A Top-Floor Idyl

Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite

"Maybe I shall sing to you after all, mon petit Paul chéri," she said, hoarsely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanishing as she saw the buds I was bringing her.

My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence.

"You have spoken to Master Paul," I said, "and we will have to forgive you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now, Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these flowers in water?"

A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him, because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she passed it over to me. It was one of Gordon's, marked "With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for a few days until you are quite well."

"Isn't it nice of him!" exclaimed Frieda, rushing out of the room.

Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a delightful odor they had.

"I—I never told him I was going to have the operation," whispered the latter.

"I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago," I said, "and he evidently remembered."

"Gordon is the dearest fellow," declared Frieda. "Frances, you will have to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like. Here is the fashion part of the Times. There is not the slightest doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part, I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening dress!"

I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Passing in front of the erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered paint had been scraped off and read a sign stating that the shop would be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper.

Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor.

When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs, rushing over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portière. A look of relief came to his features, and he came to me.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of tea?"

"Yes, and anything else she wants. Don't you want to come in the office and meet some fellows? We are playing penny ante. You'll take a hand, won't you?"

"Young man," I said, severely, "gambling is frowned upon by the police."

"Well, the sergeant of the precinct is one of us," he replied. "Plays a mighty good hand."

"Then you have my blessing," I replied, "but I can't accept. I must go back at once and make the tea. Another time I shall be delighted to lose my coppers to one of our brave defenders. Good-by and good luck to you!"

I went away, clad with authority to dispense the cup that cheers, and reflected with regret that Gordon would no longer drop in, as he had been wont to. All his spare hours he would now spend with Miss Van Rossum. I supposed that they would sit on a sofa and hold hands, a good part of the time, unless this occupation be also one of the many inventions issued from the brains of fervid writers. But why do I keep on thinking about him? I am beginning to disapprove of him, and he is drifting away from me. He has crossed a Rubicon and left no bridge for me to go over. I would give anything to know that he is desperately in love with Miss Van Rossum. It would exalt him in my eyes. Her wealth means nothing. True love comes in spite of iron bars or golden ingots. In his attractive personality and wonderful talent he has fully as much to offer as the young woman can bestow upon him. The question before me is whether he is really giving her all he has; his heart as well as his genius; his faith and passion as well as the solitaire she is wearing. I hope I am not unjust to him. But whether I am or not, I presume I am now destined to see little of him. It makes me rather sad to think that one more of my few golden links of friendship is to be broken or slowly dissolved.

For a few moments I stood before the outer door, with the latch-key in my hand, cogitating so deeply that I forgot to fit it in the lock. Presently, I sighed and went in, making my way up the stairs quite slowly and heavily, as if a few more years had suddenly piled themselves up on my head. The ancient stair-carpet looked more than usually unattractive and the wallpaper more decrepit. The fourth step on the second flight, ever inclined to complain, positively groaned under my weight, perhaps mistaking me for Frieda.

Finally I reached my landing.

"He's such a dear old stick-in-the-mud," I heard. "Never happy unless he's worrying over some lost sheep or puzzling over the way of being kind to some one. Frieda, you ought to take him by the nape of the neck, hale him to the Bureau of Licenses, and thence to a parson. After that you could roll him up in cotton-batting and make him happy all his life."

"I'm much too busy," replied Frieda, laughing, "and I don't really think he would like it."

I took a few quick steps and the three looked up. Gordon was sitting on the corner of the bed, looking very fine with a gardenia in his buttonhole. Frieda's face was expanded in the fat and lovable smile it always bears when any one speaks of her marrying. Frances just welcomed me as usual, with a look of her wonderful eyes.

"Hello, Gordon! What's new?" I asked him, rather embarrassed.

"Nothing very much," he replied. "Thought I'd like a cup of tea."

I BEGIN TO PLOT

I had the mourning band taken from my silk hat, while I have worn my frock coat so little that it looked very nicely. A new pair of gloves and a scarf purchased for the occasion completed my war-paint for the Van Rossum reception, as I made my way to the mansions glorifying the eastern edge of the Park. It was a civility due to my friend and a mark of respect I was only too glad to pay so handsome and unaffected a young millionairess as Miss Sophia; moreover, as a second, and perhaps unworthy, thought, I considered that a visit to such a princely establishment might give me the atmosphere I so often needed during the course of some of my stories. Hummingbirds, bees and novelists gladly draw sustenance from the humblest flowers, at times, but are never averse to the juices of scions of the horticultural nobility.

My hat and coat were seized upon in an anteroom, after I had deposited my card in a great chased receptacle, and I made my way up the wide staircase, softly carpeted in crimson and adorned at the sides with balusters of ancient, black, carved oak. The great hallway I had just left gave an impression of respectable age, like a neat and primped up old gentleman still able to wear a flower in his buttonhole. There were just enough ancient cavaliers looking from the walls to afford, with two shining suits of armor, a suggestion that the Van Rossums were reaping the just reward due to the offspring of noble swashbucklers.

In my ascension I closely followed three young ladies and blessed the fate that had abolished long trains. But for its decree, I should have been filled with the hot trepidation of the man who knows that he is apt, at the slightest opportunity, to tread on sweeping flounces, and who has had his share of furious and transfixing haughty looks. Others were coming behind me in a stream. The music of fiddles and mandolins hidden in a bower of palms, on the landing, mingled with a murmur of many voices. I soon entered a great parlor, through huge doors, and followed a line of matrons and damsels diversified by a scattering of the masculine element.

I immediately recognized Mrs. Van Rossum, very resplendent in pearl gray silk, and her daughter's goodnatured face, very smiling and friendly to all. Gordon was standing quite near, chatting with some ladies. Mr. Van Rossum I knew at once, since his countenance has been, many times and oft, represented in the press among other portraits of enviable men of wealth. So urbane and mild did he look that I wondered how any one could hesitate to borrow a million from him. My chance to make my bow came very soon. The elder lady smiled to me most charmingly, in most evident and utter forgetfulness of my identity, but Miss Sophia showed an excellent memory.

