Ml 
 
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 1 
 
 ii 

 
 OF CALIF. LIBRAE, LOS 
 
 LOVE IN ~ *" 
 ~ THE WEAVING 
 
 EDITH HALL ORTHWEIN 
 
 70 /ow & ever to thirst, 'and to thirst is 
 ever to pray. Thus love is prayer, and they 
 who love best pray best. 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 Home Office: 835 Broadway, New York 
 
 BRANCHES: CHICAGO. NORFOLK. BALTIMORE. 
 
 ATLANTA. WASHINGTON. FLORENCE, ALA. 
 
 I9IO
 
 Copyright, 1910, 
 
 Bv 
 EDITH HALL ORTHWEIN.
 
 To 
 MY MOTHER, 
 
 Mrs. R. G. Rombauer, whose love I wear upon my 
 heart, a jewel of so rare a setting that it holds 
 the coral flame of morning and the sun- 
 woven mist of evening in the soft 
 wonder of its beauty. 
 
 2137525 '
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 The lights in the studio burned low. Each can- 
 dle gave forth little restless, tired, jerking flickers, 
 as if the effort of brightening the long shadowy 
 room had wearied it. Is it not always a struggle to 
 bring the light into the gloom? 
 
 There were pictures everywhere. But one, only, 
 seemed to fill the place with its presence. It hung 
 in the very end of the room, far away from the win- 
 dows, in a niche made by a deep recess in the wall. 
 It was a picture of a woman reclining upon a wide, 
 fur-covered couch. The beauty of her bared bosom 
 was half exposed as she lay with her arm beneath 
 her head. Her eyes were filled with the great 
 mother-love of her being, a new rapture, partially 
 veiled in a cloudy haze, the wonder of the artist's 
 brush, seemed to float beneath her vision. At the 
 foot of the couch knelt the figure of a man, and 
 upon his face the light of a great love was aglow. 
 It was a wonderful picture all of life shaded upon 
 a canvas not four feet square. It was love, face to 
 face with the joy of its passion. You could almost 
 see the hearts a-quiver, and feel the great ebb and 
 flow of the love-tide that had swept them into one. 
 
 Beneath the picture sat a woman with great hun- 
 gry eyes. All of her young life had been passed 
 in an environment that would have warped the 
 
 3
 
 4 jFotetootd 
 
 womanhood, in a soul less pure. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon the picture. Was it not herself por- 
 trayed there and yet could that be she that won- 
 derful creature with the love-haze about her ? Surely 
 love was all. Over her neck stole soft kisses they 
 burned into her soul. Suddenly, from out the fire 
 of love's embrace the meaning of life seemed to 
 glow over and around her and she bowed her head 
 and wept. 
 
 It was a great step to take. It would carry her 
 out upon the ocean of the world's contempt. What 
 was the world to her an artist's model? It threw 
 her crumbs, to be sure but ah, she was starving 
 for the whole of love's loaf. God help a woman 
 when she loves! 
 
 A great tender, pitying influence hovered over 
 her, there alone in the darkness. The candles had 
 gone out and the place seemed held in the iron 
 hands of an awful stillness that fain would choke 
 out her very life. 
 
 She loved how she loved him ! Was that right ? 
 What was wrong? How could she tell, when she 
 loved him so? 
 
 She could never be his wife. The words sung 
 in her ears "his wife." How the world honored 
 the title! A quivering denial spoke within her 
 breast. The world it was the world again she 
 was thinking about How dared it stand in judg- 
 ment of her love? 
 
 His wife to stand abreast with him and face life 
 to smile in the rocking gale to feel the blood of 
 pride rush through the veins surely this was best. 
 But to gain this, she must hurt another, perhaps.
 
 jforetoorD 5 
 
 She might hurt herself, but another? And this is 
 all the law of conscience. Did she hurt another? 
 The man loved her she knew it. Had he not been 
 strong when she was weak? Had he not been true 
 to that unloved wife silent that she might not be 
 hurt? 
 
 Down upon the floor the unhappy woman hud- 
 dled; the spirit seemed crushed within her. Sud- 
 denly she stood erect, and through the room crept 
 the moonlight, and her face was as the face of an 
 angel. Strength and love, understanding, was 
 ablaze in her eyes. She had made her choice. 
 Would he, her lover, let her abide by it? 
 
 Her breasts quivered as if a child's lips were 
 wet upon them and the world would call that child 
 a bastard. But would it not be endowed from the 
 store-house of love's richest treasure? Was not 
 such a heritage enough ? The undesired child only, 
 is a bastard, though he sleep in a satin-lined cradle 
 of wedlock. Her babe would be the babe of love. 
 Ah, God, would her lover let her live? And she 
 wept again and waited there in the moon-glow 
 and unseen hands bathed her brow from the great 
 alabaster box of pity. 
 
 Is it not a struggle of the soul in the body, in 
 life to find the way? 
 
 Yet when the fatigue of the journey is over and 
 we look back from the golden summit and see the 
 beginning froni the end, will not bitterness of judg- 
 ment pass from us? For we shall see the pattern 
 of the weaving. Will it matter what road we trav- 
 eled, and must not each soul draw its own pattern, 
 after all?
 
 6 jForetoord 
 
 There are some plants that mature beneath the 
 surface of the earth and attain perfection hidden 
 away by themselves; and the most beautiful flower 
 of the Alps does it not bloom high among the 
 rocks, far from human life? May not souls among 
 the rocks of worldly criticism blossom also? 
 
 There was one who read the story of his life 
 all his thoughts, his words, the things he had done 
 and left undone. And as he -read he knew what 
 was good and what was ill; everything was clear; 
 at last he knew himself. And while he pondered, 
 one stood beside him, grave and calm and sweet. 
 Up into the face which turned toward him touched 
 with the light of immortal joy, he looked and asked : 
 
 "When shall I be judged?" 
 
 And the answer came, "Thou hast judged thy- 
 self!"
 
 Love in the Weaving 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I do not know the moment that I awoke to the 
 fact that I was alive. The seed of my soul had 
 been nurtured upon life's sunny slope, albeit the 
 shadows hung over, they but wrapped the too fierce 
 glare of my happy youth in a fragrant coolness, that 
 promised well for my future. Some lives gradually 
 unfold as a flower, others in a night. I spread my 
 wings under the soft tender influence of a mother's 
 voice, made music by sorrow's touch upon the harp- 
 strings of her soul. 
 
 She had bound her bruise in ivy leaves, hoping 
 from her loving thought of me that I would never 
 know the cruel hurt of her sadness, but children 
 learn and ruthlessly, in their innocence, unbind half 
 healed wounds. My mother's sorrow was of such 
 a nature that it only set her soul to singing and 
 her eyes to feasting upon the beautiful; so surely 
 are some heart aches, only the opening minor chords 
 to a symphony of passionate, poetic song radiance. 
 
 Under her sweet charm I lived and she, my 
 mother, set the notes of my life in tune, that I 
 should sing some day even as she. I was ever a 
 dreaming child sitting as children will under a 
 
 7
 
 8 Lotte 
 
 dream-tree of sugar-plums reaching out chubby 
 arms to grasp the frail delight of "sense and touch." 
 It never occurred to me to grow weary of reach- 
 ing; the weariness of life comes later and not with 
 sturdy child-feet. All of my young life was spent 
 under the dear guidance of the mother-hand, and 
 such a gentle hand. 
 
 We lived in a small town favored by nature with 
 a setting of forest, far from the strife and noise 
 of cities. Surely in the quiet stillness, repose of 
 mind is found and there my mother sought her 
 work and did sewing for the village folk. I have 
 seen her fingers tremble, as she stretched them out, 
 after too much pushing in and out of stitches and 
 then she would fondle back my hair and say, the 
 tired ache of joints had passed away from mingling 
 with my curls. 
 
 The song birds were a flutter in the garden about 
 our little cottage home, the green trees and bushes 
 waxed bold in their nodding as if with their slender 
 leaf-fingers they would accompany the birds in their 
 song service. 'Twas the budding month of April, 
 and the earth was full of sweet promises for May 
 her bosom rose and fell with enthusiasm over- 
 eager to cast her sweet blossoms adrift through lane 
 and meadow. 
 
 A part of this beautiful leaf-growing day my 
 mother sat by the latticed window of the cottage. 
 Not a part of that April day because of future hope 
 reflected in the deep of her eyes, but because she 
 seemed to have caught an eternal spring in their 
 depths, and the soft fragrance of promising bud and 
 flower was as a memory ever abloom upon her face.
 
 C&e 
 
 The gold of her hair danced in the sunlight and 
 all was harmony and peace in our home nest, so 
 sheltered beneath leafy foliage, whose richness lay 
 heavy upon the slanting roof. A myriad of vines 
 trailed tender blossoms liberally over weather-worn 
 boards, till tiny windows were framed in a mingling 
 of colors. 
 
 "Mother, Professor Camden is at the door. May 
 he come in?" She dropped her work and rose to 
 give welcome. 
 
 "Don't rise, madam; my call seems forced now I 
 stand before you, but as I was passing, a voice in 
 the garden held me captive. I am a worn-out singer, 
 madam, brought to your village by the kind insis- 
 tency of friends. I am like the tree by your gate 
 post. I see you have cut the branches to save the 
 root, and so I must cut the branches of my ambi- 
 tion to let the blood go back and give vigor to the 
 life-root of my being. Your village is full of the 
 youth-tonic, and I hope for much, but the days grow 
 long to me. I am restless as this April morning, 
 so eager to cover the earth with leaf and blossom." 
 
 I took his hat in response to the request for hos- 
 pitality in my mother's eyes and then left them 
 alone and once more became a part of the great 
 song-chorus astir in our garden. It was near noon 
 when my mother's caller left, and he took with him 
 her promise to send me to him, that he might train 
 my voice. That I had a voice I never knew until 
 that never to be forgotten April morning. I 
 thought it natural to sing. I had always consid- 
 ered myself as one of the bird-chorus that flocked 
 through the woods and had aped their notes and
 
 10 Lotte 3tn 
 
 trills until sometimes I had led my shy friends 
 astray. 
 
 I could see a big wonderful gladness in my 
 mother's eyes as she repeated the conversation of 
 Professor Camden. 'Twas as if she hoped through 
 me to sing her gladness to the world. Poor mother, 
 so shut away in the walls of memory and yet so 
 happy there and so willing to open the door of her 
 heart to let me, it's one wee bairn go forth. When 
 we come to a turn in the road of our life I have 
 noticed we generally stop for retrospection, and as 
 we prepared our simple meal that far-away April 
 day my tongue was busy. I was to be a singer 
 perhaps, and the father I loved was not there to 
 share my joy. 
 
 "Let us go to the picture, mother," I whispered 
 as we finished putting the dainty tea set upon the 
 table. Dishes were our only luxury, and the plain- 
 ness of our meals was forgotten as we fingered 
 delicately vine-traced cups and saucers. 
 
 I could see her thought was mine, and, taking me 
 by the hand, we went to the shrine of our love. It 
 was a small print in a tiny frame and kept in the 
 drawer of her desk, where she would sit whenever 
 leisure could be indulged in. How earnestly and 
 shyly she had made me love that strong true face, 
 with its dark eyes and hair worn well off the fore- 
 head. I knew every feature by heart, the tired lines 
 about the eyes, the serious droop to the mouth, the 
 whiteness of the forehead, and the furrows of 
 character marked there. 
 
 My father ! and in my heart I knew he was noble 
 and true. He was not dead, she had told me that,
 
 Cfre ffileatifng 11 
 
 but nearer to her sorrow I could not creep. My lips 
 were dumb: I could only stand before our love 
 shrine in awe, but silent. 
 
 "Am I like him, mother?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, dearie. Thank God for that, else I could 
 not live. I see him in you. I kiss him in you, child, 
 my life burns to him in you. You, my Elsa, are 
 my one fair love blossom, and he gave you to me, 
 to make all the rest of my life a prayer. Oh, child! 
 never love or else let me guide your love to hap- 
 pier fruition." 
 
 "Did he sing, mother?" I said. 
 
 "No, child, but he loved and so sang the sweetest 
 song ever sung in life." 
 
 "Did he love you so well, mother, and yet he 
 never longs to clasp me to his breast?" 
 
 A great blindness of tears hid her eyes, and, 
 gently but reluctantly, I pulled her back from the 
 desk and closed the lid. What was my girl curiosity 
 compared to this grief in her eyes? 
 
 Our cottage was hemmed in by forest trees, we 
 could hear their sighing as we sat mute and thought- 
 ful over our tea. Gradually sadness left us as the 
 moan of swaying branches ceased and twilight deep- 
 ened. 
 
 Professor Camden had come to the village two 
 weeks before, and the place was a-gossip about him. 
 He was a man past sixty, and showed a fretful un- 
 willingness to acknowledge even those sixty years, 
 so eager was he in his chosen vocation. That he 
 was a great teacher from New York we never 
 doubted. The way he had helped the church choir 
 and the ready understanding of notes and phrases
 
 12 Hottc Sn 
 
 impressed us so favorably that even in so short a 
 time Professor Camden had found his niche. But 
 he was a sick man and hid himself away in an old 
 brick house let furnished. One servant attended to 
 his needs, while he rested and waited for returning 
 vigor that he might again take up his work, and 
 to-morrow I would begin voice study with this man 
 so soon respected and loved by us all.
 
 C&e Sflieatring 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I was up early the following morning, the pur- 
 ple lilacs that had found their way even to the case- 
 ment of my bedroom window were already aflutter 
 in the early morning breeze. Our cottage was very 
 close to the road, just a hedge of green in the front 
 separated us from the village walk, but on either 
 side the far country spread out invitingly. I re- 
 member kneeling by the window ledge in my white 
 night robe with both elbows spread wide upon the 
 sill, as I drew in the fragrance of the nodding 
 flowers. Here and there were groups of 'brown 
 sparrows chirping merrily and the blue, blue sky 
 above. 
 
 The front door opened, and I knew my mother 
 was astir. She was a small woman, with a bright 
 alertness about her that gave even a greater charm 
 to her fair beauty. How I loved her, my mother. 
 Her eyes searched the garden beneath my window 
 till I grew fearful of a hidden foe, so seriously was 
 she bending over the flower beds. 
 
 "Betsy, Betsy," floated up to me "Betsy, where \ 
 are you?" and then I knew it was our household 
 pet that she sought, a large black Tommy that we J 
 had quite insulted by naming Betsy. 
 
 It would seem as if in his dignity he resented 
 his feminine title, for he never came when called,
 
 14 Lotie 3n 
 
 only after he had switched his tail savagely, then 
 he would notice us, and so I decided that the name 
 of Betsy was not to his liking but Betsy he re- 
 mained nevertheless. 
 
 "Betsy, Betsy," my mother continued to call until 
 she reached a gap in the hedge, then she turned to 
 perceive Betsy and me at the same time. "Why, 
 Elsa, child, you'll catch cold by the open window;" 
 but sending her a kiss from the tips of my fingers 
 I jested her fears away and pointed out Betsy peer- 
 ing indignantly at her from the west walk. "I've 
 been searching half an hour," she called up to me 
 as she caught the cat in her arms. "He was out 
 all night, Elsa, and I know he is half starved. I'll 
 just take him in to his milk." 
 
 How much life held for me this morning, and 
 how eagerly my eyes feasted upon everything. 
 Each bud and blossom drew my enthusiasm, and 
 oh, the breath of the outdoor air penetrated my 
 being until hands grew restless and feet nervous 
 to be up and doing, and eyes eager to find the 
 visions that youth and hope had set there. I was 
 quite overcome at what the day should bring forth. 
 I was a village lass, and so there was an innocent 
 pride stirring in my heart that I was to study with 
 the New York Professor. 
 
 "Beautiful, sublime!" I raved to myself as I 
 rose from the casement and hurried to my morning 1 
 toilet. It was a simple one, and I remember the 
 dress that I put on even now. Pale blue lawn, made 
 with narrow tucks at the bottom and off the shoul- 
 ders at the neck and short in the sleeve, with a 
 ribbon belt at the waist. The birds continued to
 
 Cf)e 
 
 chirp outside, but I had forgotten them in the ad- 
 justing of ribbons and tying of shoes. My fingers 
 flew in and out. I curled and twisted rebellious 
 locks, then gave a pinch to my cheeks to send the 
 colon there, for I was a pale white girl, and I knew 
 my mother liked to see the roses. 
 
 I found the tea kettle singing on the stove, and 
 my mother busying about the tiny kitchen when I 
 entered. 
 
 "Isn't it a wonderful world, mother dear?" I 
 cried out as I cut the bread into thin slices, and 
 then put it on a fork and held it over the glowing 
 coals and watched the delicate brown colorings 
 gradually spread over the whiteness. "Isn't it a 
 wonderful world?" A smile of sympathy with my 
 youthful enthusiasm grew on her face, and her eyes 
 lit up under the spell of mine. Together we toasted 
 and buttered the bread, and Betsy, now well fed, 
 rubbed against our dresses. I can see the flushed 
 eager face of my mother, eager even as mine, and 
 we were, eager and hopeful, mother and I. The 
 little cottage was a fairy bower, and she was a 
 queen sending forth her fairy princess out to the 
 edge of the world, to catch the first echo of its 
 power. How good the coffee tasted and the few 
 silver pieces, how they glistened at our morning 
 feast as we chatted on, over what was to be. Then 
 came the tying of bonnet strings, the quick, yet 
 lingering good-bye, and the last glimpse of her face 
 as I hurried over the hill. I knew her thoughts back 
 there with the dishes and her sewing, and I hurried 
 on fast and faster over eager to reach the old brick 
 house let furnished.
 
 16 Lotie 3n 
 
 He was there on the steps to greet me Pro- 
 fessor Camden. The long gray locks about his 
 face, his tall bent figure holding on to the railing. 
 There was a kindness about his mouth that made 
 me feel at ease with him at once. I had thought to 
 sing by the piano just inside the window, but he 
 led me into the garden to a bench overrun with stray 
 vines. I had thought to sing immediately, but he 
 only talked that first morning, and I listened as to a 
 fairy tale. The trees 7/ere full of leaf, and a heavy 
 south breeze brought sweet odors about us. 
 
 "Life is one big picture, is it not, Mademoiselle 
 Elsa?" he said. 
 
 "Oh! isn't it wonderful, Professor Camden?" 
 The words fell from my lips so quickly that I 
 flushed at my temerity, in speaking them. 
 
 "Mother and I were marveling at it only an hour 
 ago," I timidly added. "And we must get into 
 the picture, you and I," he continued, not noticing 
 the interruption. 
 
 "Get into the picture and feel the soft crooning 
 of the trees and respond to the sunbeams sending 
 their messages of light through the sky. It is only 
 as we become harmonious in the picture that we 
 hear the voices. I am an old man, older even than 
 you think, and the voices have ever led me into 
 all that is beautiful. Listen for the voices, Made- 
 moiselle, and obey them." 
 
 "I will I will " I cried, scarce knowing what 
 
 he meant but led on by the rich cadence of a pecu- 
 liarly low-pitched voice. It was a short talk. All 
 too soon was it over, and my face once more turned
 
 Cfre 
 
 homeward ere I knew it, but it was an hour that 
 has lingered with me through life, that first glimpse 
 of the dear Professor at the old house let fur- 
 nished, with its neglected garden so overgrown 
 with bud and blossom.
 
 is Loue 3n 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Step by step ov.r work grew. We spent hour 
 after hour by the piano, sometimes both silent, in- 
 tent upon a bird trill of soft notes outside the 
 window, and then I would shape my lips and trill 
 as the bird while the old man clapped his hands 
 for joy, like a child. "The technical part is tedi- 
 ous," he often repeated to me, "but you are a good 
 pupil, and you are young and will be a great artist," 
 he muttered softly to himself many times as the 
 lessons progressed. 
 
 "I will be an artist!" I cried; "you shall not be 
 mistaken in me. You shall see!" Then we would 
 forget the practice, while he told of the big city to 
 which I should go with him, of his studio and the 
 yet unexplored world of song I was to enter. 
 
 "After long study you will bring the country 
 lanes, the brown sparrows of the wood, even the 
 sweet odors of rose-petals to the city folk in your 
 voice. The wonderful gift, child, the wonderful 
 gift!" and in this mood of triumph his long, slim 
 fingers drew deep chords full of passion and appeal 
 from the white keys of the piano. At their bidding 
 I entered the realm of another world. All the con- 
 flicting emotions within my breast became one in- 
 tense harmonious strain of melody that thrilled my 
 being. My heart was still, for fear of dispelling the 
 rapture that held me, such power lay in his thin 
 fingers.
 
 Cfre E&eatring 
 
 Sometimes I would slip home quite tired out, as 
 if I could bear no more, but I was happy these days, 
 they were like jewels, and I held them to my heart, 
 forgetting all but the radiant beauty of my gems. 
 In my wildest moments when I dared really to be- 
 lieve in my genius, I Would bow my soul in hu- 
 mility for as I grew, an humbleness came, that 
 sometimes was as despair and then as a stepping 
 stone to success. The days passed on, the Pro- 
 fessor was more bent, older and more haggard, but 
 not one morning" would he let me miss. He would 
 straighten up like a soldier on my approach and 
 murmur that he had a trust to fulfill. As the days 
 waxed warmer, he seemed more feeble and his 
 hands trembled on the keys. I was as a daughter 
 to him, and the sweetness of a definite friendship 
 grew up between us. "Little Elsa," he would say 
 very tenderly, "you will have much in life. God! 
 you will have much." I began to believe his 
 words, and my tones took on a surer sweetness and 
 greater volume. 
 
