A big thought had been growing in Herr Kreutzer’s mind.  The execution of the plan which it suggested would involve the breaking of a resolution which had been unbroken for a score of years, but in emergency like this—­

“Very well,” said he.  “Madame, my bridges burn!”

“You’ll do it?”

“You shall see.”

With a firm step and an erectness of fine carriage which surprised the weak, self-centred woman who was watching him, he stepped, now, to the door, and, opening it, called loudly: 

“Come, sir.”

For a moment, after he had reached it, he stopped to listen, for from the lower hallway came the sounds of altercation.  He waited till a curse or two had died away, until the thudding of a heavy body on the boards was heard.  It merely meant a fight, and fights were not uncommon in the tenement.  He stepped out into the hall.  “Come, sir,” he called into the darkness.

A bounding step upon the stair responded and an instant later John entered, anxious faced and fixing his entreating eyes immovably upon his mother.  He was a bit dishevelled.

“Excuse me,” he said nervously.  “I had to settle with Moresco.  He was the officer you had.  I’ll have to pay a little fine, I guess; but it was worth it.  What have you—­decided, mother?”

“Your mother,” Kreutzer said, before she had a chance to speak, “has given her consent.”

John went to her with beaming face and caught her hands.  “You’re a brick, mother.”  Gaily he caught her in his arms.

His transport was rudely interrupted, though, by Kreutzer’s voice, this time so harsh, so stern, so utterly unlike the old flute-player’s usual genial tone that he was startled.

“But I, sir,” he said raspingly, “I—­I have, myself, something to say.”

Son and mother looked at the new Kreutzer (for, suddenly, an utter change had come upon the man:  he was majestic) with amazement, almost with alarm.  He paid no heed to them but went firmly to the kitchen door.

“Anna, Anna,” he called sternly.  “Come, I want you.  I have something which I wish to say.”

Hurriedly the girl came in, looking at him wonderingly.  Never in her life had she heard such a tone from her father’s lips before.

“Anna, you love this man—­Herr Vanderlyn?”

“Yes, father; I—­I love him.  Yes.”

“You love him very, very much?” His voice, now, softened somewhat.

“More than I could ever tell you, father.”

She turned her eyes from the old flute-player’s to those of the young man, and smiled at him.

“Anna!” he exclaimed, and started towards her from his mother’s side.

“Stop!” said Kreutzer and held up his hand.  Then, turning again to Anna:  “You would not even give him up for me?”

“You would not ask that of me, father,” she said confidently, “for it is my happiness.”

The old German nodded slowly, somewhat sadly.  “No,” he admitted, “no; I would not ask it....  You shall have—­your happiness.”  He straightened, then, and looked as her so differently that it startled her a little.  “But I, Anna,” he said sorrowfully, “I go from your life—­forever.”