"My dear Mr. Cole! How very kind of you to come! Yes, it's a most charming day. Lucy, dearest, this is Mr. Cole who writes the most delightful books. You must read them, but he will tell you all about them."

Swiftly, she turned to others and I was left in the care of the dearest little lady, just five feet nothing in highest heels, who looked like a rosebud wrapped in lace, and smiled at me.

"I am going to take you right over there by the window," she said. "I just dote on people who write books and I remember your name perfectly well. You are the author of 'The World's Grist' and 'Meg's Temptation.'"

She sat down, with a little sign extending her gracious permission for me to do likewise, whereupon I hastened to assure her that I made no claim to the reputation so thoroughly deserved by the authors of those magnificent novels.

"Then, tell me the names of your books, won't you?"

Somewhat diffidently I acquainted her with a few of the titles, whereupon she joyfully declared that she remembered one of them perfectly.

"The heroine was called Rose," she said, triumphantly.

"It seems to me that it was Kate," I replied, modestly.

"Yes, Kate, of course, and do you really think she was happy ever after with that extraordinary man Jonas?"

"I think I recollect marrying her off to one Fitzjames, but that is only a minor detail. A novelist, my dear young lady, may assert with some show of confidence that the weddings he brings about are warranted not to crock, but you must remember he deals with fiction. The future lies in the hollow of no man's hand and, since I write chiefly of modern days, I save myself the saddening task of following my heroines to the grave. To me they are all alive, yet, happy as the day is long, revelling in sunshine and basking in undying love."

She folded her little hands on her lap, opened her big blue eyes very widely and sighed gently.

"How awfully delightful!" she said, "and I think you're ever so clever. But—but I think you'll have to pardon me."

I rose, as she gained her feet and smiled at me again. Then she rushed off to another corner of the room and placed her hand on the coatsleeve of a six-footer who looked at her, joyfully. Her little turned-up face, in a fraction of a second, must have spoken several volumes. Then, slowly and very casually, they drifted off towards the big conservatory to the left.

Twenty minutes later, floating with the crowd, I chanced to be behind them. It is possible that they had found the retreat too populous.

"I am sure that you must have flirted disgracefully before I came," the man accused her, tenderly.

"Not a bit! I just sat down with the dearest old fogy who is supposed to write novels, so that you shouldn't be jealous, if you saw me," she replied, contentedly.

I moved away, rather swiftly. I should evidently have been delighted at the opportunity of rendering such signal service to so charming a little person. I had served as an ægid for her, as a buckler to protect her innocence and display it to the world in general and to six feet of stalwart manhood in particular. Yet, I confess that this little bud had driven a tiny thorn in me.

"Well," I reflected, "it is perhaps good to be an old fogy with scanty hair and the beginning of crow's feet. At any rate it helps make Frieda fond of me and has given me the trustful friendship of Frances. Baby Paul, I think, also appreciates his venerable friend."

Just then, Gordon came to me.

"By Jove, Dave! You're rather a fine figure of a man, when you're properly groomed," he told me.

"That's nonsense," I told him, severely. "I have just had a wireless informing me that I am a back number. Why are you no longer receiving at the side of your intended bride? She looks exceedingly handsome and graceful."

"The engagement has really not been announced yet," he answered. "It is not official. The Van Rossums are going to Florida, because the old gentleman has lost some tarpon he wants to find again. After that they are going to California where he is to look up something about an oil well. I may possibly run over there to see them. The—It won't happen for ever so long, perhaps not till fall. Wish I could go out with you and beat you at billiards, but I'm to stay till the bitter end. Isn't she looking splendidly?"

My eyes turned to where Miss Van Rossum was still receiving guests. She was certainly a fine creature, full of the joy of living. If some of her tastes in the way of pursuits were somewhat masculine, it detracted nothing from her elegance and charm. These might, in later years, become rather exuberant, I reflected, looking at the amplitude of form displayed by her parents, but, after all, none of us are beyond the grasp of Father Time.

"Just as splendidly as she does in your exquisite painting," I replied, nodding towards the portrait, wonderfully framed, that stood on an easel in the best light that could have been found for it.

A moment later he was torn away from me. From time to time he returned to the side of the young lady, who was always much occupied in conversation and pleasant laughter with many friends.

If Gordon thinks that the engagement is as yet something of a secret, he is badly in error. Hints, glances, little movements of heads in his direction, constantly apprised me that the information was scattered far and wide. Two dowagers close to me indulged in a stage whisper that revealed to me the fact that they wondered whether the projected marriage would not be something of a mésalliance on the part of dear Sophia.

"After all, you know, he's nothing but a painter, and no one heard of him until three or four years ago!"

"But they say he charges enormously," said the other.

This, evidently, was quite a redeeming feature in my friend's favor, but I am afraid it was the only one, from their point of view.

I soon decided that I had done my full duty and sought the stairway again. Here, I once more ran into Gordon.

"I know just what the hippo in the zoo feels like," he confided to me, "and he has the advantage of a thicker skin. But I'm putting it all down to advertising expense. Good-by, Dave, old boy, give my kindest regards to—to Frieda."

I was glad when I reached the sidewalk again. I am no cynical detractor of the advantages of wealth, breeding, education and all the things that go towards refining away some of the dross which clings to the original man. Were it not for the hope of lucre, how many would be the works of art, how great would be the achievements of the world! Still, I felt that a man can have a little too much of the scent of roses, a surfeit of gilded lilies and gems in profusion. The good, old, hard sidewalk seemed to give me just as pleasant a welcome as that extended by softest rugs, while the keen and bracing air filled my lungs more agreeably than the warmed and perfumed atmosphere I had just left. I climbed on top of one of the auto-busses, holding on to my hat, and was taken all the way down to Washington Square, where some of the ancient aristocracy of Gotham lives cheek by jowl with the proletariat burrowing a little further south.

