He warned March against the appearance of industrial prosperity in Germany; beggary was severely repressed, and if poverty was better clad than with us, it was as hungry and as hopeless in Nuremberg as in New York.

The working classes were kindly and peaceable; they only knifed each other quietly on Sunday evenings after having too much beer.
Presently the stranger rose and bowed to the Marches for good-by; and as he walked down the aisle of trees in which they had been fitting together, he seemed to be retreating farther and farther from such Americanism as they had in common.

He had reverted to an entirely German effect of dress and figure; his walk was slow and Teutonic; he must be a type of thousands who have returned to the fatherland without wishing to own themselves its children again, and yet out of heart with the only country left them.
"He was rather pathetic, my dear," said March, in the discomfort he knew his wife must be feeling as well as himself.

"How odd to have the lid lifted here, and see the same old problems seething and bubbling in the witch's caldron we call civilization as we left simmering away at home! And how hard to have our tariff reach out and snatch the bread from the mouths of those poor glass-workers!" "I thought that was hard," she sighed.

"It must have been his bread, too." "Let's hope it was not his cake, anyway.