 There was a hidden excitement these days be- 
 tween my mother and myself. We did not know 
 what the excitement meant as yet, but there was 
 brooding over us a mysterious silence that led us 
 often hand in hand to the shrine of our love, and a 
 glad light was growing in my mother's eyes. Be- 
 fore the mystery we w r ere dumb, as if a holy thing 
 was taking root, and we could see the leaves and 
 tender shoots spring into being. But eyes speak 
 though lips are dumb. Tired fingers pressed the 
 needle in and out, weariness fell away as a garment. 
 and joy reigned between us.
 
 20 Lotoe 3n 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The fire blazed low upon the hearth, it was the 
 early fall, and there was a crispness abroad that 
 sent me eagerly indoors to the charmed circle of 
 the fire-light. I sat alone in the old brick house, 
 let furnished, to Professor Camden. It was a bare 
 uninviting place, and the furniture was stiff and 
 unfriendly of aspect. During the summer months 
 the garden blossoms had pushed even into the win- 
 dows of the dull brick of the house, and the interior 
 bareness had been forgotten because the green life 
 of the garden had beckoned one to forget all else, 
 but that the sun was warm and loving and the red 
 geraniums looked so proud in their summer dress. 
 Day after day I had opened and closed the garden 
 gate and with eager feet sought the piano standing 
 near the porch window which was left open, that 
 I might enter. 
 
 Sometimes the room was empty, the Professor 
 was perhaps at his desk in the bay windowed room 
 on the opposite side of the hall, that divided the 
 house. When he was not there with his eager eyes 
 ever alert to begin our lesson, my fingers would 
 seek the keys, even as his, and find comradeship by 
 contact. Sometimes he would silently enter the 
 room and surprise me in these flights of imagina- 
 tion. He seemed to find pleasure in being led into
 
 Cfre ffiiBeatting 21 
 
 the regions of melody at the sweet bidding of my 
 fingers. 
 
 The emptiness of our study room never impressed 
 me for the glad flower-world was outside and the 
 piano here. Now the fall had come, the windows 
 were closed, and the blossoms dead, yet no they 
 were even here in the great log upon the fire-place, 
 and so, still the stiffness of black-haired furniture 
 was unseen in the voice of the singing-log. I was 
 so absorbed in study the long summer days that I 
 but half noticed the pinched look about the man 
 who worked so patiently with me those warm sultry 
 hours when the sun drew closer and spent of its 
 fire upon leaf and bud. 
 
 I had grown to love him, too, this tall spare man 
 with the deep furrows upon his brow, the ashy pal- 
 lor of thin lips, and the tired droop of shoulders. 
 I sat alone now in the room, while on the other 
 side of the hall the dear Professor was battling with 
 death. Friendly ghosts of days past crept through 
 the shadows, days spent in song, talks in the garden 
 I could hear the voice of the man so in harmony 
 with the great picture of life, that he seemed as one 
 with nature, the tired voice, I hear it now. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Elsa, to be a singer you must 
 know life, in all its saddening, in all its gladdening 
 phases, love, disappointment, sickness, death, all are 
 given my child to make us great by opening the 
 door of our understanding. Enter Mademoiselle, 
 and the thrill of inspiration will wind itself about 
 your being until it will rise to your call and you 
 will answer, 'Here am I, send me into whatever 
 realm your song may call you.' "
 
 22 
 
 Ah, the hours I had listened to this man of music 
 
 I scarce understood that it was the gates of para- 
 dise he would open for me, that he even bade me 
 enter and claim my birth-right. Thus the friendly 
 ghosts of those summer days crept in and out, 
 through the shadows, as I waited by the fire, alone 
 
 waited my mother's summons to that other room, 
 where the voice would soon be but a memory an 
 echo gone. In the midst of my reverie the door 
 opened and my mother whispered, "Elsa sing 
 sing!" How could I sing, and yet I must for the 
 dear master. I found the piano stool in the now 
 deepening shadows, my fingers sought the white 
 keyboard lovingly, and I struck a chord. The in- 
 strument was old but sweet of tone, the autumn 
 night and the dying embers guided me uncon- 
 sciously, Tosti's "Good-bye" trembled to my lips, 
 softly at first, and then my whole being became one 
 with the spirit of the song. 
 
 . "Falling leaf, and fading tree, 
 i Lines of white in a sullen sea, 
 -. Shadows falling on you and me." 
 
 The wings of a great calm brooded lovingly over 
 me. It was as if I sang to a departing soul, and 
 when "good-bye summer, good-bye" fell upon the 
 air I knew I had come into my own. 
 
 I cannot remember how I reached the chamber 
 across the hall, but I found myself there, and the 
 Professor's eyes, alight with joy, were upon me. 
 
 "You are a great artist, my child, you will 
 touch hearts."
 
 Cfre ffileatung 23 
 
 He spoke no more, but a sweet peace spread over 
 his countenance; the worn body was at rest. Thus 
 he passed from my life, but he had lived long- 
 enough to give me my treasure. We sent him home 
 to waiting friends in his native city, loving hands 
 laid him away, while we wept, my mother and I, 
 and the leaves sang mournfully. 
 
 At last the emptiness of the dingy square room 
 was felt and the stiff black furniture grew promi- 
 nent, yet my ringers stroked it tenderly as I hid it 
 away beneath gray linen covers. Quietly, order 
 was restored to everything, the windows were nailed 
 up, and the little garden gate locked, the keys of 
 the house, let furnished, sent back to the attorney 
 that had the renting in charge. I had grown to love 
 the place and with the ardor of youth told rny 
 mother I would buy it some day, when my voice 
 brought me money. Then I turned my face home- 
 ward for the last time and pondered as I walked 
 under village elms, over the dear Professor, the 
 brick house, and its sad short love story, for it 
 had one, and the conflicting emotions of death and 
 love mingled in my thought as I hurried along under 
 the fast falling shadows of night.
 
 Lone Jn 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The days now took on a new seriousness I was 
 young, I believed in everything good and beautiful 
 life was full of certainties for me. My mother's 
 sorrow had fallen upon me as the dew of heaven, 
 turning to sympathy the seeds of doubt and fear in 
 my heart sympathy for the ache of dumb things 
 and a love for the growing green life that held so 
 important a place in our little world. My heritage 
 was joy my mother had willed it so, and youth 
 cannot penetrate too deeply into the caverns of mis- 
 ery, when the great world calls so str6ngly for the 
 vigor of happiness. 
 
 I was sitting on the door-step just as the sun was 
 creeping away in the west memorizing the w T ords of 
 a song, one day, when two strange men came down 
 the road on either side of Mrs. Aiken, the grand 
 dame of the village. They bent toward her, like 
 two wooing swains, so eager were their gestures 
 and so busily did their tongues seem to be flying 
 with words in vivid description of something, an 
 important something, too, it would seem. Their 
 approach sent my heart into my mouth, for I was 
 unused to many callers, and I could see by the fre- 
 quent glances sent my way that their steps led to 
 our cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Theodore Aiken was the mill owner's wife.
 
 Cfte meaning 25 
 
 She was a tall, well-built woman with shiny black 
 hair and narrow, well-defined features, which gave 
 a stiff primness to her face, her eyes moved con- 
 stantly as if always seeking and never rinding peace 
 the peace of fulfillment that gives ease to restless 
 nerves. She was president of the ladies sewing cir- 
 cle in the church, she sat with all the committees of 
 organization, and society held to her skirts like a 
 child under the protecting wing of maternal care. 
 
 We lived outside the magic circle, and so there 
 was consternation in my breast when this stately 
 lady lifted the latch of the gate and entered our 
 garden, followed by two strangers. One was a 
 middle-aged man with iron gray hair, and a fresh, 
 ruddy complexion, a contrast that attracted me at 
 once, the other was thin and tall and pale and about 
 thirty years of age with great serious black eyes, 
 that in a quiet way seemed to take in the garden and 
 me, in one sweeping glance. 
 
 "My dear child! I am so glad you are at 
 home !" and Mrs. Aiken rushed effusively up to me 
 and grabbed my hands, book and all. It was draw- 
 ing on to sundown, the deepening shadows were as 
 caressing arms about me and stilled the wild surg- 
 ing of emotions within. I could feel the blood rush- 
 ing to my cheeks at her forced friendliness. When 
 my mother came to the door and turned the restless 
 eyes in her direction, there was gratitude from every 
 part of my body. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Mrs. - ?" 
 "Mrs. Grier," sweetly put in my mother's voice, 
 and the quiet tone brought courage to me, my em- 
 barrassment fled, I drew myself to my full height,
 
 26 Hotie Hit 
 
 greeted them all and led the way proudly into our 
 sitting room, where lay my mother's work as she 
 had dropped it on the window ledge at the sound of 
 their voices. 
 
 The approaching shadows crept over the ledge 
 on to the carpet, a dull rich luster veiled the big 
 flower pattern of blue, red, and brown. Half a 
 dozen books lay carelessly upon the round center 
 table of mahogany, a valued piece of furniture we 
 had found in an old second-hand shop. The little 
 sash curtains swayed in the breeze and the few 
 chairs were invitingly grouped. Our visitors sat 
 down and I could see the falseness of their approach 
 fade away, as the love atmosphere within pene- 
 trated the outer crust of conventionality. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Grier, this is Mr. Alexander, the 
 business manager of the Shaw Company to play at 
 the opera house to-morrow night," said Mrs. Aiken, 
 waving a gloved hand toward the man of ruddy 
 complexion, "and this is Charles Grey, the leading 
 man of the Shaw Company," and the restless eyes 
 turned quickly toward the younger man. 
 
 "My daughter, Elsa," said my mother, acknowl- 
 edging both gentlemen. 
 
 I did not know what to do, but bashfully turned 
 my head, a sudden awkwardness seemed to possess 
 me. There were jarring elements at work in the 
 room, and I could feel it in my hands and feet, 
 they were alive with bigness. I became self-con- 
 scious under the three pairs of eyes taking me in. 
 I shifted from one foot to the other, then in my 
 absorption arranged the blinds closer, and shut the 
 door. Finally, noticing the shadows changing
 
 Cfte fiHeattfng 27 
 
 quickly to real darkness, I eased my inward excite- 
 ment by leaving the room for the lamp. When I 
 returned its glow revealed a still greater nervous- 
 ness astir in the little room. The two gentlemen 
 were fingering their hats, smoothing the band and 
 carressing the rim. Mrs. Aiken was sitting bolt 
 upright, fully conscious of her exalted position of 
 spokeswoman. My mother's eyes were roaming 
 from one to the other a mother bird, aflutter. 
 
 "Elsa, dear," she cried, even before I could reach 
 the table with the lamp. "They want you to sing 
 to-morrow night." My hand trembled, with a quick 
 movement, I put the lamp on the table and turned 
 questioning eyes on first one and then the other 
 of our callers. Mrs. Aiken came to the rescue. 
 
 "Yes, child, Miss Courtland is ill, very ill, and 
 they have sent for a nurse from the city ; an under- 
 study will take her part, but in one act the prin- 
 cipal scene is at the piano where she sings." 
 
 "And they want you, dear, to carry through this 
 scene," interrupted my mother, holding both hands 
 out to me. 
 
 "And the opening of the opera house will be 
 ruined," continued Mrs. Aiken, "if you don't help 
 us." 
 
 Sing! I was only a child, alone in the great 
 universe of song, and I felt the weight of the 
 loneliness as I stood in their midst. 
 
 "You have a good presence," said Mr. Alexan- 
 der, thinking, no doubt, a compliment would help 
 me to gain self-possession and confidence in my 
 ability. The dark eyes of Charles Grey seemed to 
 echo his words, but it was not compliments that I
 
 28 Lotte 3n 
 
 wanted, it was a voice to bid me into the world 
 of my own, and it echoed to me from the silence, 
 when Mrs. Aiken spoke up impulsively, at a loss 
 how to help the situation, by saying : 
 
 "I know you studied with the Professor all 
 summer." 
 
 "But can I do it, mother?" I asked, ignoring- the 
 other occupants of the room. 
 
 "Dearie, you know what the Professor would 
 say if he were here 
 
 "Sing, Mademoiselle Elsa, 'tis the first call for 
 you from the great world-garden." 
 
 I knew it was hard for the words to come; it 
 was as if the Professor urged her on, to the try- 
 ing of wings that might carry me away she knew 
 not where. But she spoke them and then reached 
 for my hand as if to warm the chill about her 
 heart. 
 
 "I will do it," I gasped suddenly, the vision of 
 the dear Professor before me. "I will sing." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you, Miss Grier?" spoke all 
 three voices at once. 
 
 "We rehearse at ten in the morning. We shall 
 expect you," said Mr. Alexander, lowering the ten- 
 sion of the moment to a business-like basis, and 
 Mrs. Aiken, rising, ushered them out of the cot- 
 tage into the deepening twilight, and mother and I 
 stood tongue-tied on either side of the lamp, grop- 
 ing in the darkness in our endeavor to understand 
 the methods of fate.
 
 CJje GHeatnng 29 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Wednesday, and a cloudy day; yet the sunshine 
 of a joy deep in my heart shines over everything-. 
 Wednesday and the dawn of what for me? The 
 awakening perhaps into all that is beautiful, and I 
 am alive and about to enter the great arena of ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Wednesday I had thought it would never come 
 as I lay restless the long night through, thinking 
 of the morrow and the dear Professor seemed 
 so near, and at last the quiet entrance of the new 
 day was like the feeding of a hunger unfelt, until 
 the first tint of dawn crept over the hills. 
 
 Ah, the relief, the joy and fear that thrilled 
 through my being. To-day the arms of the great 
 world would open wide to receive me, and the 
 thought filled me with madness for the joy of it 
 all. How good God was to me, a little, unknown 
 country girl, and down into my pillow I buried my 
 face while the tumult within my heart plunged on- 
 ward, deeper through my being! Would the world 
 realize all the happiness she was holding out to 
 me? My heart leaped within me and a prayer lay 
 on my lips as if angel fingers touched them with 
 the sweet oil of gratitude. 
 
 Away from the dreaming, past the mountain of 
 fear, on, into the reality, all this passed through
 
 30 Cone 3n 
 
 my mind as I hurried through the village streets, 
 and lo ! I was in another world, breathing the subtle 
 incense of a darkened theatre. Before me was a 
 picture; I was to enter that picture, and my pulses 
 quivered, my eyes sparkled. The first two acts had 
 been hurried over just to give me the atmosphere 
 of the play, and now the setting of the last act with 
 its two scenes was called, and while hurried changes 
 were taking place Mr. Alexander left my side in 
 the dim foyer and the stage manager, a small red- 
 haired man, slight and wiry of build, but with a 
 keen alertness in all his movements and with many 
 lines marking each feature, took his place. Wilbur 
 Knowles was clever and I was a lucky girl, I found 
 out later, to have had him direct my first rehearsal. 
 
 "Very interesting Miss Grier," he said, as he 
 stretched out in the seat beside me with an abandon- 
 ment of legs and arms that told me it was real re- 
 laxation for him so to stretch them. "Your first 
 rehearsal ?" 
 
 "Yes, and my first sight of the drama. I have 
 read many dramas, though, and am thoroughly at 
 home in my thought of the scenes." 
 
 "To the right, Jim, with that palm," he called 
 to one of the hands, "still farther over, boy," he 
 yelled, sitting up in his seat and waving two long, 
 bony arms that quivered nervously beneath the pink- 
 and-white-striped shirt linen "that's good, and you, 
 there, to the left with the table shove it up centre 
 that's right. There is always something to work 
 one up at a rehearsal, Miss Grier," he said, as he 
 slid back into the old relaxed position. 
 
 "How do you like the play, and what do you
 
 Cf)e oaeatong 31 
 
 think of the understudy? I can't get over how 
 lucky we were to find a girl that could easily pass 
 for her twin. Gee ! but it's lucky ! Audience never 
 will know that two girls do the same part and the 
 whole ending would let down if the singing were 
 dropped out I tell you I am glad, that head in 
 the air, Madam Aiken, thought of you and piloted 
 the old gentleman down your way. 
 
 "Clever little girl, your twin there, but she can't 
 help us out except this week, has already signed up 
 with another company for the fifteenth of the 
 month. Don't know what we are going to do 
 Miss Courtland is dreadfully ill a poor chance, I 
 am afraid, of her pulling around all right and get- 
 ting out of here with us on Monday." 
 
 Thus he rattled on, half by design, I believe now, 
 as I look back, to put me into the real work-a-day 
 atmosphere of the theatrical world, and then left 
 me, jumped over the orchestra rail onto the stage, 
 now fully set for the rehearsal of the third act. 
 
 As its magic surrounded me I became conscious 
 of the scene before me. It was a large room, and 
 in the centre stood a handsomely carved table, strewn 
 with books and papers, over which was suspended a 
 hanging lamp that cast a dull, mellow light, giving 
 the real coziness of home. There were three French 
 windows in the setting, heavily curtained with a 
 dark red silk material, which was drawn back, and 
 outside the snow was falling. Upon the hearth, 
 great oak logs blazed, and a sense of cheer per- 
 vaded the apartment, though a quiet lonesomeness 
 seemed present, also. Suddenly one of the cur- 
 tained doors was flung open and a young man of
 
 32 Lotie 3n 
 
 perhaps twenty-five years entered the room. He 
 was warmly wrapped in a long heavy ulster, and 
 wore fur gloves. Silently he stood with his back 
 against the door, his hands behind him holding the 
 knob, his hat on, while his eyes wandered about the 
 room as if searching for something. Finally he 
 muttered in a low, sad tone : 
 
 "Home home again!" and as the words died 
 away in a suppressed sob, he left the door, took off 
 his coat, hat, and gloves, walked to the fire to warm 
 his fingers, then went over to the window and 
 wearily muttered to himself, addressing the si- 
 lence : 
 
 "How fast the snowflakes fall, the sleeping world 
 will soon have a warm white coverlet. What a 
 realm of shadows, and what a quiet peacefulness 
 creeps over the face of nature in the twilight, how 
 sweet the carol of the snowflakes floating dreamily 
 about the wraithlike branches; the great world out 
 there is nodding nodding, and will soon sleep while 
 I must be up and doing." He drew the curtains, 
 returned to the fireplace, and stood upon the hearth 
 rug contemplating the portrait of a man above him. 
 
 "Very good, Grey," interrupted Mr. Knowles. 
 "Very good you carry the funeral still in your 
 eyes ; but say, old man, take your time getting from 
 the window to the fire, and turn left centre more, 
 when you reach it, then the portrait will be directly 
 in front of you, see? That's right try it again." 
 They went back to the entrance, and I, sitting there 
 in the darkness alone, as the rehearsal progressed, 
 was spellbound. 
 
 "And you are gone, father," the rich voice of
 
 C!)e gfleabfng 33 
 
 Charles Grey again echoed through the dim, shad- 
 owy place, "and I am alone, at your request, to lay 
 the pages of the past wide before me, here in the 
 room where you and I have spent so many cozy 
 hours." Impulsively he left the mantel and crossed 
 to a small desk, unlocked it, took out a bunch of 
 sealed letters, and, seating himself at the table, ad- 
 justed the light, opened them, and read. 
 
 Spit! Spat! Siss! the logs upon the hearth 
 sent gleams of light aquiver through the loneliness 
 of the room. As the youth read, the expression on 
 his face changed from one of interest to that of 
 horror, and finally he read aloud as if to wave the 
 specters away with spoken words. As the rich 
 voice went on and on, I, so unused to having the 
 harpstrings of my soul played upon, sat wide- 
 eyed, a pale-faced girl, in the great empty theatre, 
 my hands held tight together, each finger interlaced, 
 drinking in the tragedy before me, little knowing in 
 what way the fingers of the world would clutch me 
 and tighten about my frail body when held up to 
 face that avalanche of might the great unknown 
 that lay beyond my village. 
 
 But the picture was still before me, and the rich 
 voice read aloud from one of the letters on the table. 
 It was from his dead father, and I was losing the 
 point of the scene by my wandering thoughts. 
 
 "Son you have ever been to me, although the 
 blood of another man flows in your veins. I tell 
 you this now, because I could not rest in my grave 
 if you were cheated out of the estate, and, knowing" 
 full well the character of my relations, I am forced 
 to tell you a bitter bitter truth. You are not my
 
 34 Lotie 3n 
 
 son, Hulbert, although my dear wife was your 
 mother." 
 
 The dark eyes of Charles Grey were lifted in the 
 character of Hulbert, the son, and as he rested his 
 cheek upon his hand after the disclosure of his birth 
 I traveled with him in the dark chaos of his 
 despair. When the silence was again broken his 
 eyes grew big in their trouble, and the voice spoke, 
 a heavy sigh of relief warmed my heart 
 
 "Oh, the mother-face," he murmured, "the 
 mother-face of my babyhood, the sweet mouth with 
 it's passionate curves, the hungry, soulful eyes, and 
 that is all only a flash the thought-reality of my 
 life has been the serious father with the sorrowing 
 face whose lips mentioned her but once, once in 
 all my life." 
 