I walked away, slowly, seeking to remember in that crowded assembly uptown some face I could favorably compare with that of Frances. No, it had been a road from Dan to Beersheba, barren of such beauty as blossoms on the fourth floor back, of what Gordon calls my menagerie. One of my venturesome fancies painted for me the Murillo-woman gliding through those rooms. She would have been like a great evening star among twinkling asteroids. My imagination vaguely clothed her with a raiment of beauty, but the smile of her needed no changing.

I reached the house just as the young ladies who sell candy were returning. My silk hat, I think, impressed them, as well as my yellow gloves and the ancient gold-mounted Malacca I inherited from my father.

"My! Ain't you handsome to-day, Mr. Cole!" exclaimed one of them.

"You been to a weddin', Mr. Cole?" asked another.

"I have been to pay my respects to two people who are drifting that way, if signs don't fail," I answered. "I should be happy indeed to look just as handsome whenever any of you favors me with an invitation to her marriage."

At this they giggled, appearing rather pleased, and I made my way upstairs, glad indeed to climb them. How fortunate it is that I selected the higher levels, considering that they would give me greater privacy and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I so decided, was plainly in its apogee.

I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened. It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless ritournelle:

For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes that had stolen the man's heart?

A tiny pain shot through me. The bird was finding its song; would it now also use its wings? Is Frances destined to become a great singer again? Will her life, after a time, be led away from humbler surroundings, from her modest friends, and is her personality to become in my memory but one of those dear and charming recollections every man stores away in his heart, as some hide away faded flowers, a scented note, or perchance the glove that has touched a beloved hand?

I coughed, prudently, to announce my coming. She was in the big chair with Baby Paul on her lap and put her finger to her lips, thus announcing that her offspring had fallen asleep. I entered on tiptoe and drew a chair towards her, with due precaution, assuming the air of a Grand Inquisitor.

"Frances," I accused her, severely, but in a low voice, "you have been guilty of singing. This you have most certainly done without the faculty's permission. Dr. Porter would scold you most sternly, if he heard of it, and I feel that it is my duty to take so disagreeable a job from his shoulders. You are a bad, bold, rebellious creature and I don't know what I shall do to you!"

"I—I think I shall be able to sing again," she whispered, her eyes shining brightly. "Dear—dear David, I—I am so happy!"

Across the body of Baby Paul she extended her arm and hand. I took her fingers in mine.

"You deserve to have them well rapped with a ruler," I told her, "but, as no such instrument of torture is at hand, I shall punish you otherwise."

So I was bold enough to touch them to my lips for a second and abandoned them, suddenly possessed by a huge fear that I had taken an inexcusable liberty, but she looked at the baby, smiling.

"Indeed, Frances, I share your happiness and trust that your anticipations are to be realized in fullest measure. A mean, little, selfish feeling came to me, a moment ago, that the fulfilment of your hopes might take you away from us. I confess that I am shamed and contrite at the thought, but I have become very fond of—of Baby Paul. Now, however, I rejoice with you. But, my dear child, for Heaven's sake remember what our good little doctor told you! I beg you not to spoil his magnificent work!"

"Oh! David! I'll be ever so careful, I promise, and, whatever happens, you will always be the same dear old David to us. I assure you I won't try again, for ever so long. I think I just began without knowing what I was doing. The first thing I knew I was just humming that bit of song to Paul, and then the words came quite clear, so easily that I hardly realized I was singing. But I won't try again, until Dr. Porter allows me to. And then, it will be very little at a time, ever so little."

"And then, you will have to go to the very best man in New York, and take more lessons and practise a lot, because your throat has been idle so long that it has forgotten all it ever knew, and—and——"

"And it would cost a dreadful lot of money, and I have none, and it is all a great big lovely dream, but I must awaken from it and go back to Mr. McGrath's for a few days more, and then to Félicie's shop, because it opens again next week and she declares she can't get along without me. I am afraid, my poor David, that I shall have to be quite content with singing to Baby Paul, as best I can, and, perhaps, to Frieda and you."

I rose, angrily, and paced the room several times.

"That's arrant nonsense," I finally declared. "You will go to Gordon's and you will also return to Madame Félicie Smith's, for a short time. In the meanwhile I will have the piano moved into your room, because it is a silly incumbrance in mine. You can practise a little by yourself, if Porter allows you to. Then, as soon as he says it is all right, you will go to the Signora Stefano, or to Richetti or some such expert teacher. I have some money in the bank and I am going to advance it to you, because you can return it later on, when you give concerts or sing at the opera. If you don't give it back, I'll dun you, sue you, set the minions of the law after you, if such a promise can give you any comfort. Don't you dare answer, it is bad for your throat to speak too much, especially when it is nonsense. And I'm going to make a lot more money besides. I have an idea about an old maid and a canary that the magazines will bid for, hungrily. It's the finest thing I ever wrote, although it is still incubating in my head."

She rose, ever so carefully, so as not to awaken Baby Paul, and deposited him in his crib. Then she came to me with both hands outstretched.

"Do you really think, David, that I would squander your poor little savings? Do you think I am one to speculate on friendship and try to coin money out of kindness?"

She held both my shoulders, her great beautiful eyes seeming to search my soul, which the tears that trembled on her lashes appeared to sear as if they had been drops of molten lead. With some effort, I brought a smile to my lips and shook my head.

