“What was there to tell?” answered the woman, still somewhat ruffled.  He could see for himself how things stood with her.  Her husband had been turned out of Berlin; but much the police cared if she and her five children starved or froze to death.  It would have come to that already if some of her husband’s fellow-workmen had not given them a little help in their distress, like her present visitor, the iron-worker, Groll.  But what could they do?  They had not anything themselves, and the police were always after them like the devil after a poor soul.  What did they want of them after all?  Her husband had held with the Socialists certainly, but he had done nobody any harm by that.  Ever since Wander had gone over to the Socialists he had left off drinking—­not a drop—­only coffee, and sometimes a little beer; and he was always good to his wife and children, and he had no debts as long as he had been able to earn anything.  The locksmith downstairs had discharged him after the second attack on the emperor, although he was a clever workman; but the master was afraid of the police, and none of the others would risk taking him on.  That was bad enough, but it was not so hard to bear in the summer, and the Socialists held faithfully together, and now and then there was a penny to be earned.  But now—­now that he had to go away, and winter was at the door—­

She could keep up no longer, and burst into tears.

Wilhelm seated himself cautiously on the broken chair, and asked, “Where is your husband now? and what does he think of doing?”

“He is trying to get through to the Rhine, and get work at Dortmund, or somewhere in that neighborhood,” she answered, while the tight sobs caught her breath, and she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.  “If he can’t get any work he will go to France, or Belgium, or even America, if he must.  But that takes a lot of money, and where is one to get it without stealing?  We are to come to him when he has found work, and can send us the money for the journey.  Till then—­”

With the free arm that was not holding the child she made a hopeless gesture.

At that moment the door opened and Father Stubbe came in, carrying in one hand a lighted candle, and in the other a great, fresh-smelling loaf of bread.  He placed both upon the bare table, and then discreetly withdrew.

“Bread! bread!” cried the children, awakened to sudden life, and jumping off the bed they gathered round the table with greedy eyes, clapping their hands.  There were four of them—­the youngest a mite of two or three, who only babbled with the others; the eldest, a pale little girl of seven or eight years.

“Children!  Just let me catch you!” scolded the mother; but her voice shook with nervous excitement.

“Please, Frau Wander, won’t you cut the children some bread first?  We can talk afterward.”

In a twinkling the eldest girl had fetched a knife from the kitchen, the children continuing to clap their hands delightedly, and Frau Wander cut them large slices, and while she was so engaged, “We have never had anything given us, Herr Doctor,” she said; “we have always earned our living with honest work.  It is hard to have to come to this; but what can you do when the police put a rope round your neck?”