 In his excitement he got up and walked the floor, 
 anguish upon his brow ; muttering, "The child of 
 shame! The cruel, cruel truth of it and I must 
 face it alone. The offspring of lust! Ah, the 
 pain of knowing it freezes my blood. I cannot 
 bear it, no, I cannot bear it. Where are you, 
 father, you that have always been everything to me?" 
 He opened the window as if to breathe freer, and 
 the answer seemed borne upon the night wind, mov- 
 ing beyond the stage window, "Dust to dust, Ashes 
 to ashes."
 
 36 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A weakness seemed to creep about me as the sol- 
 emn words echoed through the silent, aisles, and it 
 was a relief when the stage manager called out cheer- 
 ily, "Hold on a minute, Grey!" and then hurriedly 
 ran down the long black aisle and caught Mr. Alex- 
 ander by the coat tails as he was disappearing 
 through the centre door. A short conversation took 
 place between them, and then he came to me once 
 more and sat down. 
 
 "All right boys, fire ahead." It was almost a 
 sacrilegious letting down from the serious pinnacle 
 where my emotions had guided me, but the tenseness 
 of the moment had been almost more than I could 
 bear, and instinctively I knew that Wilbur Knowles 
 had been watching me and had ordered that stop to 
 bring me back to the consciousness that it was but 
 the third act of a play after all. Poor little me, so 
 unused to looking at life from an unreal standpoint. 
 
 The drama of the stricken youth continued, and 
 Hulbert now slowly closed the windowed door, 
 drew the silken curtains, and the silent snow-covered 
 world was gone. He returned to the table as if fas- 
 cinated by the letters lying there, and once more 
 addressed them: 
 
 "You silent-tongued monks from the monastery 
 of the past ! You must speak, I suppose !"
 
 36 JL o ti e 3 n 
 
 My whole being was again in a thrill of emotion. 
 Each letter stood before me as a living thing, and 
 I rebelled in my heart, even as the son Hulbert, over 
 their untimely birth. 
 
 "How I should like to strangle you," he went on, 
 and then, reaching for the table, took up the letter 
 and once more spoke to it. 
 
 "There you are. mysterious and dreadful beings, 
 clothed in the raiment of truth, and I must let you 
 speak and tell me of her, the mother I have never 
 known, yet ever cherished and guarded most sac- 
 redly within my heart." 
 
 Then as if waving away all weakness, he breathed 
 a deep sigh, sat down by the table and resumed the 
 interrupted reading of the letter. 
 
 "We lived happily together, Hulbert your 
 mother and I I could never understand what was 
 missing, and yet she, so young, so lovely, must have 
 felt some lack, for she left me. For years I knew 
 not of even her whereabouts. It is a very painful 
 subject, Hulbert, and one I cannot write on at 
 length, it suffices to tell you that after three years of 
 silence she summoned me to her death bed. I found 
 her Oh! the pity of how I found her alone un- 
 cared for, starving, dying with you at her breast. 
 Can you wonder that I forgave my darling, for- 
 gave and forgot, aye, and even loved as I had ever 
 loved? Who was I to stand in judgment? I loved, 
 and, loving, saw only her sweet pleading face, her 
 great tender eyes, mute with sorrow, the pathetic 
 droop of her lips. 
 
 "Her story is briefly told: the man upon whom 
 she lavished her love soon tired of his plaything
 
 Cf)e fiHeatiing 37 
 
 she was honest, Hulbert, I believe it. Yes, I believe j 
 it, and she cared for the man. It was no play step ) 
 for her she was honest, and, being honest in her 
 love, she has not sinned, but was sinned against.- - 
 Deserted, forgotten in her great trial, she thought 
 of me, of how I had loved her, and I have, Hulbert, 
 with all my soul. Thinking of me and the death 
 angel creeping nearer, brought courage, so she sent 
 for me. 
 
 "Shall I ever forget that death chamber the thin, 
 scared woman face, the meager covering of that bed, 
 and you, a little babe on her bosom?" 
 
 He stopped reading, his eyes filled with unshed 
 tears, and a cry of anguish burst from his white 
 lips : "Oh, my God ! I cannot read more it is too 
 awful." 
 
 Charles Grey stood before me in this moment at 
 the full height of his power as an actor. His eyes, 
 his mouth, even the fingers of his hands acted, and 
 at once I knew what it meant to portray life, to play 
 upon the heart strings of a careless public, waiting 
 to criticise or admire. I knew what the Professor 
 meant now, when he said I would bring the country 
 lanes, the brown sparrows of the wood, and even 
 the odor of rose-petals to the city folk in my voice. 
 I knew now ; but to return to Hulbert. 
 
 After the exclamation of horror the poor burden- 
 stricken boy went over to the hearth, stirred up the 
 dying embers as if to force a little ray of light into 
 his over-troubled brain ; then drawn again by a force 
 he could not disobey, returned to the table and con- 
 tinued reading: 
 
 "She pointed to you, Hulbert, and whispered,
 
 38 Lotte 3n 
 
 'take him to your heart, let him atone atone, 
 teach him to love as I never could. He is mine, part 
 of my bone and blood, and you loved me, let him 
 atone, atone!' and she died. How glad I was that 
 my hand had sought hers after her first words 
 for I feel she knew all was well. My poor darling ! 
 Forgive, Hulbert, as I have forgiven! You are a 
 man and can." 
 
 At the word forgive he arose, anger upon his face, 
 his fists clinched, nostrils dilated. "No, I can never 
 forgive! Every man has a right to be well born, 
 honestly born! The world has sorrows enough, a 
 child should be free to look his fellows in the face 
 and not sneak like a cur as if he were at fault!" 
 
 From behind the scenes chimes slowly tolled the 
 vesper hour. As they echoed in the quiet room 
 where the shadows were at play in every corner they 
 acted as magic upon the excited youth. Slowly 
 anger faded away, and he turned to the large arm- 
 chair at the fireside, dropped into it as if mentally 
 and physically exhausted. The long day of sadness, 
 the dreary funeral rites, and now this sudden dis- 
 closure had been too much. The bell ceased tolling, 
 and he whispered as if to the glowing embers : 
 
 "Her deathbed ! my mother's ! and he forgave ! 
 He, her wronged husband! and proved his love 
 by carrying her son away in his bosom. The years 
 have crept on, and he suffered silently and alone, 
 hiding the truth and the misery. The world must 
 never know that great man's sorrow," he cried 
 aloud, rising. "Money could not compensate. My 
 father," he whispered, addressing the portrait. "I 
 will be silent the hooded ghosts of the past shall
 
 Cf)e (LOcatring 39 
 
 never strip her my mother. Her shame must 
 never be judged by a grinning public. Money is 
 nothing to me I am young, I can earn it !" and his 
 face glowed with the passion of the thought of the 
 new vista of life opening before him.
 
 40 Jloue 3n 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "Now, Miss Grier," whispered Mr. Knowles in 
 my ear, gathering his legs together and straighten- 
 ing up as he bent toward me in the dim light. "It 
 is time for your entrance, and we had better begin 
 picking our way through these seats. "I couldn't 
 expect you to jump the orchestra rail so early in the 
 game, could I?" 
 
 I was in another world, swept away in the pas- 
 sion of another's grief. It was my first sight into 
 the real drama, the reading at home had been vague, 
 something outside of myself ; but this called the very 
 soul out of me, and my hands ached, each finger 
 tired with the tenseness of the firm interlacing, and 
 the voice beside me startled me. I was lost, lost in 
 the world of sorrow, where souls struggled. A 
 trembling seized me, and I followed Mr. Knowles 
 like one in a dream. 
 
 We reached the stage after much winding in and 
 out between the closed, plush chairs. The stage was 
 almost dark, just the fire-glow. It was so arranged 
 that my entrance might not be noticed, the audience 
 must not perceive the new personality. I must come 
 upon the scene gradually, not in the full glare of 
 lights. By the fire-place was a large armchair and 
 a sort of fernery divided it from the piano. I was
 
 Cfte QUeatung 41 
 
 to sing hid away amid the green life and the glow 
 of the fire-log. 
 
 We stood in the wings. I saw only Hulbert, the 
 youth, facing his life ; it grew easy to enter and be 
 a part of that life. It was as my own, and when I 
 read the lines after my cue had been given which 
 ushered me before the footlights, "May I come in, 
 Hulbert ? I have tea and talk for you," I was even 
 eager to enter and lend my aid to the fictitious 
 comfort of the lonely youth. 
 
 It was real to me, all the sorrow, all the puzzling, 
 and when his answer came to my question, "Just in 
 a minute, Helene," I played the role as if it were 
 my life. 
 
 For a second there was a pause as if he hesitated 
 to let me know the secret, just divulged in the let- 
 ters. But it was ended almost instantly, and "Come 
 in, Helene," opened the door for me to enter. "I 
 am lonesome for you, dear, come quickly !" 
 
 In my hands I carried a large tray with coffee 
 cups on it. I placed it, at his words, on a low table 
 on one side of the hearth and back of Hulbert. His 
 eyes followed me as I adjusted each cup, then turn- 
 ing toward him impulsively and reddening with 
 maiden blushes (they were real and not stage ones), 
 I read my next lines. 
 
 "Why, Hulbert, how still you are and how gloomy 
 everything is !" thus questioning, I crossed the room 
 to turn on more light, but he stopped me by catch- 
 ing my dress. 
 
 "Come close, Helene, and tell me if you love me, 
 tell me as you never told me before. Will you, dear, 
 gratify me? Pretend I am ill or dying or any-
 
 42 Lotte 5n 
 
 thing, but tell me once here by the firelight how 
 much you love me." 
 
 "How strange you are, Hulbert," and I could feel 
 a tender seriousness veil my face, a seriousness born 
 of real feeling. I came to him as he begged me, his 
 hand catching mine, drew me, a reluctant me, to his 
 feet, and as I knelt there looking up into his earnest 
 dark eyes, the world was forgotten and just we two 
 lived. 
 
 The ferns back of us acted as a screen, the green 
 life helped me in the part, and the lines came easier 
 than before. 
 
 "I can't seem to find words for the asking, Hul- 
 bert." 
 
 He pressed me to him, close in his arms, and 
 finally lifted my chin to a level with his, looked into 
 my eyes and again pleaded, "Just this once, Helene, 
 tell me tell me?" 
 
 "I'll tell it to you in a song, Hulbert, will that 
 do just as well? It will be easier." 
 
 "Any way, my dearest, only tell me tell me how 
 much you love me." 
 
 I drew from his embrace slowly, his arms were 
 unwilling to let me go. The piano was only a step 
 away, and when I reached it I was still almost within 
 touch of him. 
 
 The brusque voice of Wilbur Knowles entered my 
 dream world just there. 
 
 "Now, Miss Grier," he cried from the wings, 
 "keep your face front as much as possible; you are 
 doing beautifully and following the cues bully." 
 
 I turned my attention to the piano again and my 
 fingers pressed the keys with a certain bashfulness
 
 43 
 
 at first, and then they chased each other nimbly back 
 and forth; at length finding the part of melody, 
 tried to tell of the wonders in the realms where 
 they wandered. Then song burst from me, and I 
 sang sang as I never dreamed that I could. The 
 words flew to my lips as my own and passed from 
 me to that grief-stricken one. I laid bare my very 
 soul. Each word was as a pearl for him, and I 
 strung them together; jewels for the love that had 
 never entered my life. 
 
 "Bravo Bravo!" came from the dark in front. 
 I was utterly unconscious of everything but the life 
 I had entered. It was my life my life and I lived 
 it. Ah! how I lived it! 
 
 After I finished there was silence, and then I 
 turned to him and read, "Don't you understand, 
 Hulbert?" 
 
 There was no answer. I was supposed to throw 
 myself upon his heart and say, "Don't you know 
 how much I love you now?" and I said it with an 
 abandonment that my mother would have marveled 
 at, could she have seen. 
 
 "Yes, Helene," he answered, "I believe you love 
 me I do but dear," he urged, sobs in his voice, 
 "love is the house of joy and the house of my heart 
 is sad, so how can I bid you enter? I don't know 
 how to tell you the story, little girl," he faltered, 
 as he pressed me closer. 
 
 "You must have coffee, Hulbert," I announced, 
 and, rising, I busied myself about the tray, while 
 he sat abstracted. "Here drink this, Hulbert, I beg," 
 and I held out a dainty coffee cup from which the 
 strong aroma of Mocha and Java was rising.
 
 44 Lotie an 
 
 "Not yet, Helena not yet kiss me once more 
 and then go over to the table and read the letter lying 
 open there. When you have read it and know that I 
 am a poor man, and worse than poor, my girl but 
 read, read." 
 
 I went to the table as he asked me. The letter was 
 open as he said, and while he sat there sad-eyed and 
 anxious, overcome by the sorrows of the day, I read 
 and reread the closely written pages. At its close 
 I tremblingly glanced his way, as the cue suggested, 
 then on tip toe I reached his chair-back, and, lean- 
 ing over, kissed his forehead, so drawn into deep 
 creases. 
 
 "Now, I can tell you how much I love you, Hul- 
 bert, with all my soul, with all my being, and and 
 I understand. We will lock it away in our hearts, 
 Hulbert. You and I, dear, will forget the sorrow 
 and only remember where the picture is sweet to 
 think on. I now know you to be the man of my 
 dreams, through the dust and turmoil of life, 
 through the sorrow, the anguish, and the joy I can 
 lean upon you we will forget and forgive together, 
 Hulbert, you and I." 
 
 "Ah, my dearest !" he cried, and drew me around 
 before him, "love is indeed a house of joy," and his 
 dark eyes were filled with new hope and gladness. 
 
 Was it over, that first rehearsal, was it over? I 
 hardly heard the congratulation upon every side. I 
 longed to slip away unnoticed, for my heart was 
 heaving and my blood leaping through each vein. I 
 was glad when I heard a voice say : 
 
 "Good, good, Miss Grier, you will carry the part, 
 all right."
 
 C&e Cleaning 45 
 
 Oh, it had been real to me, all the sorrow, the love, 
 and I was tired. I put away the hand clasps nerv- 
 ously, a child taxed to the uttermost in a new world, 
 and my lips feverishly murmured my adieus as I 
 closed the stage door behind me and stepped out into 
 the cool air. 
 
 "Yes, I'll be on time, Mr. Knowles, and no, I 
 won't forget," and I was away from the babble of 
 voices.
 
 1 
 
 46 Lotoe 3(n 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Absorbed I stumbled along the path to the outer 
 entrance into the street trying to dissect the emo- 
 tions stirring in my breast. Overhanging trees held 
 out long wraith-like fingers above me almost shut- 
 ting out the blue sky in their tender care to weave 
 about me their protection. But I hurried along ab- 
 stractedly. Finally leaving the block of elms with 
 their brooding care, I reached the busy village thor- 
 oughfare. The tiny store windows were rich in 
 colors; silks and laces flaunted their beauty tempt- 
 ingly. Graceful hats, with long white plumes rest- 
 ing on tall racks, were enough to interest any girl 
 with a love for the beautiful. Unseeing I rushed on, 
 for the excited tension of nerves within bore me 
 along at a rushing pace. Suddenly I became con- 
 scious of hurrying feet behind me. A voice in a 
 low persuasive call of my name brought me to a 
 standstill just at the turn of the road that led off 
 the avenue into a less pretentious street, at the end 
 of which our cottage stood. 
 
 I knew deep in my heart whose voice it was. It 
 was a psychological moment the law of attraction 
 was being upheld. I sent shy side glances over my 
 shoulder, but girl-like shut my ears to the music of 
 the voice that came to me on the air with indescrib- 
 able sweetness.
 
 47 
 
 "Miss Grier Oh, Miss Grier!" again I let shy 
 glances from wide innocent girl-eyes wander dream- 
 ily through the trees, as if there seeking the voice. 
 
 "Miss Grier, I say, Miss Grier!" 
 
 It was Charles Grey. 
 
 "My! but I am out of breath trying to reach you! 
 You are certainly hard to catch, but you see I have 
 accomplished the feat!" he exclaimed, as he reached 
 my side. 
 
 I lessened my hurried pace out of compassion for 
 his breathless condition. 
 
 "I just had to come and get it out of my system," 
 he declared, adapting his gait to mine. 
 
 "Get what out of your system, Mr. Grey? I 
 don't understand," and again my eyes went wander- 
 ing. I was full of understanding, but mother Eve 
 was strong within me, and I could not let the chance 
 go by to tempt. I purposely rolled innocent eyes 
 toward him and followed the eyes with a full front 
 view of an innocent questioning face. 
 
 "I wanted to tell you how bully I thought you 
 were in the part," his face was radiant with 
 earnestness, "and to think you never did it be- 
 fore! I just had to follow, and tell you that you 
 captivated us all. Why, the old man is all swelled 
 up over his find, as he puts it." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Grey, I am so glad you liked me!" 
 I burst forth in true village fashion, quite forget- 
 ting the role of mother Eve. I was a girl now, a 
 country girl at that. The momentary flaunting of 
 superior grown up airs was gone. I blushed and 
 stammered in true orthodox fashion and felt all
 
 48 ,otie 3n 
 
 hands and arms, not forgetting the awkwardness 
 of feet. 
 
 "And you, Mr. Grey, you were wonderful. You 
 made me forget it was only a play, and put me in 
 the part utterly. I shall always remember the feel- 
 ing that thumped in my breast at your unhappiness. 
 There were just two things in my heart when I 
 stood in the doorway, a desire to comfort you and 
 an utter obliviousness to all else but the still, fire- 
 lit room, where the fiends of tragedy were loosed." 
 
 Overhead the birds twittered, the pebbles 
 crunched beneath our feet, and the sun lay warm 
 and radiant on the path ahead. There had been a 
 rain the day before, and the air was full of a fresh- 
 ness that made us both draw deep into our beings, 
 its fragrance. 
 
 "You like the country, Miss Grier?" 
 
 "I know nothing else but the quiet of long, elm- 
 bordered lanes and the mystery of the rich meadow 
 lands with the stretch of timber beyond. I have 
 only heard from afar the murmur of even the vil- 
 lage gossips, so to ourselves have we lived, mother 
 and I. Then for variety, I have known the rough 
 winter winds, the snowy tree-trunks, the gladness 
 of living that comes from breasting the wind out 
 in the open, where it whistles through ice-branches 
 like a lost soul. I know nothing else but the coun- 
 try, Mr. Grey. I have read of crowded streets, the 
 flare of many lights, the bustle and roar of tramp- 
 ing feet, the hurrying people in the city. The dear 
 Professor opened my eyes into the world of song, 
 but he also described to me the haunts of artists 
 where they stretch their canvas, where poets sing
 
 49 
 
 their lays, where art struggles for recognition that 
 it may wing above the sordid grind of the every- 
 day. Then my mother, she once lived there, amid 
 the whirl, so I know what lies beyond my village. 
 You see, Mr. Grey, my mother came here just be- 
 fore I was born, and we have lived in our little nest 
 of a home ever since." 
 
 Our eyes met as I pointed ahead where the fence 
 of our garden commenced, and a sudden terror shot 
 though my heart. "But why do I tell you all this! 
 I don't know you, Mr. Grey I don't know you." 
 
 "And why did I follow? It was no easy matter 
 to follow, was it, Miss Grier?" Then we both 
 burst out laughing, while our tongues rushed into 
 safer channels. 
 
 At last the garden gate was reached, and in my 
 imagination I felt the coziness within and the dainty 
 tea table weighted down with tempting tea and bis- 
 cuits, with jam, and gooseberry jam at that. The 
 jam spoke strongest to me. As I held out my hand 
 in farewell, a guilty feeling crept over me, at my 
 unwillingness to share the goodies. I almost felt 
 he knew my thought as he stood tall and dark be- 
 neath the warm gold of the sun. But I did so want 
 to tell it all to my mother alone, this first flight of 
 mine into the great world. I had tried my wings, 
 they ached, and I wanted to creep beneath the soft 
 mother-breast and be still. Did he understand all 
 this Charles Grey, as he clasped my hand? Did 
 the desire so penetrate my being that it spoke to 
 him through my eyes as I raised them to his? It 
 must have been so, else the gentleness of his refusal 
 to enter would not have thrilled me.
 
 50 Lotie Jn 
 
 "One thing, Miss Grier, before I retrace my steps 
 to the hotel. I have a surprise for you. I was born 
 in this village, and my mother and father both died 
 here, leaving me a tiny babe at the mercy of 
 strangers. Will you let me come and see you to- 
 morrow morning early before rehearsal, and will 
 you help me locate the home where I was born ? It 
 is long closed up, will you?" 
 
 I looked my answer, and the garden gate went 
 click, just as my mother opened the door.
 
 C&e QUeatring 51 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The dark shadows of night at last, and the wind 
 still amid the trees. Some days are different from 
 others; they rise before us too beautiful for mem- 
 ory ever to forget, and my day from the rose-tinted 
 morn to the eventide had been filled with beauty. 
 It had teemed with excitement, and now as I lay 
 in my bed I was tired, my limbs trembled, I was 
 restless. I had experienced a mingling of emo- 
 tions. The sea of countenances in the theatre still 
 rose before me, reflecting a cold steely glare of in- 
 difference, then came the haughty face of pride 
 waiting to hurl an unjust criticism upon me. 
 
 They drifted by as I lay in the dark thinking it 
 all over, but I had won. I had journeyed over the 
 path of criticism, past the myriad of unfriendly 
 eyes, to the threshold of hearts. My voice had 
 found their good will, for I had been recalled after 
 my song, and I had sung an aria of the woods. 
 A quaint, weird thing my mother had chanted to 
 me since my babyhood. The words described moss- 
 covered rocks and the little children ferns that 
 stroked them so lovingly, the great trees that held 
 out their arms with fatherly protection, and the 
 quiver of tenderness upon the leaves in the en- 
 chanted lullaby-land. 
 