"You are a silly infant," I told her, gravely. "Little Paul, on the other hand, is a man, an individual endowed with intelligence beyond his months. He will understand that you are not at all concerned in this matter and that I only want to help him out. I want to give him a mother of whom he will be proud, one who will make the little scrivener she met on a top floor ever boastful that once upon a time he was a friend and still maintains her regard. I am only seeking to help him, since we are great pals, to graduate from long frocks to trousers, in anticipation of college and other steps towards useful manhood. He is a particular friend of mine; he smiles upon me; he has drooled upon my shirtfront and pulled my moustache. We understand one another, Paul and I, and together we deplore your feminine obstinacy."

To my frightful embarrassment Frances let go of my shoulders and seized my hands, which she carried swiftly as a flash to her lips, before I could draw them away.

"When I teach him to pray, you will not be forgotten, David. We—we will speak of this some other time, because, perhaps, after all, my voice will never return—as it was before, and then all this will have been but—but idle speculations—and—and I will never forget your goodness."

Just then, Baby Paul, perhaps thinking that our conversation had lasted long enough, gave the signal for me to retire. He is a rather impatient young man, and I stepped out, closing the door behind me, and went to my room where I thankfully removed the frock coat, after which, David was himself again.

Richetti, I have heard, is a marvelous teacher, and there is no better judge of the possibilities of a voice. I am going to interview him and explain the intricacies of the case. Then, I shall tell him that if he sees the slightest chance he will put me under lasting obligation by sending the bills to me, meanwhile, assuring Frances that he is teaching her gratuitously, in order to enhance his reputation by turning out such a consummate artist. She will fall in my snare and be captured by my wiles.

There are various fashions, I have always heard, of causing the demise of a cat. Here is where the shrewd and clever conspirator is going to use the plots of his fiction in real life. I am thankful that my professional training is at last to serve me so well!

THE LIGHTNING STROKE

More days have gone by. This morning I happened to meet Jamieson, who is always exceedingly kind and urbane to his flock of authors.

"My dear fellow," he told me, "you must not be discouraged if the 'Land o' Love' does not sell quite so well as some of the others, for I have not the slightest doubt that your next book will more than make up for it. A man is not a machine and he cannot always maintain the same level of accomplishment. We are only printing a couple of thousand copies to start with, but, of course, your advance payment, on the day of publication, will be the same as usual."

He said all this so pleasantly that I almost forgot that this payment was called for on my contract and felt personally obliged to him.

"We will send you a few advance copies by the end of the week," he said. "It might pay you to look one of them over, carefully. You have not read the thing for a good many months, now, and you will get a better perspective on it. I have no doubt that you will agree with me that a return to your former manner is rather advisable. I am ever so glad to have seen you. Now, don't worry over this because you have not yet written half the good stuff that's in you, and I certainly look forward to a big seller from you, some day."

I shook hands with him, feeling greatly indebted, and walked slowly home. There can be few better judges than Jamieson, and his estimate of the "Land o' Love" leaves me rather blue. I have been so anxious to make money in order to be able to help in the improvement of those repaired vocal chords of Frances and start her on the way towards the success I believe is in store for her, that I feel as if the impending failure of my novel were a vicious blow of fate directed against her. Why was I ever impelled to leave aside some of the conventions of my trade, to abandon the path I have hitherto trodden in safety? One or two multimillionaires may have been able to condemn the public to perdition, but a struggling author might as safely, in broad daylight, throw snowballs at a chief of police. Before I go any further I must carefully read over the seven or eight score pages I have already done for the successor of "Land o' Love," and find out whether I am not drifting into too iconoclastic a way of writing.

With my head full of such disquieting thoughts I walked home. As I turned the corner of my street, I saw Frances, a good way ahead of me. She was doubtless returning from Gordon's studio. Her darling little bundle was in her arms and she hurried along, very fast.

"Baby Paul must be hungry," I decided, "and she will run up the stairs. No use hastening after her, for her door will be closed. Frieda will soon come in, and we shall all go over to Camus, as we arranged last evening."

Once in my room I took up my manuscript and began to study it, trying to disguise myself under the skin of the severest critic. I started, with a frown, to read the lines, in a manner that was an excellent imitation of a grumpy teacher I remembered, who used to read our poor little essays as if they had been documents convicting us of manslaughter, to say the very least. And yet, so hopelessly vacillating is my nature that I had read but half a chapter before I was figuratively patting myself on the back, in egotistic approval of my own work. I continued, changing a word here and there and dreamily repeating some sentences, the better to judge of their effectiveness, until there was a knock at my door and Frieda came in, looking scared.

"See here, Dave, I've just been in to see Frances. She's come back with a dreadful headache and can't go out to dinner with us. I asked if I could make her a cup of tea and she wouldn't hear of it. The room is all dark and she's lying on the bed."

"I'll go out at once and get Dr. Porter!" I exclaimed.

"No, I proposed it, but she won't see any one. She assures me that it will be all right by to-morrow and insists that it is not worth while bothering about. She wants us to go without her."

"Well, at least I can go in and find out whether there is anything I can do," I persisted.

"No, Dave, she told me that she wanted to be left alone. Please don't go in. Her head aches so dreadfully that she must have absolute quiet, for a time."

I looked at Frieda, helplessly, and she returned the glance. This was not a bit like Frances; she is always so glad of our company, so thankful for my stout friend's petting and so evidently relieved by such sympathy as we can extend that we could make no head nor tail of the change so suddenly come upon her. The two of us felt like children open-eyed at some undeserved scolding.

"Well, come along, Frieda," I said, much disgruntled. "I suppose we might as well have something to eat."

"I don't care whether I have anything or not," she answered, dubiously.

"Neither do I, my dear," I assented.

"Then put on your hat and coat and come to the flat. I have half a cold chicken in the icebox and a bottle of beer. I don't want to go to Camus."

