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morning's paper," said Huntford. "You may read it for yourself."

The old man fairly snatched the paper out of Huntford's hands. He gave no word of thanks or acknowledgment, but banged the door in his visitor's face. Huntford stood for a while on the landing. He heard the inmate of the room moving tumultuously about; he heard him talking excitedly to himself in German; then by and by he himself went down-stairs to his own studio.

About fifteen minutes later he heard Herr Vollmer's door flung violently open, and then his footsteps running furiously down the stairs. Huntford came to his own studio door and called after him, but the old man paid no heed to the voice, but ran on down the stairs and out into the street without using any of the precaution he had observed of late to see that no one was following him. Then Huntford closed his door and sat down to think about it all.

About an hour later he heard footsteps running as violently up the stairs. He thought at first that it might be Herr Vollmer returning, but a moment afterwards he heard some one beating upon the heraldic artist's door. He went to his own door and looked up the stairs. It was the little German with the black, waxed mustache whom he had seen twice before. "If you're looking for Herr Vollmer." Huntford said, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "he's been gone a long time."

The little man cried out violently in German, and thereupon, turning, he raced down the stairs with such precipitation that Huntford expected to see him fall headlong. He passed Huntford without speech or acknowledgment of any kind and, rushing down the lower flight of steps, disappeared out into the street.

That evening Huntford went around to the little house on Thirty-fifth Street and rang at the door. It was opened by the well-known man in the plain dress coat. He did not smile at Huntford this time, but informed him very civilly that the young lady had gone away with her uncle. No; he could not say where they had gone. No; she had left New York for good, and did not expect ever to return again. Huntford could see through the

open door that the house was being dismantled, and he could hear the distant noise of hammering.

For a few weeks-for a month or more perhaps his tragedy hung like a cloud above his head. Then by little and little the sun began to shine forth again, and by and by his habits had resumed their normal course. His old interest in his growing success became reawakened; the world was bright once more, and he took joy in the congratulations of his friends. upon his first splendid success.

Old Eleazar Walton, president of one of the great banks of the day, was a connection of Huntford's. Mrs. Walton was first cousin to Huntford's mother, and Huntford always called her “Cousin Henrietta." She was very kind to Huntford when he first came to New York; she received him familiarly, called him "dear Jack," and often asked him to Sunday dinner.

Mrs. Walton had been socially ambitious, and her ambitions had been fully realized. Her husband, through good investments in the later seventies, when the condition of panic of the earlier years of the decade were passing away and values were increasing, had been very fortunate, and he was now recognized as one of the multimillionaires of New York. The Waltons lived in a gloomy brownstone house on Fifth Avenue, and they were now within the very heart of social life. Mrs. Walton thought highly of her position.

Huntford liked her and was amused at her simple-minded snobbery.

"My dear Jack," she would say, "I wish you were something else than an artist. Everybody's talking about your picture-the painting of the old Puritan and his daughter, you know--and I would so like to introduce you into real society, but-" and she left the rest of her speech unfinished. Huntford laughed.

"Never mind, Cousin Henrietta," he said. "I'm not ambitious for the unattainable." And so he was asked to their family Sunday dinners and now and then to a week-day dinner.

This was all very well, and Huntford, who had made a success of his own and who knew a number of very nice people, could afford to treat lightly the fact that

he was not one belonging to the inner life of the exclusive set. But in the spring Evelina Walton returned from Europe-beautiful, polished, perfectly mannered, perfectly dressed, and very much a woman of the world. Then Huntford felt indeed the loss of not being admitted into that inner circle where she belonged, for with her advent came the real love of his life-not a violent and consuming passion like that which he had felt for poor Fräulein Victoria, but the deep, the profound, the sincere yet quiet love of a man for the woman who is the choice not only of his heart but of his intelli

gence.

Then it was that Huntford did indeed regret that he stood upon the outside of that charmed circle. For he knew that Evelina Walton was destined for marriage with great wealth, and he recognized what it was to be nothing but an artist-even though he were a successful artist.