 Although my mother had been firm in her refusal
 
 52 jLoae 3fn 
 
 to come and see her birdling try its wings, I knew 
 in some far corner she was sitting, and it was to 
 her I sang the old melody, of the dear woods and 
 the trees she had taught me to love. My heart, as 
 I stood before the footlights, was dumb from ex- 
 cess of feeling, yet words were clamoring even as 
 the rain clamors to feed the desire of the thirsty 
 verdure. I was eager to pour out my joy into the 
 dark that stretched wide before me. 
 
 Is it not a blessed relief to voice our desires, to 
 set ringing through the hills our heart-longings, 
 and find a satisfying answer, as comfort blossom- 
 ing like the wild flowers at our feet? I had been 
 full of desire when I stood before that great audi- 
 ence. Would it understand what I would lay at its 
 feet? Each soul has its other self, and that other 
 part, only, understands. Was there one within the 
 sound of my voice that understood? It was my 
 first step in the desert of life, alone. Would I 
 wither and fade by the way and succumb to its 
 scorching as I traveled on? Would I droop and 
 pine under it's disappointing sun-glare? Or would 
 I have patience to know life in the human untruth, 
 and, as my mother, still keep love alive in my heart ? 
 
 All this came to me as I stood before that sea of 
 faces and sought their hearts in song, and all this 
 had followed me home even to my bedchamber. In 
 our youth how freely we long to lay our treasures 
 at the feet of the world. My youth had been spent 
 near, near to the great heart of nature, and so I 
 had much to give, for she had been lavish with 
 me and her messages lay in my soul for the asking. 
 iThere is a mute pathos about the aged who can-
 
 53 
 
 not recall fields of daisies, the chasing of butter- 
 flies, playing hide and seek through tall field 
 grasses, who cannot remember a tree-friend in a 
 far-away youth-day. The Professor had told me 
 the city was filled with such as these, and I longed 
 to carry all this, even more to these hungry ones. 
 
 Mr. Knowles had said they might want me to 
 g& with the company on its departure Monday. 
 "Would I go?" he had asked. I hardly knew. 
 The little bedroom was full of tender recollections. 
 It joined my mother's, and the door stood ajar be- 
 tween. Here I had looked up at the ceiling since 
 my baby days, the ceiling that still held the color 
 of the blue sky, that her thought had put there, 
 with here and there a star. Ah, the nights, I had 
 counted them as I tried to sleep at my mother's 
 bidding, while she sat, busy sewing, ever sewing. 
 The in and out of stitches, the tired hands and 
 the ever patient droop to the serious mouth, how 
 it all, as a vision was before me as my thought 
 went back over the days that memory still cherished. 
 
 I could not tell her of this new offer, not to- 
 night, so I had crept into bed to be alone, to think 
 it out. Suddenly a light flared up in my mother's 
 room, through the doorway it shone over my bed, 
 and I knew sleep had not come to her, either. 
 Something told me to slip in and talk it out with 
 her, and I followed the impulse. There she was, 
 bending over her work basket as she always did 
 when she could not sleep at night. It seemed an 
 outlet to restless nerves that tormented her. I 
 stole up behind her, my bare feet making no noise 
 upon the carpet, and kissed her hair.
 
 54 Hone 3n 
 
 "I can't sleep, either, Mother let me get in your 
 bed and watch you sew?" 
 
 "I don't know why I am so down-hearted, Elsa," 
 she said. "It has been a long, long day, though a 
 proud, happy one, and yet, dear, there is a pain 
 that goes through my heart like a knife, and it 
 hurts," she put her face in her hands and sobbed. 
 
 I was at her side in an instant, I knew the pain. 
 It was hurting me, too, but not in the same way 
 youth was strong in me, and I longed to spread my 
 wings, yet my girl heart was here in the cottage 
 with her. Would I tell her now of the offer? We 
 had shared every thought yes, I would tell her, 
 what in my heart I felt she had divined. 
 
 "I can go with them, mother, Monday; shall I?" 
 
 Bravely she lifted her tear-stained face and drew 
 me into her arms. 
 
 "My little baby you are all I have and all I can 
 ever hope to have, of love just you, with your 
 sweet eyes how can I give you up send you out 
 into the world? How will it treat you? It broke 
 my heart, child, and, oh, it mustn't hurt my little 
 one! You won't let it, will you, Elsa you won't 
 let it? I don't regret my life, child, whatever it 
 has been although it has only been half a life, dear 
 just you and a memory so precious to cherish, 
 that as I look back I would live it all over again. 
 But you, dear, my little girl I have tried to pre- 
 pare you when the time came for you to go, as I 
 knew it would come, some day." 
 
 "And you have prepared me, mother," I sobbed 
 from her shoulder, completely overcome at the sad- 
 ness in her voice.
 
 Cfie EOeatung 55 
 
 She drew from beneath her sewing in the work 
 basket the picture and we bent over it together. 
 
 "You love him, your father, Elsa?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, with all my heart." 
 
 "You must always love him, child, always he 
 was true to all that is dear in man, to a woman. 
 Promise you will always love him?" and her hand 
 nervously held me so that my eyes were on a level 
 with hers. 
 
 "I promise, mother, dear. Now, don't be sad. I 
 won't go I'll tell Mr. Knowles to-morrow not to 
 consider me." 
 
 "But you must go, Elsa, you can't bury yourself 
 here in this little village as I have done. Lonely 
 hearts out there in the world need your voice. 
 Don't something within tell you that, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, but how can I go and leave you here so 
 alone?" 
 
 "I have the picture, Elsa, and you will come 
 back." 
 
 "Oh! I'll earn money, mother, and you shall 
 come to me in the city!" I cried all aglow. In a 
 sudden the glamour of success reached me from the 
 unknown. 
 
 "No, child, I can never go into the world of peo- 
 ple again, I'll stay here and be proud of my darling, 
 and be happy in her happiness." 
 
 I kissed her, but when my lips pressed her cheek 
 I knew that where I was she must be, some day. 
 We wiped the tears away, and like two ghosts crept 
 into bed, her bed, as I had done many times before 
 when the counting of stars in the blue ceiling would 
 not send me into slumberland.
 
 56 JLoue 3n 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 My head ached the next morning, and I slept 
 until the sun touched softly upon my face, quite an 
 hour after my usual time of rising. A deep 
 lethargy held me and my eyes refused to open, the 
 lids lay upon my cheek like lead. It was only after 
 much forcing that the tired, listless, unrefreshed 
 body became conscious of the cool, perfume-laden 
 air that was astir in the room. My thoughts came 
 slowly, almost painfully suddenly from my heart 
 to my brain there rushed an all-absorbing conscious- 
 ness of something, which caused me to jump out of 
 bed. It was as if a tonic had been administered 
 and had penetrated every part of me. Eyes opened, 
 the heaviness fled, my cheeks glowed under the 
 spell of the mystery that sent me bounding to my 
 feet, and thoughts were busy as I hurried to dress 
 in the chill of the room. As I pulled on soft stock- 
 ings and bent over the buttons of my shoes, I 
 could hear my mother's voice crooning a sad little 
 lullaby as she busied herself in the kitchen, but I 
 heard it as a sound from a far-away world it 
 meant nothing vital to my being. I did not re- 
 spond to it as I did some mornings. 
 
 What was this marvelous thing, that was speak- 
 ing to me and utterly obliterating all the dear ties 
 of my girlhood? A week ago I had awakened
 
 Cfje GUeatring 57 
 
 peacefully as a child, drawn back from the lullaby 
 land, into the busy world, wholly absorbed in the 
 sunbeams, that crept into my room to welcome me 
 into a new glad day. Now life was holding a 
 sweeter potion to my lips, and I drank, drank, and 
 became unconscious of the dear old life. Surely 
 fate was leading me into a wonderful world. I 
 was in a mood of worship, an ecstasy of feeling was 
 thrilling through my veins. What was it? It 
 glowed all over me as I finished the adjusting of 
 ribbons and laces, that I might open the door and 
 go forth to meet the dream which had turned my 
 night into day. The sadness that had closed my 
 eyes in the wee small hours was forgotten, and the 
 long night, during which I lay with my mother's 
 hand in mine, was gone. Had my soul entered the 
 outer circle containing that other one, who belonged 
 to me, and was this the thrill that rises from the 
 slight pressure of feet in the garden of love ? The 
 clock ticked cheerily from the book rack in the 
 adjoining chamber, and before leaving the room 
 after I had pinned the last rebellious lock into place, 
 I ran in to see if it were really late, or if eager- 
 ness within my heart had deceived me. 
 
 Just as I entered there was a knock at the cottage 
 door, and I stood silent, that I might hear who 
 had found his way so early to our quiet abode. As 
 I listened the blushes stole over my face, for it was 
 the voice of Charles Grey who greeted my mother's 
 good-morning. He had not forgotten. I laughed 
 for joy and burst in upon them, ere my mother 
 could tell of my laziness. 
 
 "Just a little sip of coffee, Mr. Grey, and I will
 
 58 Lone 3ln 
 
 be ready. We are going to seek Mr. Grey's birth- 
 place, mother," I explained, "and I promised to 
 be ready early but you see I overslept." 
 
 "Yesterday was long and trying," said my 
 mother, as if in excuse of me. 
 
 I left them alone and disappeared into the kitchen 
 where I knew the coffee was waiting me, on the 
 back of the stove. I could not sit down, I was too 
 eager to be off, so I just filled a cup and stood by 
 the window, while I drank it. 
 
 Oh! the deep, deep wonder of woodland groves, 
 the strength to be found in the friendship of the 
 pine trees. I was alive to it all as I tripped gayly 
 along beside the serious man, who a mysterious 
 something within my heart told me would have a 
 voice in the shaping of my future. I had a child- 
 like confidence in the good of everything, the clover 
 blossoms and the hedges along the old lanes, the 
 dear, free-hearted flowers sharing their blossoms so 
 liberally by the way-side, lay on my heart as honey. 
 I lifted joyous, happy eyes to the dark ones of 
 Charles Grey, and they mutely asked if he under- 
 stood the emotions, that were surging through me. 
 We walked along in silence for some time, till at 
 last the gladness bubbled forth in speech. 
 
 "How wonderful it all is, Mr. Grey. We are 
 told about fairy-land from our baby days, but it 
 cannot be more magical than a morning in the 
 country, with the air quite still and the clear blue 
 shadow of the sun-tinged sky above." 
 
 He laughed a glad, appreciative laugh, he saw 
 even as I, and my heart leaped to him and my hand 
 seemed drawn to touch even the hem of his coat.
 
 Cfrc ftOeatiing 59 
 
 I loved life as I had never loved it before, because 
 it had brought me into near contact with him. 
 
 "How far is it to Summit Hill?" he asked. 
 
 "About a ten-minute walk," I answered. "I al- 
 ways walked it in that time when I went to the 
 Professor's." 
 
 At the mention of the Professor I stopped still 
 in the road and faced him, excitement written all 
 over my face. 
 
 "Is your home a brick house, and was it let this 
 summer to a Professor Camden from the city ?" 
 
 "I hardly know the details," he answered, "but it 
 seems to me it was rented to somebody. I haven't 
 seen the man that has charge of it for years. I 
 have never felt more than a halfway yearning to 
 see the place, I hardly liked the thought of it. Such 
 fancies will take hold of a fellow, you know, when 
 both father and mother are gone. A sort of dis- 
 like settled over me as though the old house was 
 responsible, for my having never known the sweet- 
 ness of a real home." 
 
 "It is a dear place to me," I cried, "if it is the 
 house where the Professor lived. How splendid he 
 was and how often have I listened while he told me 
 of the studio life in New York till something within 
 me became unmanageable, something quite differ- 
 ent from my ordinary self. I longed to be a 
 part of the city life; one of the busy hurrying 
 throng. But we must hasten, don't you think, 
 Mr. Grey, or be late at rehearsal. I am afraid 
 they would not excuse me as they would you." 
 
 "Just nine-thirty," he replied, taking a side glance
 
 eo Lotie Jn 
 
 at his watch, so we quickened our steps and ahead 
 of us rose Summit Hill. 
 
 "Is that it?" I cried as the dear brick house was 
 gradually outlined against the sky. "Oh, I hope it 
 is," and then blushed at my impulsive words, they 
 might mean so much. 
 
 Why should I care to discover that the Pro- 
 fessor's last home was the home of this stranger, 
 whom I had never heard of until a few days ago. 
 Why? But it was so, and as we opened the creak- 
 ing rust-hinged gate and picked our -way through 
 the tall weed-grown path, the blood went leaping 
 through my veins. 
 
 Unlocking the door, we entered the darkness of 
 the closely boarded rooms. Everything was as 
 mother and I had left it. We lighted a candle, half 
 burned away, and I guided him through the apart- 
 ments. I glanced up at him now and then, as I 
 described the summer days spent there. A deep 
 softness lay in his eyes as I chattered on. 
 
 A strange happiness possessed me as I walked 
 beside my almost silent companion through the de- 
 serted place. 
 
 At last we reached the large sitting-room that 
 the Professor had loved so well and where I found 
 the pathway that led me into the realm of melody. 
 
 "It is all so new and strange to me, Miss Grier," 
 he ventured, as we faced the dingy blackness of 
 the fireplace and the charred half-burned log silent 
 there; his tone took on a sad regret fulness as he 
 went on, "I was but a babe when I was turned 
 over to strangers, but they gave me the letters that 
 had passed between my parents at different times,,
 
 Cfte aaeatnng 61 
 
 and in that way a little of the tenderness which 
 linked their hearts together came to me and awak- 
 ened in my boy breast the resolution to some day 
 visit the home where I was born. But I always 
 dreaded the coming and the facing of the past. 
 You make the visit more real to me, Miss Grier. 
 It would have all been so vague the dull bricks 
 and the stiff old furniture would have meant noth- 
 ing, without your guiding hand. How can I thank 
 you for so endearing to me the home that has never 
 been a home? You are a queen you waved your 
 wand, and by its magic, unknown feelings in my 
 heart have sprung into being; they might have lain 
 dormant forever if you, in your sweet generosity 
 had not bade them awaken. Now, words written 
 on yellow paper are as living beings. I can see that 
 mother, whose love flowed as a river through every 
 line of closely written sentences, as I never saw 
 her before. The dear home life, Miss Grier, that 
 once permeated these rooms is wafted back to me 
 from the long ago. I shall come again many 
 times." 
 
 His eyes held a far-away expression, and obeying 
 an impulse that was a part of me, having many 
 times so led my dear one, I took his hand and drew 
 him from the house. There was no surprise in his 
 eyes at my boldness; it was as if my hand had 
 always sought his. I turned the key in the lock, 
 and we hurried along to rehearsal. The brisk, cool 
 air brought the cheer back into his eyes, though it 
 never was quite the same between us. The old 
 house with its memories had held out empty arms 
 and called to us both to fill them.
 
 62 Lofee 3n 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In our modest little home everything was astir 
 for the next two or three days. I had told Mr. 
 Alexander that I would go with him. Miss Court- 
 land was still very ill, her life was even in danger. 
 They were all very kind to me, and Mr. Knowles 
 had arranged it so that I could wait and join them 
 in New York three days after their departure, as 
 their time at The Bijou did not begin until the 
 Monday night following. 
 
 Our cottf.ge was always kept scrupulously clean, 
 but during these last days disorder reigned, and 
 when Mrs. Aiken dropped in one morning dismay 
 was written on our faces, for there was a wilder- 
 ness of skirts and petticoats about, undergoing the 
 looking over for rents, while dresses hung upon 
 chairs waiting inspection. How simple they looked 
 in this new reflection of the great city. My mother 
 was quite in a daze how to change the utter sim- 
 plicity of their cut and outline, so as not to draw 
 unfriendly glances upon me. 
 
 In the midst of our trouble stood Mrs. Aiken, 
 the same tall, well-built woman with the glossy 
 black hair drawn back from her high forehead. 
 The primness of outline was there, too; but the 
 restlessness of the eyes was gone and a light shone 
 in them, a tenderness that caused me to put my
 
 Cf)e fflleatting 63 
 
 hand in hers and lead her near the fire, to the chair, 
 that stood empty there. 
 
 "You find us in confusion, Mrs. Aiken," said my 
 mother, "but when a young girl leaves the home 
 nest for the first time, you know what it means, I 
 am sure." 
 
 The fire blazed cheerily and sent strange shadows 
 into the corners of the room. Lines of transfigur- 
 ing light lay on the black hair of the woman sitting 
 in the fire-glow, and sent a deeper shadow over the 
 eyes. They glowed with strange tenderness, as 
 they sought my mother's, mutely asking for the 
 privilege of closer converse. 
 
 "I know your heart is sad, my dear lady," she 
 said, and lingered over the words lovingly as if 
 unaccustomed to speak, with the sweet nearness 
 of love in the accent. They were almost strange 
 words, one could feel, seldom uttered and the ques- 
 tion came slowly, with the hesitancy of strange- 
 ness upon it. 
 
 A smile was in my mother's eyes, and, though 
 they were sad, I knew by a firm tightness about her 
 mouth, that she meant the last days should be joy- 
 ous ones for me, at any cost to herself. I must 
 carry strength in my heart, into my new life, and 
 she knew that happiness was strength. 
 
 "I know the ache in your heart, Mrs. Grier," 
 went on our caller, "the hungry lonely ache that 
 will grow hungrier, as the days pass into weeks and 
 then into months and years." 
 
 Tears were rushing to my eyes, and my mother 
 hastened to stir up the logs upon the hearth to dis- 
 pel the gloom that had entered with her words.
 
 64 Lotie Jn 
 
 She held a handkerchief to her eyes as she con- 
 tinued in the same tender, low, sorrowful tone of 
 voice, "Thank you for listening, Madam, and now 
 I will be myself the storm is over. We will com- 
 mand the ocean waves of emotion to be still." 
 With a quick decisive movement of her head, as if 
 ashamed of the momentary weakness, she went on, 
 "Her clothes, Mrs. Grier, has she clothes?" 
 
 The question came so abruptly out of the midst 
 of sadness that it startled us, and a deep red color 
 rushed to my mother's face. 
 
 "Of course, my dear lady, I know your pride, but 
 forget it in the welfare of your daughter. I had 
 a daughter once, but she died on the eve of her 
 eighteenth birthday, and what a birthday it was to 
 have been. I wasn't a stiff-necked, stern old woman 
 then, but full of the mother-love, and young, 
 young and gay, yes, gay, madam. She died, and 
 I died, too, the real woman in me, and only the hard 
 crust was left. We were rich, husband and I, and 
 my dear little girl had many beautiful dresses. 
 Will you let your Elsa take them with her into the 
 world that she is about to enter? I feel as if my 
 dear one would be glad, and, oh ! it would mean so 
 much to me and, I am lonely." 
 
 My mother leaned nearer and laid her hand 
 gently upon the great lady's knee, and there was 
 silence between us. My heart ached for the stern 
 woman who had laid bare the hidden grief of her 
 being, but there was nothing I could say. I could 
 only stand aside and wait until her white face grew 
 less weary, and the balm of comfort had come from
 
 Ct)c ftOeatiing 65 
 
 the unseen ministering ones. I could not break in 
 upon the holy spell that the opened grave of her 
 sorrow had cast through the room. My mother's 
 eyes sought strength in the reddening flame of the 
 log upon the hearth. From another room came the 
 regular ticking of the clock, and now and then the 
 creak of a board broke the silence. I studied the 
 pattern in the carpet and outlined it with the toe 
 of my shoe. My eyes would timidly search the dis- 
 tressed face, half hidden behind a handkerchief, held 
 there by nerve-twitching fingers. At last it be- 
 came unbearable. This was real grief and it hurt, 
 as it always had hurt, when I innocently touched 
 the cords of my mother's anguish. I stole silently 
 out of the room into the kitchen. 
 
 "Tea! that is the thing!" I would make tea, and 
 it must dispel the gloom. 
 
 I returned as soon as fingers could gather cups 
 and saucers and the fire set the water boiling. 
 They were quietly talking when I reappeared, and 
 I knew my mother had granted her prayer. It was 
 so like her, my mother, at the call of another's woe 
 she could even forget her pride. 
 
 "The faded muslins can be put away now, Elsa,"' 
 she said, "and won't you be fine, my girl ? I know 
 the wearing of the dear dresses taken from the 
 shrine that memory has kept sweet will give you 
 inspiration, and you will sing even better, for the 
 wearing of them. Another's hopes and joys have 
 gone into them." 
 
 In that radiant instant I knew she spoke the 
 truth. The golden minutes slipped by as we drank
 
 66 Lotie 3n 
 
 our tea. When Mrs. Aiken retied her bonnet 
 strings and started home I went with her, and there 
 was the light of happiness in her eyes. It seemed 
 as if the crust of hardness had melted away and 
 the gold of her nature shone clear and beautiful. 
 Thought and action were never far apart from her, 
 and so she had insisted upon my accompanying her 
 home to bring the bundle back immediately that 
 my mother might make necessary changes. 
 