So we departed, dully, passing before the door that had been denied us for the first time in lo, these many months. The loose stair creaked dismally under Frieda's weight, and the dim hall lights reminded me of Eulalie's churchly tapers. On the way to the flat I stopped at a bakery and purchased four chocolate éclairs wherewith to help console Frieda. Once in the apartment, my friend seemed to regain some of her flagging spirits. She exhumed the fowl from her icebox and cut slices from a loaf of bread, while I opened a can of small French peas, which she set in a saucepan placed on her gas-stove. Also, I laid the éclairs symmetrically on a blue plate I took from the dresser, after which Frieda signalled to me to open the bottle of beer and our feast began in silence.

"I wonder how Trappists enjoy their meals," I finally remarked.

"They don't!" snapped out Frieda.

Yet a moment later she was talking as fast as usual, giving me many interesting details in regard to the effects of sick-headache on womankind and gradually abandoning the subject to revert to painting.

"I have sold Orion," she said. "He is going to Chicago. I have been thinking of a Leda with a swan, but I'm afraid it's too hackneyed. Why don't you suggest something to me? That beer is getting flat in your glass; you haven't touched it. Hand me an éclair."

I held the plate out to her, the while I sought to remember something mythological, and she helped herself. With profound disdain she treated the few suggestions I timidly made.

"You had better go home, David," she told me at last. "We are as cheerful as the two remaining tails of the Kilkenny cats. Good night, I am going to darn stockings."

So I took my departure and returned to Mrs. Milliken's where I found a message waiting for me:

"Why the devil don't you have a telephone? Come right up to the studio.

"Gordon."

I knocked very softly at the door of the room opposite mine and was bidden to come in. Frances was lying on her sofa, and the light was not turned on. I saw her only vaguely and thought that she put a hand up to her forehead with a weary motion rather foreign to her.

"I hope you will pardon me," I said. "I have just come back from dinner and find that I must go out again. Before leaving, I wanted to make sure that you were not very ill and to ascertain whether there is anything I can do for you."

"No, David. Thank you ever so much," she answered. "As always you are ever so kind. By to-morrow this will have passed away and I shall be as well as ever. It—it is one of those things that never last very long and I am already better. Mrs. Milliken sent me up something, and I need nothing more. Good night, David."

She had spoken very softly and gently, in the new voice that was very clear. The change in it was most remarkable. I had been so used to the husky little tone that I could hardly realize that it was the same Frances. And yet its present purity of timbre was like a normal and natural part of her, like her heavy tresses and glorious eyes or the brave strong soul of her.

"Well, good night, Frances," I bade her. "I do hope your poor head will let you have some sleep to-night, and perhaps dreams of pleasant things to come."

So I hastened down to the street and to the station of the Elevated, on my way to Gordon's, wondering why he was thus summoning me and inventing a score of explanations, all of which I rejected as soon as I had formulated them.

When I pressed the button at his door, my friend opened it himself, his features looking very set and grave. I followed him into the studio, that was only half-lighted with a few shaded bulbs, and sat down on the divan by the window while he took a cigar and cut off the end, with unusual deliberation.

"Hang it all!" he finally grumbled, "why don't you speak? Have you seen—Mrs. Dupont?"

"Yes, I have," I answered, rather surprised, because to me he generally called her Frances now, as we all did.

"And she has told you all about it, of course!"

"She only told me that she had a severe headache, and would see no one, not even Frieda."

He looked at me, sharply, after which he lit a match for his cigar, with a hand that was decidedly shaky. Then he paced up and down the big room, nervously, while I stared at him in anxious surprise.

"Oh! You can look at me!" he exclaimed, after a moment. "I'm the clever chap who warned you against that woman, am I not? Marked explosive, I told you she ought to be. And now you can have your laugh, if you want to. Go ahead and don't mind me!"

For a moment I felt my chest constricted as with a band of iron. I felt that I could hardly breathe, and the hand I put up to my forehead met a cold and clammy surface.

"For God's sake, Gordon!" I cried, "what—what have you——?"

He pitched the cigar in the fireplace and stood before me, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his voice coming cold and hard, the words forced and sounding artificial and metallic.

"What have I done? You want to know, eh? Oh! It's soon enough told. First I did a 'Mother and Child,' a devil of a good piece of work, too. And, while I was painting it, I saturated every fiber of me with the essence of that wonderful face. Man alive! Her husky little voice, when I permitted her to speak, held an appeal that slowly began to madden me. Oh! It didn't come on the first day, or the first week, but, by the time I was putting on the last few strokes of the brush, I realized that I was making an arrant fool of myself, caught by the mystery of those great dark eyes, bound hand and foot by the glorious tresses of her hair, trapped by that amazing smile upon her face. Then, I worked—worked as I never did before, fevered by the eagerness to finish that picture and send her away, out of my sight. I was tempted to leave the thing unfinished, but I couldn't! I wanted to run away and called myself every name under the sun, and gritted my teeth. Up and down this floor I walked till all hours. I decided that it was but a sudden fever, a distemper that would pass off when she was no longer near me. Every day I swore I would react against it. What had I in common with a woman who had already given the best of her heart and soul to another man, who still goes on weeping for his memory, who is but one amid the wreck and flotsam of that artistic life so many start upon and so few ever succeed in! And the picture was finished and I gave her the few dollars she had earned and sent her away, just as calmly as if she'd been any poor drab of a creature. My God! Dave! If she had stood there and asked me for all I had, for my talent, for my soul to tread beneath her feet, I would have laid them before her, thankfully, gladly. But I took her as far as the door of the lift, forsooth, and gave her my coldest and most civil smile. I'm a wonderful actor, Dave, and have mistaken my profession! I hid it all from her—I—I think I did, anyway, and she never knew anything, at that time. So, when she had gone, I told Yumasa to turn the picture to the wall and then I went out to the club, and treated myself pretty well, and then to the theatre and back to the club. Some of the fellows are a pretty gay lot, sometimes, and I was good company for them that night!"

