"Marry, and then you will not have to," I said flippantly.

"You're a sad dog. Do you know, I've been thinking about epigrams."

"No!"

"Yes. I find that an epigram is produced by the same cause that

produces the pearl in the oyster."

"That is to say, a healthy mentality never superinduces an epigram?

Fudge!" said I, yanking the pup from his lap on to mine. "According to

your diagnosis, your own mind is diseased."

"Have I cracked an epigram?"--with pained surprise.

"Well, you nearly bent one," I compromised. Then we both laughed, and

the pup started up and licked my face before I could prevent him.

"Did I ever show you this?"--taking out a locket which was attached to

one end of his watch-chain. He passed the trinket to me.

"What is it?" I asked, turning it over and over.

"It's the one slender link that connects me with my babyhood. It wag

around my neck when Scharfenstein picked me up. Open it and look at

the face inside."

I did so. A woman's face peered up at me. It might have been

beautiful but for the troubled eyes and the drooping lips. It was

German in type, evidently of high breeding, possessing the subtle lines

which distinguish the face of the noble from the peasant's. From the

woman's face I glanced at Max's. The eyes were something alike.

"Who do you think it is?" I asked, when I had studied the face

sufficiently to satisfy my curiosity.

"I've a sneaking idea that it may be my mother. Scharfenstein found me

toddling about in a railroad station, and that locket was the only

thing about me that might be used in the matter of identification. You

will observe that there is no lettering, not even the jeweler's usual

carat-mark to qualify the gold. I recall nothing; life with me dates

only from the wide plains and grazing cattle. I was born either in

Germany or Austria. That's all I know. And to tell you the honest

truth, boy, it's the reason I've placed my woman-ideal so high. So

long as I place her over my head I'm not foolish enough to weaken into

thinking I can have her. What woman wants a man without a name?"

"You poor old Dutchman, you! You can buy a genealogy with your income.

And a woman nowadays marries the man, the man. It's only horses, dogs

and cattle that we buy for their pedigrees. Come; you ought to have a

strawberry mark on your arm," I suggested lightly; for there were times

when Max brooded over the mystery which enveloped his birth.




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