 "It was your singing, child, your tones haunted 
 me all that night after hearing them, and when 
 I slept toward morning a voice out of the dark 
 seemed to speak to me. I was afraid at first, then 
 I remembered I was in my daughter's bed-chamber, 
 drawn to sleep there, that night, by some mysteri- 
 ous influence. Women have strange attachments 
 for places, especially those endeared to them by 
 love a carpet often pressed by loved feet, how we 
 care for and protect it, child, a book with the 
 leaves turned down by fingers now still and cold. 
 So I slept in the bed where my dear one's girlish 
 fancies had roamed free. Miss Elsa, she spoke to 
 me that night and sent me to you." 
 
 There was a motherliness in her tone, and it 
 touched me deeply. 
 
 "Until to-morrow," she called as I left her, driv- 
 ing back in an old phaeton, because of the bigness 
 of the bundle. "I shall want to see you in them, 
 my dear," and she waved me good-bye. 
 
 Youth and happiness were mine and a singing 
 heart, and so necessarily all the worries must steal 
 away. The dear God knew my need, and lo! in 
 the passing of an hour he had clothed me, even as
 
 Cf)e aacatiing 67 
 
 the sparrows. The autumn mists were rising, and 
 in my heart there grew a wonderful purpose, as I 
 was driven along through the dimly lighted streets 
 of the village.
 
 68 Lobe 3n 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I was as one possessed, as I held up dress after 
 dress before my mother. We had finished our 
 simple evening meal and had carried our dessert 
 into the sitting-room to enjoy before the blazing 
 logs. The flavor of cherry tart vanished for me, 
 as I caught sight of the long and heavy-looking 
 bundle resting on a chair by the door. The tart 
 was not to be endured, the big bundle fascinated, so 
 string was recklessly cut and the wrapper torn 
 away. 
 
 "Mother!" I fairly shrieked; "look, look at this 
 blue one." 
 
 It was the last in the pile of neatly folded gowns, 
 and it was blue, the color I loved. I could not 
 resist trying it on, and in the enthusiasm of youth 
 I slipped into my bedroom, spreading the delicate 
 blue silk upon a chair, while I hurriedly pulled but- 
 tons and ribbons apart, let my brown cashmere slip 
 to the floor, and, stepping out of it, I reached for 
 the dainty soft silk lovingly. Then I realized my 
 hair was all askew and something within would not 
 let me don the pretty garment in so untidy a condi- 
 tion. I drew my fingers back and set them to pull- 
 ing out the hair pins. 
 
 What a long time I spent in front of the tiny
 
 Ct)c fflleatring 69 
 
 oval mirror. I seemed to be looking into the eyes 
 of a stranger, and I began to study each feature 
 with deep interest. How white the face in the 
 glass looked, how dark the eyes, yet the lips were 
 full and red. How unlike my mother was the coun- 
 tenance reflected. Her skin was warm and rosy 
 and her figure all grace and curves, while the face 
 staring at me in the oval glass was thin, perhaps 
 the curves and grace would come later, as angles 
 often are the fault of youth. There was the depth 
 of many worlds in the eyes, though, that gazed so 
 steadily at me, and I knew what lay slumbering 
 there. It was a soul straining to be free to take 
 its place in the world of those that have come 
 through desperate grief into the realm of the beau- 
 tiful, where love is the password. I had chosen my 
 task in life, and I would reach the goal, led on by 
 the sunbeams, the summer rain, moonlight, and 
 the sound of many waters. 'Twas a glimpse into 
 the spirit world that lay in the eyes reflected in the 
 glass. All the sorrow of life lay trembling in 
 their depths, and all the courage of a royal faith 
 to endure, shone forth clear and beautiful. 
 
 I shook myself free from the giant forces quiv- 
 ering through me, gently stroking my face as if to 
 claim it as my own once more and withdrew from 
 the spell of things that come when we look too far 
 into realms of the infinite. With sudden eagerness 
 I caught up the dress, and, with a swish of silk, it 
 was over my head. The soft loveliness clung to my 
 figure, and I took a timid step, letting it trail 
 gently behind. My face was aglow with modest 
 delight, and I blushed, as, glancing up, I caught
 
 TO Lotie 3n 
 
 my reflection in the mirror. It was becoming, and 
 my eyes filled with wonder. I smiled, for the dress 
 was mine, and I was beautiful in it. 
 
 How shyly I tiptoed to the door, thinking- to 
 enter and surprise my mother with my grandeur. 
 She was still sitting by the fire-glow, where I had 
 left her finishing the tart. The room was wrapped 
 in an air of coziness, and the plate with the half- 
 eaten sweet rested on her lap, while two fingers lay 
 carelessly near where they had relaxed from keep- 
 ing in safe position the delicate china. She wore 
 a plain, dull blue dress, without a collar, made 
 short in the sleeves, and her hair was piled up high 
 on her head, like a huge coronet of gold. There 
 was a far-away look in her eyes, as if she were 
 held in a subtle spell that she could not withstand, 
 and she stared intently into the glowing embers. 
 
 Softly I crossed the room, fearful that she might 
 feel my presence and too soon be recalled to her 
 .surroundings. Taking a quick step forward, I 
 reached out my hands and one two three, they 
 were over her dream-filled eyes. 
 
 "Dearie, is that you? How you startled me." 
 
 "Prepare yourself, mother, dear, you are to be- 
 hold your daughter arrayed in all her glory, even 
 as the Queen of Sheba are you ready?" and a 
 happy little laugh unclasped my fingers. I came 
 round in front of her and courtesied. 
 
 "Do I please you, mother?" 
 
 "How beautiful you are, Elsa, but you seem to 
 have grown," she said, rising and putting the dish 
 on the table, then walking to the other end of the
 
 QUeatring 71 
 
 room, she looked me all over, her eyes filled with 
 love. "I had no idea you were so beautiful," she 
 repeated. 
 
 "I'm not, mother, it's only the dress. You know 
 my nose is altogether too long and my chin too 
 short and " 
 
 "Hush, Elsa, don't go on like that you are dark 
 like your father, you have his skin, and there is a 
 look of me about your eyes you are quite like a 
 fairy standing there by the hearth, a vision of love- 
 liness that has floated into the room, in orthodox 
 fairy style." 
 
 "I wish I could creep into hearts like that," I 
 said, letting the serious mood have sway for a 
 moment. "How did so much love get into my be- 
 ing, mother?" I asked, going over and putting my 
 hands on her shoulder. 
 
 "Love is your heritage, Elsa, just love, perfect 
 and pure. But come, dearie, let me look at you 
 critically and see what changes must be made, now 
 that you have the dress on. I knew this one would 
 catch your attention because it was blue. It has 
 very good style, the old sleeves come back after 
 ten years of banishment. It will have to be shor- 
 tened, and that is about all." 
 
 "Isn't social position a strange thing, mother?" 
 I said, pulling at her hair as she knelt on the floor 
 to pin up the skirt. 
 
 "How does it look to you, Elsa, dear?" 
 
 "I hardly know, but why should Mrs. Aiken live 
 in all the comfort she does while you sew and 
 work so hard?" 
 
 "Things are not adjusted so unevenly, Elsa, as
 
 72 Lotie 
 
 you think. I have known a love that stretches over 
 all my life, and I have you, while perhaps Mrs. 
 Aiken has never known the deep thrill that comes 
 from the touch of love on the soul, who knows? 
 And until we know, dear, until the mist is cleared 
 away, who can say that things are unevenly meas- 
 ured out in this world. 
 
 "I hope I won't become vain," I said, as I slipped 
 out of the blue dress, my thought ever changing. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, mother?" I added, as 
 I caught her eyes upon me and stepped away from 
 the fluffiness circling me. 
 
 "Of a blue dress that I owned once, child, it 
 floated around me like a soft gauzy cloud, and I 
 remember your father liked me in it better than any 
 dress I had. I used to put it on always, when it 
 was cloudy and rainy; it seemed to bring heaven 
 right in through the rain-spattered window pane, 
 my dear one, would say it made my eyes seem bluer 
 than ever, and he could read the truth of love in 
 them more easily." 
 
 I stroked the flushed face softly, sitting down 
 on the floor beside her in childish fashion. What 
 children we were and how we did love to talk and 
 theorize about things. We had always lived in this 
 unconventional way she, sometimes talking quite 
 beyond my years, but I caught much of life in her 
 words. The darkness had gradually parted before 
 my vision, and the daylight of understanding swept 
 over me as the days of my youth lengthened. As 
 I stood now upon the threshold of womanhood the 
 path of my life stretched before me, illuminated 
 with a light that was alive as with a dear presence,
 
 Clje QUeatring 73 
 
 which I could crush close against my heart. Would 
 I ever forget these last days in our nest of a home ? 
 No no they would follow me everywhere, I 
 knew that, and I laughed at our position on the 
 floor laughed for gladness that these last days 
 should be so full of sweetness and tender talks.
 
 74 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The desolation that swept over me as I lifted 
 my foot to the step of the car, that was to bear me 
 away into the great unknown lying beyond the vil- 
 lage, seemed at that moment unendurable, and yet 
 the words, "Oh! I am so happy!" kept singing 
 themselves through my heart, almost proclaiming 
 that desolation, false, God knows it was not we 
 are so contradictory in our natures we poor strug- 
 gling ones. I was happy, and I was not happy, the 
 green trees and the exquisite day, the unknown 
 drawing me on and on, did fierce battle with the 
 emotions struggling in my breast. Another day 
 and I would be alone upon the highway of life, with 
 no prospect of seeing my dear one, the mother 
 whose love had so sheltered and protected me. But 
 that was to-morrow and I must live the to-day 
 and what was my to-day? My mind flew back to 
 the last hour together the tender lingering of her 
 arm about me and the gentleness of her fingers as 
 they caressed my face, like the action of one blind 
 who would impress more closely the dear outline 
 of loved features. Was it over, the day of my 
 youth, so happily spent in the cottage home, hid 
 away in a village? I impulsively gathered those 
 white fingers in my hand and pressed them to my
 
 Cfre &Heatring 
 
 "Don't, mother don't trace the loneliness over 
 my face, help me or I just cannot go." 
 
 She was strong of will, my mother, and my ap- 
 peal was answered those last few minutes to- 
 gether before I entered the bus that was to take 
 me to the station, in those last few minutes she 
 bravely lifted the lonely veil that had almost man- 
 tled me and my vision cleared. We said our good- 
 bye, there on the tiny porch. At the very end, as 
 she held me at arm's length and looked at me 
 proudly I grew pale, it was torture, this first part- 
 ing with her, and I was frightened at what might 
 lie beyond the enfolding of her arms. 
 
 "Elsa, dear," she whispered, "there is nothing* 
 to fear out there he is in the world of people 
 your father nothing will harm you there, in his 
 world." 
 
 "But, mother," I cried, "I only want you." 
 
 Yet her words comforted, and, as our eyes met 
 for the last time, a deep, deep richness of love lay in 
 their depths; a love that I knew could surmount 
 all distance, that would be near me at every turn 
 of the road, out tJicre. The clumsy bus backed 
 up to the walk and I stumbled in, carrying with me 
 that last wonderful look in her eyes. There was a 
 hush over everything, only the loud call of the 
 driver to his horses broke the quiet. It sounded 
 shrill, harsh, and cruel, breaking the perfect har- f 
 mony, into which we had been lifted. 
 
 "Get up," he lazily called to the scrambling 
 beasts, as they tugged at the huge wheels. Slam 
 went the door, the trees intervened between us, then-
 
 76 Lotie 3n 
 
 the cottage and my mother were lost to view by a 
 quick turn of the road. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken was at the station, and as I put my 
 foot on the step of the train she whispered, "Don't 
 worry, child, about your mother we'll look after 
 her." 
 
 There was only time to thank her with my eyes, 
 for the engine was snorting restlessly and the steam 
 puffed irregularly, rising to the sky in lacy waves. 
 I had not wished my mother's farewell in the un- 
 familiar waiting-room, but there was a magic cur- 
 rent of love between us, and her look seemed upon 
 me as I felt the gradual moving of wheels carrying 
 me along. A strange peace settled over me while 
 I buried my face in the cool, sweet blossoms Mrs. 
 Aiken had pushed into my hands at the moment 
 the porter hurried me aboard. It was a peace that 
 would never leave me, but hover over and under 
 and about me, exquisite as the echo of a song that 
 comes to one from some memory shrine in the 
 heart. 
 
 My first journey in a train! surely I was a 
 country lass, and a sudden shyness seized me. 
 Would others know that I had never before felt 
 the quivering motion of the train, never known 
 what it meant to fly through meadow land, past 
 the mighty prairies or span a slow running river, 
 entangled mid the bushes and thick underbrush of 
 some forest? My satchel lay at my feet with bulg- 
 ing sides, and the flowers were tightly clasped in 
 my hands. How rich I felt with the sleek brown 
 satchel, and then there was my trunk so closely 
 packed with every possible dainty mystery of a
 
 77 
 
 girl's wardrobe. The dresses folded so tenderly 
 away, and fitted into the narrow trays so carefully. 
 I could see the shimmering- laces and delicate colors 
 flit by me, mingling strangely with the autumn 
 tints outside the car window. 
 
 Gradually I was at ease in my new surroundings. 
 Too much of my mother's heart was in the great 
 world, not to have accustomed me to the knowl- 
 edge of life there. We had walked the streets of 
 New York many times in a cozy evening by the 
 fire, and she, ever eloquent with word-pictures, had 
 made it all very real. Soon I would know how 
 real. The car I was in was nearly empty, for sev- 
 eral hours, then gradually each seat was filled. My 
 thoughts were too busy to wander idly along the 
 aisle of the car, in search of sympathy. Many 
 voices spoke to me, and the breaking of home ties 
 made me shun companionship and seek through the 
 narrow window, to keep in view the trees and sky 
 that were the same even as the distance from home 
 lengthened. Presently I would be far beyond the 
 dear farm land, the peaceful scenery, and the glori- 
 ous breath of the out door of the country would 
 be lost amid the tall buildings of a city. 
 
 The hours of the afternoon crept away, and as 
 we were carried past town and village nestling far 
 back in hill or forest, we gradually came nearer and 
 nearer to the river I had loved and longed to see 
 the Hudson. At last we reached its banks and 
 how splendid it was, illuminated by the setting sun, 
 stretching its golden light across the rolling blue 
 of the waves that had the sheen of satin upon them.
 
 78 Lone 3n 
 
 In my enthusiasm I raised the window, and, lean- 
 ing in my usual way on my elbows, I drank in all 
 the glorious dying sunlight. The air was full of 
 dreams, and I could see love upon the waters as 
 we skirted the river's edge. 
 
 How it appealed to me the gentle ebb and flow 
 of that fascinating river not as the ocean would 
 fascinate, I felt sure of that. I longed to see the 
 ocean with a passionate longing I could not ex- 
 plain. I wanted to plunge my whole body into its 
 great arms and feel its waves engulf me ; the ocean 
 was a part of my being, but there was peace along 
 the river bank. Here was a setting for a love 
 dream, with no undercurrent of suffering. 
 
 At once the face of Charles Grey rose before 
 me, and my cheeks flamed with a dull red color 
 spreading quickly to my temples. The cool river 
 zephyrs played over my face, and with my chin in 
 my two hands I dreamed on. He was to meet me 
 when the train pulled into New York. A sudden 
 fear seized me. If he shouldn't come, or if that 
 "if," quite unnerved me, and I let the window down 
 and worked myself into a nervous fret fulness that 
 brought a dull ache to my head. 
 
 It was just an intermittent pain at first, now and 
 then gripping me, but it grew steadily worse as we 
 whirled along. The sun was melting away in the 
 blue clouds, and I fought bravely with the treach- 
 erous pains that darted through my temples. I 
 had kept myself up to an unusually high tension 
 until now, but nerves would stand no more and 
 had rebelled. At last I must yield let them relax
 
 Cfre leaning 79 
 
 and find rest. I loosened the collar of my dress, 
 took off my hat, closed my eyes, shut myself away 
 in the silence and slept, slept until there was noth- 
 ing to be seen but darkness from the window. The 
 porter passed as I opened my eyes, and I asked 
 him how much longer it was. 
 
 "Just an hour, miss." 
 
 How quickly the time had flown by, and how 
 near I had been, after all, to the city life the Pro- 
 fessor had loved. I smoothed back stray locks, and 
 an instantaneous desire to look well was upon me 
 as I followed a lady and her baby to the dress- 
 ing room with my satchel in my hand. She was a 
 tired-looking woman, frail and dispirited, but the 
 baby was round-cheeked and big-eyed, with won- 
 derful yellow curls. I held out my arms to him im- 
 pulsively, as she was trying to wash his face. 
 
 "Let me hold him while you do it," I said. 
 
 "Thank you, miss, I want him all clean and nice 
 to please his father. He hasn't seen him, miss, 
 since he was a tiny baby in long clothes. We lost 
 what little money we had, and I had to stay back 
 there on the ranch with my folks, while he went on 
 ahead, to make a home for us. It's been a long 
 wait, but it's over now, and O, miss, do you think 
 he looks fine? I made the coat myself all by hand," 
 and she held it out for my inspection. It was a 
 rough goods, but each stitch had been put in care- 
 fully, and it hung in warm folds around the strug- 
 gling baby in my arms. 
 
 "And his hair, miss that is the worst. My man 
 don't like curls on a boy, and it will curl, but I just 
 could not cut them off, could you?"
 
 so Lotte 3tn 
 
 The soft little ringlets of gold touched my face, 
 and I knew I could not have cut them, either. I 
 told her so, and she quickly twisted them around her 
 finger while I held him, as if my word about them 
 was a sufficient excuse for their existence. 
 
 "We must soon be there now, and O, I thank 
 you, miss. I never could have gotten us both ready 
 if you hadn't helped, and I want to look nice, too 
 for him," and her eyes were luminous as she 
 left me alone to get myself in order. 
 
 My fingers were awkward with the bumping and 
 jarring of the train, and I had just pinned on my 
 hat when I felt the slowing up of the wheels and 
 the gradual diminishing of speed. Then came a 
 jolt, a sudden stop, and we were in the gateway 
 of the great city. The porter had taken my bag 
 and forged ahead, and I followed in line with the 
 rest. The tired mother, with the baby, was just in 
 front of me, and I was glad of that, because I 
 wanted a glimpse of the man who had gone before 
 to make a home. There he was her man both 
 arms outstretched as she stood on the lower step 
 of the car with the baby in her arms. He had a 
 round, kind face like the baby's, and the little 
 woman was quite lost in his ample embrace. He 
 could care for her, he was so big and strong, and 
 I was glad. 
 
 I had been so absorbed in this couple, meeting 
 after many days, that I had forgotten I was alone 
 in New York and no one was there to greet me. I 
 took the satchel from the porter and bravely held 
 the tears back, hardly knowing who it was I ex-
 
 C[)e ftlleatring 81 
 
 pected to meet me. I had just taken a firm hold of 
 my satchel and was mingling in the crowd when a 
 hand touched mine on the handle. I knew as I 
 raised my eyes that I, too, had found protection in 
 the strong Kand clasp of Charles Grey,
 
 82 Lotje 3n 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Most of the company had sought rooms in a 
 quiet hotel in Forty-second Street between Broad- 
 way and Fifth Avenue, and it had been agreed be- 
 tween my mother and Mr. Alexander that I should 
 come direct to him there, that I might have the 
 companionship of his wife. My mother liked the 
 idea, and so it was here that Charles Grey brought 
 me. He was staying at the bachelor quarters of a 
 friend, and as we turned the corner off Fifth Avenue 
 into the less pretentious side street, he pointed 
 ahead to a tall brown brick building several yards 
 away. It was at an angle from my destination, 
 and he minutely described the location of certain 
 front windows that were his, whence he could see 
 other windows in the hotel where I was to stay. 
 After earnestly describing locations he looked at 
 me, and, strangely enough, I was impelled to glance 
 at him at the same moment. As our eyes met, they . 
 said what lips would not have dared to utter so -' 
 bold are eyes. They reveal the hidden treasures of 
 our hearts and open the door for kindred ones to 
 enter into the holy of holies, where even angels 
 hesitate to tread. My heart warmed to him as 
 we parted at the entrance to the hotel where he 
 relinquished my satchel to a waiting porter.
 
 Clje Pairing 83 
 
 "Have you had supper?" he asked, as he held my 
 hand. "Have a bite with me," he urged impul- 
 sively, tightening his fingers as they clasped mine. 
 
 "I can get a taste of something here, can't I?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "but don't you want to share 
 mine with me?" 
 
 "Not to-night, I am tired and my head is in a 
 whirl. Thank you so much, Mr. Grey, for meeting 
 me. I should have been trampled under foot with- 
 out you." 
 
 As I finished speaking the swinging door opened 
 and the round cheery face of Mr. Alexander faced 
 me. 
 
 "Well, my dear child, you've come. Break away, 
 Grey, and I'll take charge of our traveler now." 
 
 We went to the desk, and a tall, consumptive- 
 looking man handed a boy a key, and, following 
 him, I entered the elevator. 
 
 "I won't go up, Miss Elsa, but I'll send my wife 
 in to see that you are comfortable." 
 
 Soon I was stowed away in a little corner room 
 and the door was closed upon the bell boy, who had 
 settled my satchel on the table in a very business- 
 like manner, and then drawled out : 
 
 "Want ice water, miss?" 
 