For a moment he stopped and took up another cigar, mechanically, while I kept on staring at him in silence.

"Oh! I was able to walk straight enough when I came home. The stuff had little effect on me. In the taxi my head was whirling, though. But I got back here and took up the picture again and placed it on the easel, in a flood of light. It was wonderful! It seemed to me that she was coming out of the frame and extending her round arms and slender fingers to me till my heart was throbbing in my throat and choking me!"

He stopped again and took up his pacing once more, like some furred beast in a cage.

"In the morning I looked at myself," he resumed. "A fine wreck of manhood I appeared, bleared and haggard and with a mouth tasting of the ash heap. But, after a Turkish bath, I was like some imitation of my real self again, for I could hold myself in and think clearly. It meant the abandoning of all my plans and the awakening, some day, in a period of disillusionment, with a woman at my side carrying another man's child and bestowing on me the remnants of her love. Ay, man! I was egotist enough to think I should only have to ask, to put out my hand to her! But I gripped myself again and felt proud of the control I could exercise over my madness. The Jap packed up my things, and I went away over there, where the other woman awaited me, with her horses and her autos, her rackets and her golf-clubs, with other rich women about her, laughing, simpering, chattering, but culling all the blossoms of a life I had aimed for and was becoming a part of. I had paid for it, Dave, in toil such as few other men have undergone, at the price of starvation in garrets, over there in the Quartier. No light o' loves for me, no hours wasted, never a penny spent but for food of a sort and the things I needed for painting. And it took me years. Then the reward was before me, for I had won time. Yes, man! I was the master of time! Fools say it is money! What utter rot! Money is time, that's what it is. It can bring time for leisure, and to enjoy luxury, to bask in smiles, to lead a life of ease and refinement, and time also to accomplish the great work of one's dreams!"

There was another pause.

"I didn't forget her, of course. She was before me night and day, but I thought I was mastering my longing, beginning to lord it over an insane passion. I could golf and swim and dance, and listen to fools prattling of art, and smile at them civilly and agree with their silly nonsense. They're not much more stupid than most of the highbrows, after all, and, usually, a devilish sight more pleasant to associate with. None of Camus's poison in their kitchens! And—and that other woman was a beauty, and she held all that I aimed for in her hand and was stretching it out to me. And she's a good woman too and a plucky one! Rather too good for me, I am sure. It was at night, going forty miles an hour, I think, that I finally made up my mind to ask her. And—and she consented. She was driving and never slowed down a minute, for we were late. I was half scared, and yet hoping that she might wrap that car around a telegraph pole, before we arrived. When we finally stopped, she declared it had been a glorious ride, and gave me her lips to kiss, and—and I went up to my room to dress for dinner, feeling that I had made an end of all insanity, that I had achieved all that I had fought so hard for!

"Then, later on, after some months, you came around to ask me to use Frances as a model again. I thought I was quite cured at that time, and I refused. Oh, yes! I had been coming to that shack of yours. On those Sunday afternoons the devil would get into me. A look at her would do no harm. You and Frieda would be there too. And I would come and sit on your rickety bed and look at her, and listen to you all, and watch you pouring out tea. But I thought all the time that I was keeping a fine hold on myself, just tapering off, the dope-fiends call it. Then it was that you came to me. You're ugly and gawky enough, Dave, but no evil angel of temptation was ever so compelling as you. I remember how you stared when I said I didn't want her. And you hadn't been gone ten minutes before the devil had his clutches on me and flung me in my car and I met you at your door and told you to let her come!

"And I've been painting her again. Such beastly stuff as I've turned out! Daubing in and rubbing out again, and staring at her till I knew she was beginning to feel uneasy and anxious. But I always managed to keep a hold on my tongue. God! What a fight I was waging, every minute of the time, crazy to fling the palette to the floor, to kick the easel over, to rush to her and tell her I was mad for the love of her! And to-day the crisis came; I'd been shaking all over; couldn't hold a brush to save my life. I—I don't know what I said to her; but it was nothing to offend her, I am sure, nothing that a sweet, clean woman could not hear and listen to, from a man who loved her. But I remember her words. They were very halting and that poor voice of hers was very hoarse again.

"'Oh!' she cried, 'I—I am so miserably sorry. I—I thought you were just one of the dear kind friends who have been so good to me. I—I never said a word or did a thing to—to bring such a thing about. Please—please let me go away. It makes me dreadfully unhappy!'

"And so she picked up her hat and put it on, her hands shaking all over, and took the baby to her bosom and went out, and—and I guess that's all, Dave."

He sank down on the teakwood stool he generally uses to put his colors on and his brushes. His jaws rested in the open palms of his hands, and he looked as if his vision was piercing the walls and wandering off to some other world.

"Why don't you speak?" he finally cried.

"Because I don't know what to say," I replied. "I've an immense pity for you in my heart, old man. You—you've been playing with fire and your burnt flesh is quivering all over."

"Let it go at that, Dave," he answered, rising. "I'm glad you're not one of the preaching kind. I'd throw you neck and crop out of the window, if you were."

"What of Miss Van Rossum?" I asked, gravely.

"They went off a week ago to Palm Beach. Looking for those tarpon. Come along."

"You haven't treated her right, Gordon."

"Know that as well as you. Come on out!"

I followed him downstairs. His car was drawn up against the curb and he jumped in.

"Want a ride?" he asked.

"No, I think I had better go home now."

"All right. Thanks for coming. I didn't want you to think I had behaved badly to Frances, for I didn't, and I had to talk to some one. Good by!"

He let in his clutch, quickly, and the machine jerked forward. He turned into the Park entrance and disappeared, going like a crazy man.