Meantime, as his love waxed warmer and warmer, Cousin Henrietta's cordiality grew proportionately colder and colder. At last she did not even ask him to those Sunday dinners, and he saw less and less of the girl he loved.

One evening Huntford met Evelina Walton at the Van Altons' dance. She sat through a quadrille with him, and she told him that she was going abroad with her father and mother in about four weeks.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

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"I believe," she answered, we are going first of all to Hesse-Gruenstadt. You know it? A little grand duchy in North Germany."

Know it! What memories did the name of Hesse-Gruenstadt call up before Huntford's mind! It was the Grand Duke of Hesse-Gruenstadt who had been assassinated when coming home from the opera, and Huntford immediately thought of the beautiful but unfortunate Fräulein Victoria-his fair Nihilist-who had been somehow connected with that tragedy. He was silent for a few seconds. He was looking at the beautiful girl beside him and wondering at his infatuation for that pale-faced adventuress who was maintained by the Nihilists and who smoked cigarettes after a French-cooked dinner. Only six months had passed, but

it seemed as though it had been years since that episode had happened.

"What are you going to do in HesseGruenstadt?" he said.

"Oh, the Kinsboroughs are going," she said. "They were there last summer, and are wild about the place. Mr. Kinsborough is, you know, papa's particular friend."

Huntford's heart fell like a lump of lead. He had heard the talk about Evelina Walton and Tom Kinsborough. He was silent for a while, and her color deepened at his silence. She knew that he was thinking of Tom Kinsborough and of her.

"I think I shall go to Hesse-Gruenstadt too," he said at last.

"You!" she exclaimed. "Why should you go to Hesse-Gruenstadt?"

"Well," he said, "for the same reason that your father is going. Two cousins of mine are going and are taking their daughter with them, so I shall go too. Is there any law in the closed circles of New York that prohibits a poor devil of an artist going to Hesse-Gruenstadt?”

"Oh, Jack," she said, "why do you talk so?"

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"Oh, Evelina," he said, can you not guess?"

So Huntford went to Europe upon the same steamer with the Waltons, and Cousin Henrietta was hardly civil to him.

Cousin Henrietta was still more offended when she found that Huntford was going on to Hesse-Gruenstadt with them, and she was very cross with her husband when he expressed his hearty pleasure at the prospect of having the young artist in their party.

When they came to Hesse-Gruenstadi they found that the Kinsboroughs wer not there, for Mr. Kinsborough was stil in Baden-Baden taking the waters. Cous in Henrietta was for leaving immediate ly, but her friend the United States con sul persuaded her to remain until the following week. The Princess Sophia was to be married in the early fall to the Prince Maurice of Saxe-Dittingen. O Thursday the old custom of a Hesse Gruenstadt betrothal was to be cele brated. Prince Maurice would com upon Tuesday, and it was part of th local custom of betrothal that the futur bride and her father should go to mee

the accepted lover. It would be a pretty sight, the consul said, to see the entrance of Prince Maurice into the town. And so the Waltons stayed.

Mr. Walton secured a balcony in an advantageous situation, and in the fullness of his heart he asked Huntford to join them. Huntford accepted joyously, and again Cousin Henrietta was extremely cross.

It was a perfect day. If Prince Maurice had chosen it himself, it could not have been more auspicious. The sun shone with a wonderful brightness and the sky was perfectly blue and full of great white floating clouds. As the American party sat in their balcony, they could look directly down the quaint vista of the stone-paved street, the red houses with their steep roofs, their gables, and their quaint leaded windows shining in the springtide day. Below, the street was alive upon either side with people, many in the quaint costume of Hesse - Gruenstadt. A vast babble of voices filled the soft, warm air, mellow with the fullness of springtime. There was a military lane cleared in the middle of the street below, and the people crowded good-naturedly up and down the sidewalks.

At about ten o'clock the procession suddenly appeared at the far-away distant end of the street, glittering in the sun as it turned into the main thoroughfare at the junction of Heinrich Strasse and Wilhelm Strasse on its way from the railroad station.

