“Suppose,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel, “that he is seeking for you now?”

Kitty’s wet eyes shone for a moment.  “I am not worth that,” she said.

“But if he loves you?”

“Oh, he loves me, I know!” she exclaimed.  “And I doubted him.  I thought all manner of base thoughts, and I told him of them to his face,—­to him, the noblest, dearest,—­and he never reproached me.  Do you wonder I am ashamed to write to him?  Do you wonder I dare not ask his pardon?”

“If he loves you he would forgive anything,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.

The room had grown dark, and they mechanically washed their brushes, cleaned their palettes, and made ready to go home.  As they crossed the Hof Garten, two or three young painters joined them, and the talk ran on gayly.  FrA¤ulein Vogel had heard Kitty’s laugh ring out many a time before, but never until now did she hear the sad note that dimmed the sweetness of it.  The young men turned away at last.

“To-morrow, then, at eight,” sang out Otho Weiss.

“Until to-morrow,” cried the others.

“Until to-morrow,” Kitty echoed.  “Always to-morrow,” she added softly to herself.

“I do not understand,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel, going back to the talk in the studio.

“I was jealous,” Kitty answered simply.  “He was above me in station—­”

“I thought there was no rank in America,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.

“Then you cannot understand how a big tradesman scorns a little one,” Kitty rejoined.  “My aunt kept a shop, but she would never let me help her sell pins and needles and tape.  No, I must go to school with girls whose fathers sold pins by the ton instead of by the paper,—­or by the pound, as you do here.  His father sold them by the ton,—­a mere matter of big and little.  The family was reconciled to me after a while.  You see, the family had to be reconciled, for Frank did not care what they said to him.”

“He loved you,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.

“Yes, but they wanted him to love somebody else.  Perhaps he would have done so if I had not come in his way.  Perhaps he would have married the right girl,—­a limp, languid creature, with money enough to build a cathedral like the one at Cologne.  She made the trouble.  They said he was tired of me, that he repented his impetuosity; and I heard it all, and I grew jealous,—­jealous of nothing.  I reproached him, told him that he wanted her and her money.  Then came the crash.  My aunt died.  I had a chance to come to Europe with some people, and I did not even bid him good-by.  Now I expect him to write to me—­to find me.”

She laughed a little as she said this.  “Some day,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.  “If he loves you,” she added.

“I doubted him,” Kitty said, “and I deserve all this.  Ah, if you knew him, if you saw him, you would know what a fool I was!”

They had reached the house by this time, and, as Kitty opened the door, she added, “I must write soon.  I must hear something about him.  What may not have happened in a year?  Perhaps he is dead.”