 A terrible loneliness enshrouded me. It was 
 seven o'clock in the evening, and from the window 
 a million toy lights gleamed from tall spires. They 
 looked almost like stars, that had dropped from 
 heaven to the buildings below. What a world of 
 brick and stone. No nature here, only the sky 
 above. But the dear sky hovered as a canopy at
 
 84 Lotte Jn 
 
 least, and if there were not trees to wave and 
 beckon me as I eagerly searched the out doors from 
 my window, I could still feel the soft breezes on 
 my cheek though they were not laden with the 
 sweet fragrance of mingling blossoms. 
 
 The street was miles below, and how tiny seemed 
 the moving figures of men and women. There was 
 a difference in the look of everything here. The 
 little square window pane at home held no such 
 wonders as these. There the crickets would be 
 chirping, now and then a farm wagon would hurry 
 past, the dust would fly and cloud the soft air for a 
 moment, but here, there were faces passing to and 
 fro like swarms of bees. An uneasiness was begin- 
 ning to take hold of me, and I shifted from one 
 foot to the other, my fingers began beating a tattoo 
 on the window pane. 
 
 But I could not stir, the greatest of all things was 
 happening. I was getting my first glimpse of New 
 York and the enthusiasm of the artist awoke in my 
 heart. I could always see pictures in everything, 
 and I caught my breath at the bigness of the scene 
 that was spread before me. 'Twas a live canvas 
 and when was I to be painted in, was I to be one 
 of the struggling ones? Would I pose as Tragedy 
 and lay my heart tortured and scarred before the 
 God that held life and love in the hollow of his 
 hand? 
 
 Of a sudden my heart yearned for the sunny 
 room of our cottage and the low voice of my 
 mother. As my heart yearned, tears blotted out the 
 tall buildings, and there was a blur over every- 
 thing. I was beginning to wish I had let Charles
 
 Cfie ftOeatring 85 
 
 Grey stay, and, following the thought, my eyes 
 sought the brown brick where his window opened. 
 Did life look to him from the square pane as it did 
 to me? Was he wondering even as I, where he 
 would be in the picture? A gentle knock sounded 
 at the door, and I turned from the window quickly, 
 glad to get away from the gloomy thoughts that 
 were beginning to rush in upon me. A turn of the 
 knob revealed the kindly face of Mrs. Alexander. 
 
 "My poor child, you are all in the dark, and that 
 is so dreary." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind it, I was so lost in the view 
 outside. It is all wonderful and new to me. But 
 I believe it is time for the lights now. I was be- 
 ginning to see home, out there in the dark," I an- 
 swered. "Do you know where the light is, Mrs. 
 Alexander?" I asked, "I didn't notice when I came 
 in, and it is quite dark now." 
 
 She found the button and pressed it, and in a 
 moment we were flooded in a glare of brilliancy. 
 
 "You have never been in a city before, my dear?" 
 
 "No," I answered, "and I am lonely now for the 
 first time, a sort of terror at the bigness out there 
 was about to engulf me when your knock recalled 
 me. Sit down, won't you?" I urged. We were 
 still both standing by the door. 
 
 "Take off your things and I will." 
 
 "Why, I had forgotten all about my hat and 
 jacket yes, and gloves, too but sit down, and I'll 
 remember that I am at home here now, not just 
 calling," and I laughed at my absent-mindedness. 
 
 "Just think, I had even forgotten the hat pin
 
 86 Lone 3n 
 
 that is still pulling at some stray hairs, as it has 
 been since leaving the train. 
 
 "Won't you call me Elsa?" I begged, a sudden 
 wave of friendliness toward her kindly face pos- 
 sessing me, "then I'll feel less alone, I know." 
 
 "Elsa! 'tis a beautiful name and won't be hard 
 to say. Are you going to use it on the stage?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," I said as I pulled out the pin that 
 had entangled itself so awkwardly in my hair. "It's 
 off now, and I feel more at home already isn't it a 
 funny little hat?" I cried, holding it up. 
 
 "Such an odd turn to the rim, but quite the style 
 in the country and guaranteed to be the proper 
 shape and hue," and again I laughed. 
 
 "Have you had anything to eat, that's the ques- 
 tion now, I think. But I won't ask, I'll just order 
 something while you are getting acclimated, that's 
 a good word to express it, hey, my dear?" and she 
 bustled about in a way that made me feel I had 
 known her always. 
 
 The room was plain, painfully unattractive after 
 the delicate furnishing of my bed-chamber at home, 
 but I rather liked the round dark mission table and 
 the little desk by the window. I silently promised 
 myself to write a long, long letter home before I 
 slept. 
 
 A narrow, white iron bed stood in the corner, a 
 rocker and two other chairs and a bureau completed 
 the furnishing of the room. I shyly watched Mrs. 
 Alexander in the glass of the dresser as I smoothed 
 back my hair. She was a little woman with a look 
 of home about her that I liked, and I was glad she 
 would call me Elsa. We chatted merrily together
 
 Cfie KJeatring 87 
 
 while I nibbled at chops and biscuits and a generous 
 piece of pie, and when the last mouthful had disap- 
 peared she rose to depart. 
 
 "I really must go, Miss Elsa," she said. "I have 
 a hungry man in there, a man with an appetite, and 
 you know, and if you don't, heed what I say look 
 after his appetite when he appears, my dear." 
 
 Why should I blush? But I did, and I caught 
 the faintest sign of a merry twinkle in her eye as 
 she turned toward the door. 
 
 "Now put on a loose wrapper, child, and make 
 yourself comfortable if you are going to write, as 
 I know you will. It isn't so far back that I have 
 forgotten my first night away from my home folks, 
 and I remember I sat up most of the night writ- 
 ing, but you mustn't do that. We have rooms close 
 to you, right next door, and if you get frightened 
 just rap on the wall and I'll come right in." 
 
 I thanked her and nodded my good night. I was 
 glad to be alone again and yet grateful that she 
 had come to help me live that first awful lonely mo- 
 ment, which had swept over me at the sight of the 
 many high buildings and the pavement so far below 
 my window. The door had hardly closed when the 
 porter brought my trunk. It was like the coming 
 of a friend, that square brown trunk. As I turned 
 the key in the door I shut the world out, and my- 
 self in, to think about everything all over again, and 
 I was glad to be shut in alone. 
 
 I opened the trunk eagerly and laid my night 
 apparel ready on the bed, and, unbuttoning my 
 dress, slipped into a wrapper, then settled myself at 
 the little desk to tell it all to her, back there in the
 
 quiet village. I knew she was doing the same thing, 
 and that our messages would pass each other. 
 
 Was she sewing as she had been that other rest- 
 less night? And would she seek the picture now, 
 as then? An understanding of her loneliness came 
 as I waited, pen in hand, eyes following the pattern 
 on the lace curtains. But her memories would be 
 there and I would write often, I knew that. 
 
 "Mother," I whispered, "I am with you in 
 thought, and I want you to know it." 
 
 I closed my eyes, and there in the silence I felt 
 she heard and was content. It had not been a 
 mistake, my coming. I was not drifting aimlessly 
 about, but watched over by a love that had never 
 failed me and never would, as I would never fail 
 it. I had to cuddle very far under the covers that 
 first night, for I felt exceedingly small in the cor- 
 ner room, so far above the dear earth below; but 
 I was tired and soon slept in spite of the strangeness 
 of everything slept and found my mother's arms 
 in the lullaby-land where the fairies that put us to 
 sleep carried me.
 
 Cf)C Kleafcing 89 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "Well," said Wilbur Knowles, as he rushed into 
 rehearsal the morning of the day I was to make my 
 appearance in a New York theatre. "Well, it is 
 ludicrous that the whole company must sit around 
 and wait for those blasted stage hands. Gad ! but 
 I'd like to put the whole beastly union in the sweat 
 box and see how they'd like this nerve racking busi- 
 ness." 
 
 We were to have a full stage setting, and we had 
 been sitting on boxes and odd chairs since ten o'clock 
 and it was now past eleven, while he had skirmished 
 around for the property men to get things going. 
 
 "Say, Grey, let's do it ourselves," and he jerked 
 off his coat and Grey and the rest of the men fol- 
 lowed suit, and soon it began to look as if we would 
 get a rehearsal after all. 
 
 We knew our lines and were well up in the busi- 
 ness, for we had been working faithfully, so the 
 rehearsal proceeded without further interruptions, 
 and Mr. Knowles' nerves gradually settled into 
 something like calmness. He was a very nervous 
 man and seldom attained the perfect freedom of a 
 serene condition. He was all over the place gen- 
 erally, especially when he was getting his lights and 
 shades to the picture. 
 
 I knew my way between the hotel and the theatre, 
 and that was all I had seen of New York. It meant
 
 90 otie 3n 
 
 work for me to step into Miss Courtland's place 
 and do her part. I was not an actress, though I 
 loved the thought of lending myself to the portrayal 
 of life. I worked hard, taking little sleep, and, as 
 Mr. Knowles watched us at that last rehearsal, I 
 knew he had seen the tired lines around my eyes. 
 When it was over and I was about to hurry away 
 he was by my side, whispering: 
 
 "Take a good long sleep, Miss Elsa, it will be 
 trying business to-night. There is a full house, too, 
 and I want you to make good, little girl." 
 
 As I retraced my steps to the hotel I realized the 
 full truth of his words. I was weary and tired all 
 over. I threw myself on the bed and slept soundly. 
 When I awoke a delicious consciousness of rest lay 
 over me, all the tired feeling was gone. I stretched 
 my arms far above me, reveling in the sweet free- 
 dom from weariness. That first dear moment of 
 consciousness, when the soul returns from its wan- 
 derings and again enters the body, awakening it to 
 renewed vigor, is a wonderful moment. That mo- 
 ment of awakening, when we clasp the threads that 
 bind us to this world, and begin again the unwind- 
 ing which sets the soul free that it may soar in 
 the beautiful daylight of consciousness. 
 
 I had planned to get a glimpse of the Professor's 
 studio this afternoon. I should draw in the har- 
 mony of life and sing better on this, my first ap- 
 pearance as an actress, after such a communica- 
 tion. I had given the visit up when I had fallen 
 asleep, but it was still early. I felt so completely 
 rested that I decided to carry out my plan. In 
 dressing I put on a simple gown of my village days,
 
 Cfre 
 
 one he had seen me wear. It made me feel I could 
 find him better in the strange surroundings of his 
 studio, where only his spirit now hovered. 
 
 I sought the address on a little card written by 
 his own hand, hurried out into the thoroughfare. 
 It took me past Twenty-third Street, and there I in- 
 quired of a policeman. He directed me into one 
 street and to the right on another. At last I saw 
 a rather shabby building ahead of me, worn and 
 weary-looking, as I had been a few hours ago. A 
 small box of an elevator took visitors to and fro. 
 I stepped in, and we slowly crept to the top, and 
 there I was left in a narrow dark hall. I groped 
 my way as the elevator boy directed and timidly 
 knocked at a door he designated. The door was 
 opened by a foreign-looking man. I knew I should 
 find some one occupying the place. I had carefully 
 arranged in my mind what I should say to win me 
 a few moments of silent thought in the room, where 
 so many bewildering revelations had sought my 
 teacher, now cold in death. But this individual that 
 bade me enter was fierce-looking and unapproach- 
 able. How could I persuade him to my purpose? 
 
 I had never thought of a jarring element where 
 the Professor could only have left harmony. This 
 new tenant was enveloped in a long black coat, held 
 a violin case in his hand, probably he was just 
 going out, as his hat lay ready on a chair near by, 
 and so my intrusion was ill-timed. But I had 
 come far and could not forget what I had wished 
 to gain, so I sat down as he ungraciously motioned 
 me to do. Neither of us spoke for some minutes. 
 I was trying to find a way to begin, and he, bound
 
 92 Lone 3n 
 
 silent by the strangeness of my actions. At last I 
 drew in a nervous breath, timidly looked up, found 
 two glowing eyes turned fiercely upon me; 'twas 
 the fierceness of a nature keenly alive rather than 
 an unkindly expression, for he had become con- 
 scious of my embarrassment. The look gave me 
 speech, whatever its character. I stood up fear- 
 lessly before him and waved my hand around the 
 room. 
 
 "Isn't this the studio apartment where Professor 
 Camden lived?" I almost whispered the words 
 an awe had crept over me, for I felt his kindly spirit 
 very near. 
 
 "Yes yes, my dear, this was his studio, just as 
 he left it, furniture and all." 
 
 In my absorption the familiar tone of his address 
 was quite lost, and I listened, my face full of eager- 
 ness as he continued: 
 
 "I had a studio farther down the hall when he 
 was here, but I bought his furnishings and took his 
 lease when he died." 
 
 "Oh! isn't it beautiful that you could? He was 
 such an inspired one !" I cried. ''His genius revealed 
 truth for truth's sake. He wandered through his 
 day here, like a spirit straight from the world of 
 harmony and peace, and was not bewildered by the 
 tumult and disorder where he walked, but drew a 
 pale veil of beauty over the imperfection in the val- 
 ley, where he found himself. Those whose fingers 
 have touched his, can dream dreams of perfection, 
 catch fragmentary glimpses of a dim, mystic light, 
 that is slowly rising to clear our vision, turning 
 anguish and sorrow into a God of love that is being
 
 SUeatung 93 
 
 shaped out of the mist and darkness where we grope, 
 even as the dear Professor." 
 
 I had forgotten my listener as I spoke surely 
 the spirit of my teacher was near me for all timidity 
 left me as we conversed. Ease of speech came to 
 us both, and a soft graciousness spread over his 
 countenance, replacing the forbidding fierceness of 
 his reception. 
 
 "You are new to New York?" he questioned, 
 leaning toward me and relinquishing the violin case. 
 
 I looked at him startled. Had I so quickly ex- 
 posed my village rearing? 
 
 "I have been here only four days," I answered. 
 "But why do you ask? Do I wear a village garb? 
 To think they told me this costume was the latest 
 cut!" and I laughed. "That I should be so taken 
 in !" I added, and I met his look freely. That laugh 
 and simple confidence established a quick friendship 
 between us, at least he made it serve such an end. 
 
 "Do you want me really to tell you why I asked ?" 
 he said, leaning still nearer, his elbow on his knee, 
 his keen eyes riveted upon me. 
 
 "Yes, oh, do !" I urged ; "the knowledge may keep 
 me from further exposure, and I don't want to heap 
 ridicule upon the village I call home." 
 
 My face was full of mirth at such disaster to a 
 nobody from nowhere. Of course he could not see 
 how amusing the thought was, so I had my fun all 
 to myself. 
 
 "After a while I'll tell you. Take a look around 
 the studio now, and let us speak of the little I know 
 about your Professor." 
 
 iWe chatted on over the quaint studio ; here were
 
 94 Hone 3n 
 
 pictures of the old masters, busts of especially loved 
 poets, and between the windows stood the piano. In- 
 visible fingers drew me to it, and my hands sought 
 the white keyboard impulsively. 
 
 "May I sing in here just once?" I cried, and mar- 
 veled at my boldness. He was sitting in the far 
 corner of the room now, and silently nodded his 
 eyes expressing their consent in a new language to 
 me, but one in which I felt no interest, so absorbed 
 was I in a deeper emotion. Once more my lips 
 framed the tender words of Tosti's "Good-by," as 
 they did on that other day. Oh, such a peace, such 
 utter oblivion descended upon me as I sang, that I 
 forgot my surroundings. 
 
 The strange, strange studio, the tempestuous man 
 sitting in the dimness were as nothing to me. I 
 was back in the old brick house, let furnished. Once 
 more I was waiting for my mother's summons to 
 that other room where he lay dying Professor 
 Camden and now I was here fingering the keys of 
 his piano, sending a quiver through his beloved 
 studio, the words of a song his lips had taught me 
 to sing. 
 
 "Isn't it sweet that cherished memories linger in 
 our hearts?" I murmured, as the last word of the 
 song left my lips, "that they linger, to sweeten all 
 the days of our lives, and at some needed hour we 
 can lift the lid of our treasure box, as I have this 
 hour? Dear jewels, given to comfort and bless!" 
 
 A knock at the door recalled me to the lateness 
 of the hour. 
 
 "Oh, I must go !" I cried, suddenly conscious that 
 this was the eve of my first appearance in New York.
 
 Cfte WtMng 95 
 
 "You know what a first night means, don't you? 
 But I needed what I have found here to make it a 
 success," I added. 
 
 "I will tell you now why I thought you new to 
 New York," he answered, closing the door that had 
 unlatched, and standing in front of it. I was still 
 sitting at the piano, my fingers lay warm upon the 
 keys, my eyes still held the visions of the past in 
 them. 
 
 "Do tell me!" I said, forcing myself into the 
 present. 
 
 "You want so much out of life, my dear. Your 
 nature is calling so loudly. You are so full of 
 enthusiasm, you are unwearied in your eagerness. 
 You have ideals, and believe in them; to sum it all 
 up, you are alive, and not dead like most I meet, but 
 you need love to help you on." 
 
 He was at the piano now, but I was still absorbed, 
 and would not recognize the jarring element in the 
 dear Professor's room. 
 
 "I must go," I said, "and I do thank you for let- 
 ting me feel at home here. It is almost as if my old 
 friend had given me welcome. You are right about 
 the ideals. I have them, and I shall keep them un- 
 sullied in the bewildering mazes of your city. Oh, 
 I am glad I am a country girl to you, if to be that 
 means to be radiant with the beauty of truth." 
 
 He picked up -his violin, as I arose and buttoned 
 my coat. 
 
 "I will go with you, if you don't object," and he 
 opened the door and waited until I passed out. As 
 he closed it I saw written on the glass Max Frieder, 
 violinist.
 
 96 Lotie fln 
 
 "I am coming to see you to-night," he announced, 
 "to hear you sing. What theatre ?" he questioned. 
 
 "The Bijou," I answered dully, feeling no in- 
 terest. 
 
 "I shall be there. Will you let me know you bet- 
 ter, Miss Grier, did you say?" 
 
 "Yes Elsa Grier," I innocently added. 
 
 "Are you going to the theatre now, or to your 
 hotel?" he asked. "I can start you on your way, if 
 I know." 
 
 "To the theatre, Mr. Frieder," I said, using his 
 name for the first time. "I shall be glad of guid- 
 ance in the right direction. I am afraid of the turns 
 to the left and right; another evidence of being a 
 country lass, you see." 
 
 I accepted his friendliness because I had found 
 him in the Professor's rooms, and felt nothing wrong 
 in such a meeting 'twas as though we had met 
 through him. We hurried along through the now 
 crowded streets. It was growing dark, and shadows 
 lay close to the tall buildings. 
 
 "I shall see you again, Miss Grier," he said, as 
 we reached the block where the theatre stood, and 
 his gloved hand was outstretched for mine, while his 
 eyes glowed like two coals, so earnest was their ex- 
 pression. I read nothing in their depths but a soul 
 awakened, and keen to the joy of living. I felt no 
 desire for food as I entered the side entrance to the 
 stage door, but found my dressing room silently. 
 I could not eat with these emotions stealing over me, 
 so I sat in the dark in a large lounging chair, that 
 tempted, to let thoughts have their way.
 
 Cfte iKIeatnng 97 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Gradually the dim twilight that filled the room on 
 my entrance gave way to the deeper blackness of 
 night. How I enjoyed the great easy chair. The 
 trailing of the long shadow fingers charmed me, as 
 they crept over the wall, at first faintly outlining the 
 dressing table and the photographs standing there, 
 then obscuring everything in a total darkness that 
 even my eyes could not penetrate. Their gentle way 
 of caressing each picture and touching my dress like 
 a benediction fitted into my mind. 
 
 At six-thirty the door was pushed gently ajar and 
 a voice said : 
 
 "Are you there, Miss Elsa?" 
 
 It was Liza, a negro woman Mr. Alexander had 
 engaged for me as maid. 
 
 "Yes, Liza, I am here dreaming in the dark. 
 Come in. It is a good thing you came promptly, 
 because I was relying upon you to rescue me from 
 wandering too far away in my thoughts. You had 
 better go next door and get me a cup of tea and 
 some toast. I don't want to grow faint as evening 
 lengthens. I cannot eat much, I am too excited, and 
 then we are to be entertained afterward at some club. 
 Just get tea, and never mind anything else now, 
 Liza." 
 
 She turned up the lights, and was gone. She
 
 98 Lotie 3n 
 
 promised to be a treasure, I could feel that. She 
 had quiet ways and was remarkably intelligent. The 
 make-up troubled me more than anything else. It 
 was difficult to put the paint on evenly and the trick 
 of lengthening my eyebrows took an amount of time 
 that horrified me. 
 
 One of the women of the company had given me 
 a long lesson, and Charles Grey had added the fin- 
 ishing touches. Yet it was the part of the prepara- 
 tion that I disliked most, and I started in on it first 
 to get it over with and out of the way. I had my 
 cheeks like two roses, when Liza returned, tray in 
 hand. This she put on a chair, so between the add- 
 ing of a dash of rouge and a line of crayon, I sipped 
 my tea. 
 
 The stage, on this, my first appearance in New 
 York, was set for a summer fete. Mr. Knowles 
 had taken great pains with this opening scene. He 
 had studied the lights and shades till the harmony 
 of color was perfect. Nature had found her way 
 through doors and windows, and gave of her loveli- 
 ness liberally. A fountain sent perfumed sprays into 
 a pond where lilies nodded sleepy heads. There was 
 an arbor effect upon one side. Flowers and grow- 
 ing plants were everywhere, even springing up on 
 the winding paths at unexpected corners. 
 