The procession came nearer and nearer. By and by it reached the stand where they sat.

The cuirassiers rode crashing beneath them, and then, and in the midst of a tumult of shouts and huzzas, the victoria came full within their view.

The Princess Sophia, smiling, happy, and beautiful, sat beside her father, bowing to the people from side to side. Prince Maurice sat on the front seat, facing the Grand Duke and his daughter.

Huntford as he looked down could see directly into her face, and he sat staring as though struck to stone. The Princess Sophia was none other than the Fräulein Victoria to whom he had made love in New York six months before.

He heard as though remotely the uproar of cheering in the street below. Ten VOL. CXXVII-No. 757.-17

thousand thoughts were whirling in a tempest through his brain: Who! What! How! He knew not what to think.

Suddenly she looked up and directly at him. She stared; for a moment her happy face turned blank. Then a brilliant and glorious smile of recognition irradiated her entire countenance. She made as though to rise in her seat, then she clutched the arm first of one and then of the other of the gentlemen in the carriage with her. They both turned and looked up at the balcony. The Princess Sophia pointed toward Huntford with her finger. The two gentlemen smiled to him and lifted their hats, and Huntford stood up and bowed.

Had the heavens fallen and shivered into fragments about her, Cousin Henrietta could not have been more astonished. She could neither move nor speak, but could only sit staring open-mouthed. Then the carriage passed beneath them, followed by the thunder of cheers, and only the crowd was left staring up at the balcony where sat the American gentleman to whom the Princess Sophia had spoken.

Cousin Henrietta found her voice. "John Huntford!" She nearly shrieked in her astonishment. "Do you know her?”

"Yes," said Huntford. "I met her last winter in New York. I know her very well. I used to go to dinner at her house, and I called frequently."

"You-knew-her-in-New York!" gasped Cousin Henrietta, "and you never told us a word about it!"

"She was living then incognito," said Huntford. "I should not have said anything about it even now if she hadn't spoken to me."

The whole party looked at Huntford as though he were some one else as though he had been suddenly uplifted and exalted into another plane. None of them said anything for a long while. Then Cousin Henrietta spoke.

"You must come," she said, "and take lunch with us to-day and tell us all about it."

"I shall be delighted," said Huntford. But he did not take lunch with the Waltons that day, for about eleven o'clock young officer presented himself at the hotel with a note for Huntford. It

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was an invitation - or a summoning, for the Grand Duke had been assassinatrather to lunch informally at the ed. Then there was nothing to prevent Schloss. Cousin Henrietta was almost her immediate return to Hesse-Gruenready to bow to the young artist as he stadt. The Prince said nothing as to his made his excuses to her for withdrawing own part in the romance, but Huntford his acceptance to lunch. could give a shrewd guess at what it had been, for he remembered how Fräulein Victoria had told him that she had no heart to bestow.

Huntford went to the Schloss with some trepidation. But there was not the least occasion for anxiety. It was a strictly family lunch, and Huntford wondered if it had been made so informal upon his account. There were present the Grand Duke, a very kind and polite old gentleman; his sister, the Princess Frederica, a withered middleaged German lady, who spoke very imperfect English; Prince Maurice, a fine, soldierly young fellow, of about Huntford's age; and the Princess Sophia herself. After luncheon, Prince Maurice and Huntford walked up and down the terrace of the Schloss and smoked their cigars. The Prince was evidently altogether prepossessed in Huntford's favor. He talked quite frankly, almost fraternally, about the Princess Sophia, telling Huntford how she happened to be in New York.