So I returned home, feeling ever so badly for the two of them. I honestly think and hope that I am of a charitable disposition, but I could not extend all sympathy and forgiveness to my friend. He had deliberately gone to work and proposed to a woman he did not truly love, and she had accepted him. The poor girl probably thinks the world of him, in her own way, which is probably a true and womanly one. And now, after he is bound hand and foot by her consent, he goes to work and lays down his heart at the feet of another.

Honor, manliness, even common decency should have held him back! I wondered sadly whether the best and truest friend I ever had was now lost to me, and I could have sat down and wept, had not tears been for many years foreign to my eyes.

And then the picture of Frances seemed to appear before me, in all its glory of tint, in all its sweetness and loveliness, and I shook my head as I thought of the awful weakness of man and of how natural it was that, before such a vision, no strength of will or determination of purpose could have prevented the culmination of this tragedy. I am sure that he resisted until the very last moment, to be at last overwhelmed. Poor old Gordon!

Her door was closed and there was utter silence when I returned. I tried to write, but the noise of the machine offended me. For a long time I stared at the pages of an open book, never turning a leaf over, and, finally, I sought my bed, more than weary.

At two o'clock, on the next afternoon, I got a wire from Gordon.

"Am taking the Espagne. Lots of sport driving an ambulance at the front. May perhaps write.

"Gordon."

I stared at the yellow sheet, stupidly. After this there was a knock at the door and the colored servant came in, bringing me a parcel. I opened it and found some advance copies of the "Land o' Love," which I threw down on the floor. What did all those silly words amount to!

FRANCES READS MY BOOK.

A great extravagance of mine lies in the fact that I pay my board here, for the sake of Mrs. Milliken, and take a good many of my meals outside, for mine. Strange as it may seem to the inveterately domestic, I enjoy a little table of my own, with a paper or a book beside me and the utter absence of the "please pass the butter" or "I'll trouble you for the hash" of the boarding-house.

Hence, I rose from my chair for another refection outside and debated as to whether I might venture out without my overcoat, when Frieda came out of Frances's room and penetrated mine.

"She is all right now," I was informed. "Her headache has quite left her, and Madame Smith has been in to inform her that the shop is to be opened to-morrow. So I have told Frances she had better continue to lie down and have a good rest. I may come in again, later this afternoon, for a cup of tea."

"You are a million times welcome to it," I said, "but you will have to make it yourself. I have to go over to my sister's where there is another blessed birthday. I shall have to go out now and pick out a teddy bear or a Noah's ark. I am afraid they will keep me until late. Give Frances my love and insist on her going out to-morrow evening with us, to Camus."

"Very well, I certainly will," answered Frieda, bending over with much creaking of corset bones. "What are these books on the floor? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for ill-treating valuable, clean volumes."

"They may be clean, but I doubt their value," I said. "They're only copies of the 'Land o' Love.'"

"What a pretty cover design, but the girl's nose is out of drawing. Sit right down and sign one of them for me and I want to take another to Frances. It will help her to pass away the time."

I obeyed, decorating a blank page with my illegible hieroglyphics, and repeated the process on a second copy for Frances, after which I departed.

Goodness knows that I love the whole tribe of my sister's young ones, and my sister herself, and hold her husband in deep regard. He is a hard-working and inoffensive fellow, who means well and goes to church of a Sunday. He proudly introduces me as "my brother-in-law the author," and believes all he sees in his morning paper. Despite all this, I abhor the journey to their bungalow although, once I have reached it, I unquestionably enjoy the atmosphere of serene home life. The infants climb on my knees and wipe their little shoes on my trousers, bless their hearts! To little David, named after me, I was bringing a bat and baseball mitt, with some tin soldiers. He is now six years old and permitted to blow his own nose under his mother's supervision. The pride he takes in this accomplishment is rather touching.

A large box of candies would permit the others to share in my largess, and I arrived at the top of the Palisades laden like a commuter. After the many embraces, my expert advice was sought in regard to the proposed location of an abominable bronze stag, purchased cheap at an auction, and the thirst I was supposed to be dying from was slaked with homemade root beer. Thereafter, I was taken for a walk and made to inspect a new house under construction, that was being erected by an individual who is godfather to little Philippa. Upon our return, the scratchy phonograph was called upon to contribute to the general entertainment, my sister constantly running in and out of the parlor to the kitchen, where a perspiring straw-headed Swede toiled at the forthcoming dinner.

From this I arose at last, quite happy and slightly dyspeptic. In honor of the day the children were allowed an extra half-hour of grace before being driven off to bed. After peace reigned upstairs, I was consulted at length in regard to my views concerning the future prospects of the sewing-machine trade, in which John is interested, while my sister requested my opinion as to an Easter hat. I finally left, after contributing the wherewithal for a family visit to the circus, and John was so good as to accompany me all the way to the trolley tracks.

They are lovable, dear people, prudent in their expenditure in order that their offspring may be well brought up, and happy in their modest and useful lives. If I were only a successful writer, a maker of best sellers, I should rejoice in the ability to help them carry out their plans and achieve their reasonable ambitions. As it is, I can only assist Santa Claus in his yearly mission and try, at various time, to bring extra little rays of sunshine to them.

As the trolley and ferryboat brought me home, I had the feeling that the night was far advanced and that I had been on a long journey which rendered the prospect of bed and slumber a highly desirable one. But once in the embrace of the big city, I realized that it was but the shank of the evening and that the hurried life of the town, maker of successes and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watch showed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed up the last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance that might awaken Frances and her little one.

To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding my book, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw her wonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with hand outstretched.

"Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul is sleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk to you about that book. But—but before I speak of it, I want to have a long, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David—you haven't changed a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew how big, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!"

"My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good. Jamieson doesn't think very much of it."

"It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been able to keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David, where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discover and reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats of struggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that this book of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feel like a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness. Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank you still more for the strength and the courage those pages have brought me!"

I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had read the volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, of the interest she takes in my work.