 The gown I was to wear was a delicate pink. It 
 would blend into the dark rose tints of the growing 
 flowers in the garden. When I stood ready there 
 was a knock at the door. It was Mr. Grey. He 
 opened it at my bidding. A look of surprise stole 
 ' over his countenance as he surveyed me resplendent
 
 99 
 
 in the shimmering silk that held the values of rose 
 petals as it fell gracefully about my figure. 
 
 "It is very becoming, you quite startle me," he 
 said. "May I wish you luck?" and he stared in- 
 tently at me for a moment, then, as if recalling 
 himself, added, "I came to show you this," and 
 held the evening paper toward me. "Just look it 
 over, it will give you confidence to know what thew 
 are telling the public about you Alexander never 
 puts it on, either, as some managers do." 
 
 "I can't sit," I said, laughing, "I might muss it," 
 and I made a grimace at my dress. "I can read 
 standing just as well," and I sent a merry little 
 twinkle into my eyes, then glanced up at him. "It's 
 quite like my first party, or a birthday dance, and 
 you - " 
 
 "I am your first beau eh, Miss Elsa?" 
 
 After so reckless a remark he dared a second look 
 into my eyes, and disappeared, as he should, for I 
 was blushing furiously even redder than the paint. 
 I looked at Liza to see if she had heard, but her 
 face was like a bronze statue, still and quiet. If she 
 had noticed she made no sign. 
 
 I opened the paper wide and read, "There are a 
 number of attractive features about the play at the 
 Bijou to-night. One of them is the new leading 
 lady. Born just out of New York, yet it is her 
 first appearance here. Circumstances gave her a 
 taste for the stage, although it is as a singer she 
 first thought to appear in New York. The two most 
 interesting facts about her are she is young, good 
 looking, and as yet unspoiled by contact with a 
 selfish world. The regular patrons of the Bijou are
 
 ioo ' none Sn 
 
 promised a treat when Elsa Grier steps on to the 
 stage, and when she casts the spell of her voice upon 
 the audience she will win hearts in spite of being a 
 stranger and unknown to the theatre-going public." 
 
 I had never seen my name in a real newspaper 
 before, the two sheets published daily at home could 
 hardly be called a paper, and it made me draw a 
 deep breath. I could not fail to-night no, not after 
 visiting the Professor's studio, and surely not after 
 he Charles Grey, had thought me beautiful. I 
 could not disappoint him or Mr. Alexander, who had 
 given me this opportunity. 
 
 Another knock at the door, this time it was a 
 long box. 
 
 "Oh, open it quickly, Liza!" I cried. "Roses 
 and such roses !" 
 
 Our country blooms would look small beside the 
 wonderful f ull-petaled blossoms tucked away so care- 
 fully in that florist's box. Who could have sent 
 them? no card was in sight. It was only after 
 I had lifted the last blossom out of the box that it 
 came into view, and then it was almost hidden away 
 amid green leaves. Who ever gave them, wanted 
 the soft rose-petals to charm and bewilder me, be- 
 fore the giver of so much loveliness disclosed his 
 name. 
 
 There it was, a thin white envelope. I tore it 
 open, drew out the card, and read "Max Frieder." 
 What could it mean, his remembering me ? It sent 
 a thrill of delight through me. It was all so new, 
 this homage and attention that was coming to me. 
 
 "I'll put one in my hair, Liza, if you will shorten 
 the stem. It is dark red, and will blend with the
 
 Cfre ftOeatifng 101 
 
 dress all right. I would wear it, though, if it did 
 not harmonize. Don't you think kindness is always 
 harmonizing, even if done up in disagreeable colors, 
 Liza? I do. There, it just fits in that wave of 
 hair, back of my ear, and will be whispering to me 
 all the evening." 
 
 Max Frieder, sitting near the back row, made the 
 same reflection as he \vatched the slender girl fig- 
 ure move here and there about the stage. The cur- 
 rent of his feeling was powerful, his eyes glowed 
 with desire to pick this living blossom and wear it 
 in his bosom. 
 
 "Last call !" came echoing through the thin parti- 
 tion, as I stood admiring the effect of the rose in 
 my hair. It made me appeal impulsively to Liza, 
 standing mute and solemn-eyed, by the window. 
 
 "You don't think I'll fail do you, Liza?" 
 
 An awful fear clutched at my heart. Before she 
 could answer, Mr. Alexander's head was in the door- 
 way and his face was aglow with smiles. 
 
 "My! what a vision of loveliness, Miss Elsa. I 
 just dropped in to tell you to keep up your nerve. 
 There is a fine audience, not one of your cold first 
 nighters, but a host of real lovers of the drama. I 
 can size them up in a minute, you bet, and I gave 
 the whole lot a good looking over before coming 
 here. Just you go ahead and be your own earnest 
 self and forget about the feathers and gew-gaws in 
 front. I'm banking on you, Miss Elsa sort of 
 feel I found a real pearl back there in that off-the- 
 map village of yours." 
 
 "I won't disappoint you, Mr. Alexander. You 
 have been too kind."
 
 103 Lone 3tn 
 
 "You said those words once before, my dear. 
 You made them good then, and I believe in them 
 now. I don't make mistakes often. That earnest 
 little body of yours can act, and when you sing it 
 won't really matter much how you act, anyway, eh, 
 my girl ?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Well, good luck! The orchestra has begun and 
 I must get back where I belong," he said, as he dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 He had come in like a sudden whirlwind, but he 
 left strength behind in his words. They turned my 
 thought away from failure. Liza went with me to 
 the wings and I stood waiting. 
 
 It was over, my entrance. Yes, and quicker than 
 I can tell about it, I was on the stage. I went 
 through the scene, never missing a cue; that was 
 what had worried me most, the cues. I forgot all 
 about them as the act opened. I found myself in 
 the midst of merry f casters. He was there, Charles 
 Grey, and it changed from a play for me into a real 
 fete. My imagination was my dearest possession. 
 It opened up vistas for me that whirled me along 
 with events as real as if I had been whisked off 
 this planet on to another, where I was somebody 
 else, somewhere else. 
 
 Every one was light-hearted and gay. The ar- 
 bor and flower beds lost their artificial look under 
 the dim, shaded lights. I was bewitched. I teased 
 them all with my merry ways, and him especially, 
 as I did when we walked under the elm trees; but 
 he was bolder here in the part, and took liberties 
 that startled me, that sent me to my dressing room,
 
 Cfre Eaeamng 103 
 
 as the curtain descended, with heart beating wildly. 
 
 We were recalled, and Mr. Alexander led me on 
 to the stage. Oh, how grateful I was to him for 
 doing that! I dreaded the calling before the cur- 
 tain, and he knew about it, for I had confided my 
 fear to his wife; how I thanked him in my heart! 
 The play continued until the curtain went up on the 
 last act. It was the scene I had counted on most, 
 for I was more at home in song than anywhere 
 else. 
 
 Could I have done it without Charles Grey? I 
 hardly think so. There was strength in his mere 
 presence in the picture when I appeared. The touch 
 of his hand calmed me and his eyes melted away in 
 mine, for they spoke to me of many things as we 
 went through our parts. 
 
 He caught my hand and whispered in my ear, 
 as I was about to leave the stage after the curtain 
 had gone down ; it was the first dark moment before 
 the stage hands take possession of everything. "Let 
 me see you home ?" and I consented. 
 
 I had forgotten the supper, as had he. We both 
 recalled it later as we met on the street in front 
 where the party awaited us. 
 
 I don't remember the place to which they took 
 me. I was conscious only of the dim lights, the bab- 
 ble of voices, the cozy tables, and the music that 
 tried to drown the noise of busy tongues. There 
 were eight of us, and, upon entering, I was sepa- 
 rated from Charles Grey, but in the arranging he 
 held the seat beside him and motioned me there. I 
 came at his bidding, much to my dismay. But so
 
 104 Lotie 3fn 
 
 many things were happening to me this night of 
 nights that I soon forgot the incident. 
 
 "And now for the toast of the evening," said 
 Wilbur Knowles from the far end of the table. The 
 supper was well on its way, and every one was 
 smiling with that content which marks the satisfac- 
 tion of the inner man. 
 
 "Here's to the success of our songbird, Miss Elsa 
 Grier." 
 
 "I drink to that," said Mr. Alexander, rising to 
 his feet, and his dear lady threw me a kiss across 
 the table, as they clinked glasses. I was being 
 whirled along, I knew not where, only the ecstasy 
 was with me, and of that I was conscious. 
 
 We walked to the hotel under the stars, my arms 
 filled with the roses of Max Frieder, and my thought 
 with the man at my side. It was over. I was 
 really out in the great world alone. Would fate con- 
 tinue kind to me and lead me in pleasant paths and 
 by the still waters of peace? There was a tender 
 pressure on my arm. In two dark eyes a look that 
 gave me faith. I turned my face upward to the 
 stars and was unafraid to take the next step for- 
 ward.
 
 Ct)e ftOeafcing 105 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The clodc on the mantel of my room chimed the 
 hour of two as I entered. I had found two letters 
 under the door, and as I turned on the light I dis- 
 covered a box on the table. I was eager for one 
 of the letters. I knew the dear handwriting. It 
 was hers my mother's. I needed her words before 
 I could really hug the joy of success to my heart. 
 The chief pleasure in praise is the certainty of some 
 worth, and this I wanted to come from her. I felt 
 wide awake, as if it were the early morning hour. 
 I went to the window. Outside, the great world 
 slept. At far intervals tiny lights sent out steady 
 rays, drawing home, perhaps, misguided feet. The 
 sky was an intense blackness unbroken by the flicker 
 of a star. I had never known the terror of life, and 
 the dark heavens only awed me. They could not 
 shadow the love I felt over, above, and around me. 
 'Twas but a deeper glimpse into the depth of life. 
 
 Perhaps sorrow was in the blackness, but I knew 
 love was there, too, and I was not afraid. Leav- 
 ing the window, I turned on the lights over the dark 
 oak dresser. The tiny room was now in a blaze, 
 and revealed to me a smiling face in the mirror. 
 My hair hung around the face reflected there, in 
 careless ripples. Just enough of my make-up clung
 
 106 Lotte 3tt 
 
 to my cheeks to give the faintest tinge of color, and 
 there was youth in my eyes. 
 
 The rose still nestled in my hair, but it drooped, 
 and was fading. I had forgotten its existence. 
 The charm of its beauty had not followed me into 
 the sanctity of my bedchamber. Poor, faded rose 
 it had given its life to me. I pulled it out of my 
 hair and tenderly stroked the velvet petals. Noth- 
 ing had been withheld. Its sweet odors had sur- 
 rounded me, and the tender pressure of its leaves had 
 given courage. 
 
 "Dear rose sleep you have mingled your life in 
 mine," I whispered, as I stood gazing at the reflec- 
 tion in the mirror. Suddenly my lips quivered. 
 Then, after a silent struggle, my eyes closed over 
 welling tears, for I was alone on the evening of my 
 triumph. But I had the letter, and hurrying into a 
 wrapper I tore it open. 
 
 "Elsa dear," and I was lost in the closely written 
 pages. I leaned back in the chair, smiling and sat- 
 isfied once more. What a beautiful night it had 
 been. What a beautiful night! I hugged my let- 
 ter to my heart, and was it fancy that I felt the ex- 
 quisite nearness of her presence? My eyes would 
 constantly revert to the white pages to find sentences 
 here and there that particularly pleased me. What 
 dear letters she wrote! I had never known before 
 the charm of her written thought, and I re-read from 
 the pages before me eagerly. 
 
 "Betsy is well," she gossiped, "and lies at my feet 
 constantly. He seems to have lost his desire for 
 roaming about at night. It must be because you are 
 not here, and he feels the responsibility of keeping
 
 Cfre Ocatifng 10? 
 
 me company. I am lonesome for you, child. I 
 close my eyes at night and bring you before my 
 mental vision. Last night the moon tempted me 
 into keeping awake later than usual. Its pale rays 
 flooded the garden and changed everything to silver. 
 
 "Dear moon, giver of dreams, it almost blinded 
 me with the wonder of its light, for the moon rays 
 search the innermost parts of our being. As I 
 watched the silver glow, veiling tree and leaf with 
 beauty, I sat dreaming far into the night. I have a 
 confession to make, Elsa, I fell asleep. As I leaned 
 back unconscious in my chair the fairy fingers of 
 dreams soothed me away into the world, where I 
 have so often rocked you in my arms. In my 
 dreaming I walked along the ragged edge of a bar- 
 ren waste. It was a desert, and it was called Life. 
 I knew it, for I have traveled in its wilderness many 
 years. 
 
 "Suddenly I left the desert behind, and before me 
 was a tangle of thorn bushes. I pushed them apart, 
 the thorns pricked my flesh. Through the opening 
 I saw a green meadow. Elsa, as I sat thus alone 
 dreaming, bathed in the moon glow, there was a bird 
 trill calling me to the green meadow. It was a 
 voice long silent. It came in answer to a cherished 
 hope of my heart. What can it mean, child? Is 
 my wandering soon to be over, and is heart's-ease 
 the flower I am to wear on my bosom ? Biding that 
 time, my soul is hushed to quietness and calm in 
 communion with you, dear child." 
 
 Thus the letter ran on, and I tenderly kissed it 
 as I folded it away in the envelope. I had forgotten 
 the larger missive. It lay neglected at my feet,
 
 108 Lobe 3n 
 
 where it had fallen. The bold type looked up at 
 me from the floor and aroused me to a sudden curi- 
 osity. It was but a few lines of congratulation from 
 Max Frieder. He would call in the morning. I 
 hardly knew whether I cared to receive him. Yet 
 there was a certain magic about him that fasci- 
 nated when in his presence. Once again, as on that 
 restless night when I had sought quiet in my 
 mother's bed, a deep yearning stirred in my breast. 
 A burning desire swept over me to do something 1 
 noble and sincere in life. I had entered the world 
 with a heart full of love to lay upon its altar. I 
 was full of sympathy and trust for all men. It was 
 not a strange thing, I mused, this desire, because 
 she had told me so many times that my heritage was 
 love. How tender and true must have been the tie 
 that bound them together my mother and father. 
 But it was getting late, I must go to bed. I 
 started to turn out the lights when I spied the box 
 on the table. Violets ! and for me ! How soft their 
 color and how full of tenderness. They have a lan- 
 guage all their own. Their purple loveliness sent a 
 thrill of rapture through me for I knew the giver 
 without a glance at the card. I put them on the 
 pillow of my bed and turned out the lights. As 
 my lids grew heavy each flower-petal spoke to me. 
 In their tender fragrant hearts I .found the fulfill- 
 ment of to-morrow's dreams.
 
 Cfce OOeafcmg 109 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Three weeks passed and we were still playing 1 to 
 crowded houses. Mr. Alexander's round, ruddy 
 face was extended in a constant smile. His eyes, 
 always laughing, had caught an extra twinkle, which 
 lay in their depths to flash jokes at every one with 
 their changing hues. He had not forgotten the pas- 
 sion of enthusiasm, and fairly bubbled over with 
 fun, from his height of approving interest. 
 
 One night as I stood waiting my entrance in 
 my little box of a dressing room he knocked. His 
 solemn tone of voice, the affected quiver of dignity 
 in the words uttered, sent me guessing as I called 
 out cheerily: 
 
 "Come in, thou stern bearer of tidings. What 
 has happened, my liege lord? Thy tone portends a 
 sacrifice to the Gods. Of all the Gods, worshipful 
 Sir, which do we serve on bended knee this auspi- 
 cious night?" 
 
 I caught up a long veil, and, reckless of curls, 
 threw it over my head as I finished the last word. 
 With a grand sweep of my palm, I bent humbly be- 
 fore him. I was a child still, having known nought 
 in life but happiness. 
 
 He was a child, even as I, because success had 
 smiled upon him. The imps of gladness are thus all- 
 powerful when they control.
 
 110 Lone Sn 
 
 "I have good news for you, little girl," he said, 
 helping himself to a chair. I sat on a stool near 
 the door. His voice was big with joy, and his hands 
 played with a rather prominent watch fob as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Our cup runneth over eh ?" he continued. 
 
 I was all attention now. I could see that the 
 quick change from frivolity and banter to this seri- 
 ous countenance meant something. I glanced to- 
 ward him eagerly my still eyelids told of absorbing 
 interest. 
 
 "George Carton, the artist, is out front," he said. 
 "He came to me in my office after the first act and 
 asked me all about you. I gave him a pretty fairy 
 tale; managers get in the way of doing that, you 
 know. But I told him the right thing, Miss Elsa, 
 you can bet on that." 
 
 I sent him a look of confidence, and said : 
 
 "I could not doubt that, Mr. Alexander." 
 
 But he continued, seemingly absorbed in his story : 
 
 "He was here last night and heard you sing. He 
 is mad about your voice, and you. He says your 
 music has soul in it. That you bring messages to 
 hearts." 
 
 "Oh, he didn't!" I cried. 
 
 "Yes ; that's true as I sit here !" 
 
 "If I could always believe that I have in me that 
 power over hearts ! If I could sing cheer into lonely 
 ones hope into the bone and fiber of the hopeless 
 ones! If I really could do this, Mr. Alexander! 
 Show the world that God is love!" 
 
 He sat before me half mystified, following me as 
 far as he could.
 
 Cfje 
 
 "Music of the heart, that's the way he put it, 
 Miss Elsa. I rather liked his ravings, and that's the 
 truth. He is a poet-painter, they say, and one must 
 look for emotional work there." 
 
 I was almost deaf to his words, I was still lost in 
 the suggestion they had given me. 
 
 "He brought his wife to-night," he continued, 
 "and she is delighted with you, also." 
 
 "Too much praise," I answered, blushing. "How 
 can you expect me to descend from so high a pin- 
 nacle and go on in the next act?" I laughed. 
 
 But he ignored my playfulness, and said: "She 
 is one of your china-doll affairs, Miss Elsa. At 
 least, that's what they tell me," and he winked. "We 
 haven't come to New York for nothing, have we, my 
 dear?" 
 
 I had heard of the pictures of George Carton. 
 Only last night they had been under discussion with 
 Max Frieder, as we chatted after the matinee. 
 
 "Is he a painter of nature?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Alexander, "but I have heard 
 that his great talent is in portraiture. Of late years 
 he has put it aside, they tell me. His wife is one 
 of the swells, my dear, and a stunner for looks. 
 His heart is in a little circle of artists that frequent 
 his studio. He loves his work. I have seen one or 
 two of his efforts, and, take my word for it, his 
 paths of green through the branches of his elm 
 trees lead straight to eternity. Even I can feel that, 
 and I ain't much on poetry, am I, Miss Elsa?" 
 
 I held up my finger reprovingly, and he went on. 
 
 "He seemed so eager to have you sing that I con- 
 sented. It is the proper caper, I guess, to cultivate
 
 112 Lobe Jn 
 
 a few of the top-notchers, eh? His wife is on the 
 top round, too. At any rate, I promised that you 
 would come. How about it ?" 
 
 The distant sound of the orchestra rose and fell 
 on my ears. It was almost as the accent of a loved 
 voice, and sent my pulses beating in time with the 
 fascinating rhythm of its harmony. 
 
 "You deliver your message well," I responded at 
 last 
 
 I smiled, my ears straining to catch the far-away 
 melody. Something within bade me seek its soft 
 soothings, bade me let it play upon me as an instru- 
 ment for its use. I was young, and it whispered 
 many things. I pulled the petals of a rose apart 
 that I held, in my half abstraction. 
 
 "A morning musical, Mr. Alexander, did you 
 say?" 
 
 "That's what he called it, Miss Elsa. A carriage 
 will be at your disposal at twelve o'clock. I even 
 promised to escort you, myself." 
 
 The room swam. Visions crept before my eyes. 
 'Twas the rose petals, they fell into the silent world 
 of my heart. I was awed, as if an unseen presence 
 floated in with the words of this invitation. 
 
 "Oh, if you would go with me!" I cried. "It 
 frightens me to go among strangers. The faces over 
 the footlights are easier to meet. To stand before 
 
 the fashionable world " he interrupted me, and 
 
 laughed. 
 
 "I was afraid they would devour you, that's the 
 reason I am going to get leave of absence from that 
 good wife of mine and take you into their midst 
 under my wing."
 
 C&e fcOeam'ng us 
 
 "I guess I am a very capricious girl," I cried; 
 "foolish, too, and perhaps silly, Mr. Alexander; 
 but your going will make the event my pleasure 
 day." 
 
 "You are an arch-flatterer, my dear," he said, ris- 
 ing to go. "They have apartments in Central Park 
 West. Here is his card," and he handed me the 
 square pasteboard. 
 
 I read the name slowly, George Carton. I liked 
 it, and told Mr. Alexander so as he turned the 
 handle of the door and disappeared in the dim light 
 beyond. I repeated the words many times, lingered 
 over them as one lingers when speaking the name 
 of one loved. 
 
 The lights and shades of the distant melody came 
 indirectly to my ears as before. The sweet sound 
 sought me in my dreaming, and led me blind into 
 the bewildering joy of a deep emotion. I stood 
 transfixed before my mirror awaiting my summons 
 to that other world on the stage. 
 
 "George Carton !" my lips kept repeating. I tried 
 to picture the kind of man that two such strong 
 names would fit. In fancy I drew a mental outline 
 of his face. How completely commonplace sounded 
 the words "Last Call" through the empty corridors 
 that led to the various dressing rooms. 
 