It was all very simple. The former Grand Duke, her uncle, had determined upon a political marriage for her she was heart-broken-her father had sympathized with her and had connived at her escape. She had gone to America under an assumed name and in charge of General Count von Arnheim, whom Huntford had known as Herr Vollmer. The Grand Duke had thought she was in France, and had searched for her everywhere;-that was why she had gone to America-that he might be misled. Her whereabouts would never have been known had not Fritz Zeigler, of the secret service, got track of her escape by steamer. Fortunately, when he had finally located her whereabouts in New York, it was just too late,

That afternoon Count von Arnheim called upon Huntford at his hotel. The old gentleman was very heartily glad to see him again. He was exactly the Herr Vollmer that Huntford had known in New York, before he had grown displeased at Huntford's visits to the little house of Thirty-fifth Street; the same red face, the same white hair and mustache, the same military bearing, the same good-natured smile and kindly man

ners.

The Waltons remained in Hesse-Gruenstadt for nearly two weeks. They were invited to the ball at court. They attended a dinner at the Schloss, where Huntford and Evelina Walton were the recipients of particular civility. Huntford, and this time Miss Walton also, were bidden to another lunch, and altogether their visit was a crowning and glorious success. The hotel people were so civil that they were almost obsequious, and Huntford was the hero of the hour.

Of course he was asked to make one of that coaching trip through the Black Forest-Cousin Henrietta herself pressed him to join their party-and when they returned to America the two young people were engaged.

It is one thing to disapprove of the attentions to your daughter of a man who does nothing better than to paint pictures, but it is quite a different thing to welcome a son-in-law who is intimate with royalty.

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Linguistic Causes of Americanisms

BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY
Emeritus Professor of English, Yale University

T is comparatively easy to designate in general terms what Americanisms are not. Far harder is the task to point out what they are. The subject has been confused by wrong attribution in consequence of wrong conception of what legitimately is to be included under the term. In addition to this, the confusion as to what constitutes an Americanism has been further confounded by the ignorance of certain processes which are constantly going on in the development of language. Accordingly a good deal of ground has to be cleared up before we can approach the subject with any hope of ascertaining not merely what words are justifiably so designated, but what ones of these are justifiably formed in accordance with the analogies of the speech. Three of the many processes referred to as taking place in our tongue are here worthy of special consideration. Upon the proper comprehension of the part they play depends our judgment of the correctness or desirability of many of the expressions described as Americanisms.

The first of these characteristics of our language which it is necessary to consider is the ability its words possess of passing from one part of speech into another. Disregard of this peculiarity, or lack of acquaintance with it, has led to much criticism of usage and much ignorant comment on expressions which either were or were supposed to be Americanisms. In the course of its history, English has been largely stripped of the endings which once characterized different parts of speech. Our infinitives no longer end in en, the representative of an earlier an. We do not say tellen, still less tellan, but simply tell. Our nouns have discarded the a or e or u in which many of them terminated originally. Dropa has become "drop," ende has become "end," wudu has become

"wood."

an

"wood." In consequence of the disappearance of the terminations, words have been reduced to their root form. Hence they pass with little difficulty from one part of speech into another. This was not so once. Let us take our old, familiar grammatical friend love as illustration. In Latin it is amare as a verb; as a noun it is amor. One in consequence cannot be used for the other. Such transition difference of termination completely prevents. So in our earliest English speech the noun love was lufu, the verb was lufian. Here again one could not be used for the other. But when the substantive ending was dropped from lufu and the verbal ending from lufian, the root luf alone remained. That has given us the word love. This can be used indifferently either as a noun or a verb. In both cases the existing final e is of no importance. It is a mere lifeless survival which has weight only in the conventional spelling, and nowhere else.

This point can be brought out even more emphatically by an illustration drawn from two closely related words in which a distinctive ending is found in one instance and is not found in the other. Black is strictly an adjective. But it can be and frequently is used as a verb and also as a noun. Add to it, however, the verbal suffix en. Then we have blacken. This is a word which under all conditions remains a verb and a verb only. It cannot pass into any other part of speech without violence. When such distinctive endings as this exist, transition is limited. When they do not exist, the transference of a word from one part of speech to another is largely at the discretion of the individual. Take, for instance, the reduplicated interjection pooh pooh. It may be and has been used both as a noun and as a verb. "I go on perhapsing" is a phrase found

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