"My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able to gather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You have hypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from your friend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, and especially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impression may be shared by others."

"I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It is perfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this one is different."

"That's the trouble," I informed her.

She shook her head, as if in despair at my pessimism.

"Don't be foolish, Dave. You have done a fine piece of work. Oh! You can smile, if you want to. I know I am nothing but a girl—I mean a woman—but since early girlhood I have lived in an atmosphere of art, which is nothing but truth expressed in all its beauty. I think I have always understood the big things in painting and in music, instinctively, and in this book I find a melody that uplifts me, a riot of splendid color which appeals to me, because it is all true."

"Gracious! My dear Frances!" I said, laughing. "I fear that, if you are ever tempted to read it again, you will meet with a great loss of illusion."

But she laughed also, her low sweet voice coming clear and happy.

"I—I had been feeling so badly, David, and the moment I set foot in your dear 'Land o' Love' I was glad again to be alive. My baby looked more beautiful than ever to me, and the years that are to come, more hopeful. Dear friend, I am so glad and proud that a man like you has come into my life!"

For a second only I looked at her, and then my eyes fell. I was glad indeed of her words, but I felt that her regard and affection would be all I should ever obtain from her. The love of so glorious a creature was never meant for a little scribbler, but how splendid a thing it was for a man to have been able to gain her esteem, to have succeeded in having her call him, trustfully, by his first name and permit him to sit beside her in the little room where she spends so many hours and croons to her baby!

"Dr. Porter says that my throat is doing ever so well," she told me, after a moment of silence. "He sees no objection to my beginning to sing a few scales. I must keep very carefully to the middle of my register, so that I may put no undue strain on my voice. Oh! David! I have always doubted that it would ever come back. Isn't it queer? Since I finished the book, I feel uplifted, hopeful. Indeed, I am beginning to believe that some day I shall sing again, just as I did when——"

A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. She was evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back. But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with hands folded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in her sweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and she leaned forward, swiftly.

"Did—did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked.

"He sent for me last night," I acknowledged.

"And—and of course he told you——"

"Everything, I suppose."

She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly at the worn carpet.

"At—at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me days and days ago that he was engaged—she had seen it in a paper. Of course, he never spoke to me about it. When—when he began to say those things, I thought he was out of his senses and—and I was afraid. He was pale and trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me to marry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. My baby was in my arms—and this meant that I should always have bread for him—that he could be taken care of—that it wouldn't matter, then, if I ever could sing again. I—I could buy health and happiness for him, and strength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went away again, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should have to give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle, yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him as a loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, so frightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and—and then I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and so considerate—not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you, but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightest idea that—that he had—that he was in love with me. And—and is it true, David, that he is engaged to another woman?"

"I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman, and—and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, of course, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he had mapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. And then, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him, that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and that the real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!"

I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been a shock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for a love she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately come into her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, full of gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain on him, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak and trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of her room.

"I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when—when I saw that terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things? Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and repeat the words after me. I—I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize how splendid and disinterested your friendship is."

She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul was sleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as if the pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with a sense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't and couldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with such intensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs.

Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old one was still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again but whose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her, a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said for him and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved, but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. I would fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her, for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemed me, to whom she could at least give affection and trust.

"It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will read that last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep. It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring the blessedness of new hope."

"I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my room where I touched a match to the gas and filled my big calabash. As I looked about me, I felt that my little kingdom was a rather bare and shabby one. Hitherto it had been perfectly sufficient for my needs, nor had I ever seen in it anything to find fault with. In fact I had many a time thought myself fortunate in having so secure a retreat, which only the feet of faithful friends could be attracted to. They would come to it only for the sake of their old David. They were content to sit on the edge of the bed, if the chairs gave out. But now I realized that for some time strange dreams had been coming to me, of a possibility that in its occupant a marvelous and glorious creature might one day find something kindred, a heart to which her own would respond. I had begun to lift my eyes up to her and now I saw how pitiful the room and the lodger must seem to her. I felt that all that I should ever get out of life would be fiction, invention, the playing of tunes on hearts of my own creation that would never beat for me saving in printed pages. Never could they become my very own; always, they would go out to others, to laugh or weep or yawn over. They would represent but pieces of silver with which I might perhaps bring a bit of happiness to a few, after paying for my shelter and food, and the clothes which Gordon asserts are never really made for me.

Poor old Gordon! Frieda predicted that he would be hoist by his own petard, some day, and it has come to pass. He is now far out of sight of land, and his head is still awhirl with the amazing wrecking of his schemes. It would have been a bigger thing for him to do, and a braver, to have gone to that splendid girl Sophia Van Rossum and confessed he had sinned against her, and begged her pardon, humbly. I suppose he has written to her and explained that he has lost the right even to touch the hem of her garment. It is good that he had the saving grace not to keep up his pretence of love for her, but his sudden and amazing departure shows how keenly he has felt the blow. His ambitions have flown, his plans gone a-gley, and the one thing that could remain was the eager searching for an immediate change, for a reckless occupation in whose pursuit he might gamble with his life and, perhaps, throw it away. I saw his purpose, clearly. In the ambulance corps there would be no long months of drilling, no marching up and down fields and roads clear of any enemy. He could at once go to work and play his part in the great game. May he return safely, and may the hand of time deal gently with him! Were I fitted for it, I should gladly take his place. The idea of also running away, before temptation becomes unendurable, is beginning to appeal to me with no little strength.

But what could I do at that front where they want men of youthful vigor and bravery, in whom the generous sap of life at its finest runs swiftly? I think I will have to remain here and continue to turn out my little stories. I will keep on giving them a happy ending, that my readers may finish them contentedly. But always I shall remain conscious of the tale of my own life, in which there will never be an entrance into that happiness I so freely bestow on the poor little children of my imagination.

Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me. She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my heart.