The master, thus thrice outraged, rose slowly and glared at
Harmony. Then with a lordly gesture to her to follow he stalked
to the outer room, and picking up the envelope with the fifty
Kronen held it out to her without a word.
Harmony's world came crashing about her ears. She stared stupidly
at the envelope in her hand, at the master's retreating back.
Two girl students waiting their turn, envelopes in hand, giggled
together. Harmony saw them and flushed scarlet. But the lady
secretary touched her arm.
"It does not matter, Fraulein. He does so sometimes. Always he is
sorry. You will come for your next lesson, not so? and all will
be well. You are his well-beloved pupil. To-night he will not eat
for grief that he has hurt you."
The ring of sincerity in the shabby secretary's voice was
unmistakable. Her tense throat relaxed. She looked across at the
two students who had laughed. They were not laughing now.
Something of fellowship and understanding passed between them in
the glance. After all, it was in the day's work--would come to
one of them next, perhaps. And they had much in common--the
struggle, their faith, the everlasting loneliness, the little
white envelopes, each with its fifty Kronen.
Vaguely comforted, but with the light gone out of her day of
days, Harmony went down the three long flights and out into the
brightness of the winter day.
On the Ring she almost ran into Peter.
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