown far away.”

“But I don’t understand about the love part of it.”

“Hard that iss to explain in English. It iss like this. When you know that God gifes life to all, when you think this all the time, sitting down, rising up, night ant day, then all anger leafes you. Also the fear. You kill nothing if you can help it, not even the snake. You love the birds ant they sing for you. Bees will not sting you, nor dogs bite you. All that iss nature turns to you mit love, ant from you gets help. If so you feel toward plants, you see things otherwise you could not see; and that makes you wise to breed, to make new plants to grow. I cannot tell you; it iss one secret everyone himself must discover. Max already sees it.”

“But if we don’t kill snakes and bad things, they will kill us.”

“Who says anything God makes iss bad? Let the snake alone ant he will run. He flies away as fast as man comes; into the wilderness he goes. No creature hurts things only when he gets afraid already. Even man iss goot if he iss not afraid.”

“But what about bad people? Grafters, murderers?”

“They are seek people, crazy mit the drink or mit injustice, or mebbe from the parents they get it. Most people are bad from fear. Fear that they will not have enough to eat, or mebbe their children. Suppose you have always plenty work and plenty money, and know it iss always to be so; will you steal?”

“I’d be a fool to.”

“But suppose you are not strong, you work hard, cannot do so well as the man next to you, ant have hungry leetle children; ant soon you get discharged. Chance to steal some money comes, ant your leetle children are hungry. What you do?”

“I—I’m afraid to think of it.”

“You see? We must not hate those people. We must love them, help them, so they steal no more.”

Sydney looked up quickly. “That’s what you did for Max; you trusted him first.”

“You have said it. Trust helps to success. You can make a man fail by telling him he will; you can also make a man succeed by telling him he will. After success comes plenty friends. Friends! That kind are like flies, much in the way.”

Sydney laughed, and just then the five o’clock whistle blew.

“Mine gracious! So late already. Come. We’ll have dinner soon ant then be ready for the musicale. Good iss Mrs. Wright to ask me. It iss living once more to be mit people who make the music. Mine father was forty years Herr Kapellmeister, ant he wrote much music.”

They went in. All through the dinner and while dressing Sydney pondered her life in the old country, wondering if, as Max believed, she really had played before vast audiences, perhaps before crowned heads. Not that crowned heads made any difference to democratic Sydney; but in Europe that is often made the test of highest excellence.

They found the Wright home lovely and fragrant as spring fields, banked with wild green things the boys had brought from the woods, and starred with dogwood blossoms and spirea.

The night was warm enough for open windows, and when the three from the nursery arrived many guests were present; and looking in from the outside the scene must have reminded Mrs. Schmitz of something in her past, for she stood still a moment on the porch, holding up her hand for silence.

“It iss beautiful! Ant see! Miss Jones—she looks lovely in the efening gown. Ah! She iss a goot girl! I know it!”

Ida was near a window, wearing the same frock she had worn at Bess’s party.

Mrs. Wright was unprepared for the magnificence of Mrs. Schmitz, when she swept down the stairway without her cloak. She wore a rich and becoming gown remodeled from one of her old ones, and a few rare jewels. The long train lent height to her massive body; and the lines of skirt and bodice gave her an elegance that was entirely lost in the squat effect of her ordinary severely tailored street suit.

Sydney looked at her again and again. That day in the lily house she had been wonderful; but tonight she was some one else he felt, and he was shy about speaking to her. But Max was not; he paid her extravagant compliments and with pride introduced her to his friends, and to Dr. and Mrs. Carter.

They belonged together, those two, Sydney thought; not because of any physical resemblance between the slender, aristocratic looking boy and the big woman, but because each possessed a spirit that compelled attention, that won all, that was the essence of good breeding, world wide.

There was no bitterness in Sydney’s attitude now; he was beginning to recognize the value of daily association with Max.

The musicale progressed much as musicales usually do; yet for two people it became the greatest occasion in the world.

Toward the close of the program Mrs. Wright persuaded Ida to sing, explaining to the audience the youth and inexperience of her “song bird.” Ida’s simple ballad, sung without affectation in her fresh voice, pleased them all and won an encore.

She stood again and sang without accompaniment a plaintive German song, a sweet, tender tune that lingered even after she took her seat.

With the first note Mrs. Schmitz bent forward, lips parted, her wide eyes fixed on the girl. Sydney, watching Ida, saw her look their way; saw her countenance change, though she continued steadily to the end.

But when he looked again at Mrs. Schmitz he knew that it was her face, white as the dogwood blossom hanging above her, not his, that arrested the singer’s eye.

“Seedney!” the German said quietly as soon as the song ended, “you bring Miss Jones to me—in the hall—no, on the porch, I must speak to her. It iss of great importance. Hurry!”

Still holding herself to quietness she rose and passed through the door to the porch.