 This was a living event, the coming of this man 
 into my life. I was sorry that the orchestra had 
 stopped playing. Its harmony fitted my mood. 
 
 "George Carton!" I murmured as I left the dress- 
 ing room, following Liza into the wings. 
 
 "George Carton!"
 
 JLotoe 3rt 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The days came and went, and the morning of the 
 musical arrived. The sun lay in the heavens as a 
 gold mantle over the world. It came into my room, 
 to flood it with warmth, and veiled my arms as I 
 stretched them above my head lazily. My face re- 
 flected its cheer, and the lids of my eyes lay heavy 
 upon my cheek, so deep had penetrated the glory of 
 the sun in their depths. I stood hesitating at the 
 door of my wardrobe. My fingers strayed tenderly 
 over the soft fabrics, hanging still and silent upon 
 the black hooks. 
 
 For a moment the figure of Mrs. Aiken passed 
 before me, and once more my heart warmed toward 
 the grim woman, who had made all this row of love- 
 liness possible for me. 
 
 "Which shall I wear?" I asked aloud, addressing 
 the finery upon the hooks. "Which ?" 
 
 Instinctively I reached for the blue gown that had 
 caught my fancy that evening of the long ago at 
 home. I lifted it from the nail on the wall and laid 
 it upon the bed. The silky folds of the dress lay in 
 shimmering waves on the white counterpane. My 
 hair was coiled loosely at my neck, and, turning to 
 the mirror, I stretched a strand of pearl beads across 
 the front, losing it in the coil behind. Then, pick-
 
 SHeafcing 115" 
 
 ing up the dress, I let it fall quickly round my slen- 
 der figure and stood ready. 
 
 I was gently smoothing the soft silk of the skirt 
 when Mrs. Alexander entered, to see me in all my 
 finery. 
 
 "You look a dream, child," she exclaimed. 
 
 I turned, struck a position for her benefit, affecting 
 a wonderful air in my posing. 
 
 "You are a monkey," she said, coming toward me 
 suddenly. I professed a humble submissiveness, 
 and said : 
 
 "What shall I sing? That is the real issue at 
 present" 
 
 And she laughingly replied : 
 
 "First, one of those high, trilling affairs to show 
 off your voice. Then a love song to steal into their 
 hearts." 
 
 "Oh, you funny dear!" I cried, and kissed her 
 upon both cheeks. 
 
 "Max Frieder will be there, Elsa." 
 
 "And what of that?" I responded irreverently. 
 
 "What is to become of him?" she said. "It is 
 growing serious. He is certainly in love with you, 
 child. I can see the flutter of excitement into which 
 you plunge him, every time he is near you." 
 
 I stared at her. 
 
 "Do you really think he cares so much?" 
 
 "He is absorbed in you, that's all. Which is it, 
 Elsa Max Frieder or Charles Grey ?" 
 
 I was annoyed, there was a strange clutching at 
 my heart. Charles Grey there could be no joking 
 when his name was mentioned. I hardly heard her 
 bantering :
 
 116 Lotoe an 
 
 "Roses every morning! Letters every night! 
 What is that but love, Elsa ?" she asked. "And what 
 is love?" she murmured softly. 
 
 The madness of teasing was upon her, and I 
 laughed in spite of myself, and quickly suited my 
 mood to hers. I gave a sudden whirl around her, 
 and pinched her ear one always did those things to 
 Mrs. Alexander, she had so many pinchy places. 
 
 "I can see my good man deserted after the en- 
 trance!" she called to me. "I must go back, Elsa! 
 Is there anything I can do for you?" 
 
 "No," I answered, "I am just about ready, when 
 I look through my songs." 
 
 Again I was alone, and my thought reverted 
 to her question, "What is love?" 
 
 That was what I wanted to know. I had seen it 
 beaming from Max Frieder's eyes, and I had rec- 
 ognized it in the dark depths of Charles Grey's. 
 Love love ! Was it soul ? Was it a radiant light to 
 lead into the infinite? I loved my mother. Was 
 the love of man different? My worship of love 
 grew and grew as I questioned my heart. I would 
 know love, find my beloved. 
 
 Impulsively I opened my trunk, sought an old 
 book of fairy romances, and read. I was but a girl, 
 but it was the woman in me that bent over the 
 printed pages of the old book. 
 
 It was the story of Cupid and Psyche. I fin- 
 gered the pages lovingly, and read aloud until I 
 was lost in the ancient tales. 
 
 "In a certain city lived a king and queen who had 
 three daughters exceedingly fair. But the beauty 
 of the two older though pleasant to behold, yet
 
 Cfje Wtatoing 117 
 
 passed not the measure of human praise, while such 
 was the loveliness of the youngest that men's speech 
 was too poor to commend it worthily and could ex- 
 press it not at all." 
 
 The quaintness of the language charmed me, and 
 I laughed aloud at the jealousy of the Goddess 
 Venus, when she learned of the worship the 
 earth maiden inspired. How natural it has al- 
 ways been to long for homage, to suffer, as the 
 Goddess of old, rise up in our anger, and hurl forth 
 a full revenge upon the air. I could see the "old 
 images uncrowned, the cold ashes left to disfigure 
 her forsaken altars." 
 
 In her wrath Venus called her son to her and 
 begged him to compel this maid, who had won the 
 worship of mortal beings, "to become the slave of 
 an unworthy love." 
 
 I w r anted to read every word, but in my eager- 
 ness turned over the pages, leaving the jealous rage 
 of the Goddess behind, seeking the part where Cupid 
 had found Psyche, and then I read slowly and tear- 
 fully of their happy love days. How Cupid had 
 started forth to carry out the wishes of his mother, 
 fell under the charm of the earth maiden, and took 
 her as wife. 
 
 Their blissful hours together followed, until doubt 
 and distrust separated them. How the flight of 
 Cupid awoke love in Psyche ! Then came her long 
 search over the wide world. "Poor Psyche!" I 
 murmured, letting the book fall into my lap while 
 into my eyes crept an understanding of what love in 
 a life could mean. "She left the footprints of her 
 devotion everywhere," I whispered under my breath.
 
 Lone 
 
 And where was Cupid ? I turned the pages quickly 
 and read: 
 
 "In his mother's house he could no longer en- 
 dure the absence of her he loved, gliding through 
 the narrow window of the chamber where he was 
 holden, fled forth swiftly and coming to the place 
 where Psyche was then penetrated with vehement 
 wing into the highest heaven to lay his cause be- 
 fore the father of the Gods." 
 
 The forgiveness and the welcome of Psyche into 
 the presence of the Gods followed. I turned to the 
 last page and read aloud: 
 
 "The seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. 
 Apollo sang to the lyre, while little Pan prattled 
 on his reed and Venus danced very sweetly to the 
 soft music." 
 
 "Thus Psyche was married to Cupid after she 
 had drunk from the pot of immortality." She 
 awakened into the high service of love. 
 
 It was a sweet story. The Gods had known the 
 truth of Psyche's love by the footprints, and meted 
 out her reward liberally. Would I know the foot- 
 prints ? I let the book drop into my lap, in my deep 
 abstraction. The story charmed me. The incom- 
 pleteness of life without love, how terrible. To 
 know love! Would I know the footprints of my 
 beloved ? 
 
 The warm midday sun still filled my room, lay 
 on my lips, and hushed them to silence and trust. 
 
 "All ready, Elsa?" said Mrs. Alexander, opening 
 the door. Her entrance was unexpected, and I 
 jumped up in a fright.
 
 119 
 
 "Why, where were you, child ? I thought you ex- 
 pected me back." 
 
 "I did, but you left me with Cupid hiding in the 
 corners and bewildering my senses. You asked 
 me questions about him, and I have been trying to 
 answer them." I laughed as I flew to the elevator 
 to join Mr. Alexander below. 
 
 We reached our destination after a short ride, 
 and ascended the long stone steps. It was a dingy- 
 looking building, not a regular apartment house, but 
 an old aristocratic mansion converted into two flats. 
 
 I was ushered into a quiet little chamber, far 
 from the one where the crowd of guests were re- 
 moving their wraps. I was alone in the room a 
 moment before entering the salon beyond. It looked 
 like a place of magic, as I opened the door a tiny 
 crack and peeked out. 
 
 Mr. Alexander caught me, and I opened the door 
 wide and stepped bravely forth. I bent my eyes on 
 the ground, a habit of mine when that shyness, so 
 a part of me, appears in the presence of strangers. 
 
 A few steps, and I gained courage and raised 
 them. I lifted the lids wide and they opened on 
 the countenance of a tall dark man. His black hair 
 was graying at the temples. His lips were thin, and 
 grave, and firmly set together. Each feature was 
 as familiar to me as my own. It was my father. I 
 clutched Mr. Alexander's arm. 
 
 "That man there, who is he?" 
 
 I was a few steps in front of him and Mr. Alex- 
 ander could only discover whom I meant by fol- 
 lowing the direction of my eyes.
 
 120 kotte 3n 
 
 "The man by the door," I cried, "at the entrance 
 into the drawing-room!" 
 
 "There, he is speaking to a lady at his side." 
 
 "Oh," answered my beaming companion, not no- 
 ticing my excited condition, "that's George Carton, 
 our painter and your host of to-day." 
 
 "And the lady?" I whispered, a terrible agony 
 trembling in my voice. "The lady!" 
 
 "His wife," answered he innocently. 
 
 I turned my eyes away, they were wild and star- 
 ing. My face was deadly pale. 
 
 "Elsa, girl, what is the matter?" said Mr. Alex- 
 ander now fully awake to the trembling that had me 
 utterly in its control. He put his arm around me 
 and half lifted me back into the little room I had 
 just left. 
 
 "Shut the door a minute. Wait outside, won T t 
 you, Mr. Alexander?" I begged. 
 
 "All right. Is there anything I can do?" he 
 asked, his ruddy face full of kindly concern. "I'll 
 come back in a minute, Miss Elsa, if you don't ap- 
 pear. Remember, I'll be right outside if you want 
 me." 
 
 I could not grasp the situation at once. My mind 
 groped in a dark chaos. I had been hurled amid 
 the terrible boulders unprepared, I fluttered in the 
 darkness, and there was no bottom for my feet to 
 rest upon. There could be no mistake. I knew 
 every line of his countenance too well. My father! 
 My father ! 
 
 I dwelt on that loved fact, as one will, before 
 peering into the abyss of torture. Cautiously I crept 
 to the edge. I looked beyond his dear eyes, the
 
 Cfre 
 
 eyes we had gazed into so often my mother and I. 
 
 I crept on beyond the eyes, past his tall figure, 
 and into the very torture chamber of suffering, to 
 face his wife. 
 
 My mother was oh ! God, what was it the world 
 called my mother? His mistress! And I what 
 was I? God help me! The child of shame! 
 
 The abyss closed around me closer and closer. 
 The cruel edges cut into my soft flesh, and it was 
 torn and bleeding. The child of shame? Poor 
 mother ! 
 
 Tears had their way I wept. The child in me 
 dying the woman born into a world of suffering.
 
 122 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A deadly faintness came over me as I crept to 
 the door. I knew it must open, and that I must 
 turn the knob. A hush was all about me, the hush 
 of fatigue. I was suffocating. It seemed as if 
 the whole world held hard, cruel fingers at my 
 throat and would choke life out of me. I stood 
 breathless before the closed door as a bird within 
 the leafy shelter of some tree ere it wings its way 
 over the smoke-begrimed roofs of the city. 
 
 Suddenly there was a timid knock. I turned the 
 knob. 
 
 "They are asking for you, Elsa," whispered Mr. 
 Alexander. It was an awkward moment, and, man- 
 like, he was flushed with embarrassment. His evi- 
 dent distress calmed the tumult in my breast. 
 
 "I was just coming just coming," I repeated, 
 looking up at him, longing to have a good cry or 
 tell some one how it hurt. I called upon every 
 power within me to fly to my aid. 
 
 I commanded my heart to cease its wild beating. 
 I pinched the color into my cheeks. One last ef- 
 fort, and a wan smile crept to my lips. He took my 
 hand and patted it. 
 
 "Poor child, you are ill. We have worked you 
 too hard." 
 
 He took a firm hold on my arm and guided me 
 down the long hall that opened into the music room.
 
 Cfrc fflleatring 123 
 
 It was all in gold and white. Beautifully gowned 
 women were grouped here and there. He, my fa- 
 ther, stood by the piano as I entered. I saw only 
 him. There was magic in his eyes, they charmed 
 me, and before Mr. Alexander could pronounce my 
 name, my hand reached for his. 
 
 "This is George Carton, Elsa our artist." 
 
 There was no need of pinching my cheeks now. 
 They were crimson. My fingers rested in his 
 warm clasp for just a moment, and when they were 
 released a yearning to throw both arms about his 
 neck nearly broke down the wall of my control. 
 But the longing was strangled at its birth, as he said 
 in low, even tones : 
 
 "My wife, Miss Grier," and gracefully brought 
 me before a lady, the centre of a group by his side. 
 
 She was a tall stately woman, and she was beau- 
 tiful. Upon her white skin there was no blemish. 
 Not even a line marred her fair countenance, her 
 eyes were clear and transparent, the problems of 
 life had rested lightly, their clear depths remained 
 placid, unstirred. A wonderful gown fell about 
 her. It was soft gray and silver. Yes, she was 
 beautiful but a statue. 
 
 Was I really a part of this glittering assembly, I 
 asked myself, as I turned serious eyes upon her. 
 My lips moved, but no sound escaped them. I 
 bravely swallowed the tears in my throat that had 
 gathered there to choke me. Once more my lips 
 moved and my voice mingled in the conversation. 
 
 Speech came slowly at first, as a child stutters 
 when learning to talk. It was true, I had been 
 hurled into a dark cavern. Thrown amid harsh
 
 124 
 
 overhanging horrors and bidden to be calm and quiet 
 in the deep blackness where I stood, looking into a 
 yawning chasm. I must awake and free myself 
 once more from the jagged rocks that cruelly cut 
 into my flesh. 
 
 I smiled bravely into her face, and, obeying a 
 voice within me, my words were kind. With rest- 
 less eyes I glanced about me as we talked. I was 
 now in the midst of a critical world. My dress 
 touched the lace of its fair women, and the men 
 looked upon me as one of the bevy of smiling charm- 
 ers that hovered around them. 
 
 Fate had guided me into their midst, for the 
 woman within me fled from this scene of unrest. 
 These smiling ones, these beings clothed in feathers 
 and laces would cast my mother forth, brand her an 
 outcast. My mother who lived a beautiful life far 
 from the haunts of men. She never sought the 
 praise of the world as she toiled on, pressing the 
 stitches in and out, holding her love sacred, to a 
 memory. My mother! Oh, I was wretched as I 
 stood there pale and still. 
 
 My lips framed careless sentences, but my thought 
 wandered, puzzling over everything uncompre- 
 hending, lost in the tragedy of the situation. Why 
 should I grieve? I demanded boldly. There seemed 
 to be two of us. One the woman that stood calmly 
 waiting to add her mite to this feast of Orpheus, the 
 other a spirit that questioned and would not be 
 silent. Why should I grieve? What was there to 
 grieve about? My body was straight, lithe and 
 strong. My skin soft and white. What had I been 
 deprived of, that I mourned?
 
 Cfte foUcabing 125 
 
 An ideal, perhaps, yet not a true ideal that is 
 never lost. We may throw aside its outer coverings 
 but the heart of an ideal remains. It abides with 
 us forever. I was a child of a noble passion. My 
 mother had told me that, as she had taught me to 
 love my father, and in that last hour together had 
 she not made me promise always to love that fa- 
 ther? Did she foresee this meeting, and had she, 
 all my life, been preparing me for it? 
 
 How holy, sweet, and pure she looked as she ap- 
 peared before me there amid this bevy of people; 
 a spirit of loveliness. I knew there was naught in 
 my heart for her but love. 
 
 Max Frieder was coming toward me. I could see 
 him elbowing through the crowd and waving them 
 aside as one does a tangle of blossoms in the wood. 
 There was a deep earnestness in the grip of his hand 
 on mine. I was glad to have him near, and I gave 
 him just a glimpse into my heart as I welcomed his 
 coming. 
 
 A glimpse, not of love, but of the woman awake, 
 and seeking her own. I had no word with my host 
 beyond his greeting on my entrance. But I felt 
 his eyes upon me, and had caught their serious gaze 
 as I unconsciously searched for him when for a mo- 
 ment I lost sight of his tall figure. He seemed 
 drawn to me, and there was a puzzled cloud over 
 his face as he wondered wherefore? I knew why 
 his eyes searched mine. Dear father! 
 
 "Are you nervous about singing," said Max Frie- 
 der, catching my wandering eyes and bidding them 
 to his own. 
 
 "No, I shall be glad to sing. I am restless. My
 
 126 Lotte 3n 
 
 thought is riveted upon myself, and to sing will get 
 me out of the I, into another bigger, better being." 
 
 Mr. Alexander had disappeared. He had slipped 
 away when he had seen me regain my composure. 
 The chatter of tongues still continued, and I, so ac- 
 customed to quiet ways, fretted inwardly at the de- 
 lay of the program. At last a voice, a strangely 
 familiar voice, spoke. I had heard that voice, 
 where? In another world, perhaps, or it had been 
 wafted to me in my dreams. A voice strong, ten- 
 der, and deep the voice of my father. 
 
 "May we have your song now, Miss Grier?" he 
 said, touching my arm with the tip of his finger. 
 I turned quickly, and, giving a vague hint of my 
 desire in a forced smile, followed him to the piano. 
 I do not remember how my song was received. 
 The blood was dying my face crimson, I saw the 
 trembling of my hands. I felt old, worn, and out 
 of tune, but I did my best. I tried to find the 
 thread of my song, but I only stood at a distance 
 and watched the word-picture my lips were framing 
 as one apart. 
 
 "Take me away!" I whispered, turning to Max 
 Frieder, as the last note echoed through the room. 
 "Take me home !" 
 
 There were gentle spirit fingers drawing me. I 
 longed to make an end of it and go. Before he 
 could answer they led him to the piano, and I 
 nodded that I would wait until he had finished his 
 part of the program. I slipped into a tiny oriental 
 room opening near where I stood. He lifted to his 
 shoulder his violin just as I found a chair and 
 dropped into its comfort. I had never heard Max
 
 Cfre fflleatung 12? 
 
 Frieder play. At the first drawing of the bow 
 across the strings a nervous tremor passed through 
 me, then a quietness penetrated my whole body. I 
 was lulled into forgetting. 
 
 He sent quivering through the strings a tender 
 low pleading strain, as if he would force me bodily 
 into the control of a vibrant potency that would 
 draw me as clay into his arms. I could see that 
 he was at home in the midst of these beautiful 
 women. They flocked about him as he finished. He 
 belonged to them, was their idol. I should have 
 been gratified at his eagerness to come to me, hid 
 away in the dim light of tiny lanterns, but I was 
 only conscious of his coming, that he might bear 
 me away from the lights and the constant din of 
 voices. 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock when we successfully 
 slipped out into he cool air. Ah, when the door 
 was closed it shut away for a moment a world of 
 suffering and torment. I drew in the fragrant even- 
 ing ozone, and memory was stilled. My tongue was 
 generally busy when with Max Frieder, but there 
 was an absence of word banter that I knew he no- 
 ticed. 
 
 He held my arm close, perhaps he felt a yielding* 
 
 about me that was new and strange. I yearned for 
 
 | sympathy, comradeship, and unconsciously I sought 
 
 , it from him. The voice of his violin spoke to me 
 
 as we walked along in silence, for I had begged 
 
 him to dismiss the carriage. 
 
 "Let us go to my studio and I will 'brew you some 
 tea,' as an old Scotch friend of mine says." His 
 voice was low and pleading.
 
 128 Lofre Sn 
 
 "That is just where I should like to g-o. How 
 did you know ?" I cried, looking up at him, tears in 
 my eyes. 
 
 "You are worried about something, my dear girl," 
 he said, and there was a slight pressure on my arm. 
 
 Sorrow was on my heart, but there was beauty 
 even in sorrow, if it brought real sympathy like 
 this. 
 
 "What sort of man is our host, Mr. Frieder?" I 
 inquired, forcing our conversation into the themes 
 I longed to discuss. 
 
 "Fine fellow," he answered heartily. "Rather 
 moody and to himself, though. You don't get a 
 glimpse of him in the social whirl once in a century. 
 He paints, and paints, and then paints, and that's 
 all. He had a severe illness years ago. He al- 
 most died, so I have heard. By the way, He has a 
 most interesting studio, and there is a mystery locked 
 away in it. A mystery that every one has tried to 
 uncover, but in vain. His mystery is shrouded in 
 its impenetrable veil." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I asked, thoroughly ex- 
 cited. 
 
 "He has one side of his studio wall completely 
 covered with a heavy brown hanging, that is put on 
 in such a way that it defies all curiosity seekers to 
 penetrate or lift even a corner. Perhaps you will 
 go there some day and can see." 
 
 "But here we are," and we entered the tall build- 
 ing of the dear Professor's time. As we ascended 
 in the elevator the negro in charge said : 
 
 "Some one waitin' up there, Professor." 
 
 "All right, Bob," he answered, as he opened the
 
 Cfre g&eatiing 129 
 
 door, turned on the light, and then excused him- 
 self. 
 
 I sat down to the piano and leaned my head upon 
 the keys. The touch of the ivory was cold, but I 
 went beyond the outer chilliness and found the spirit 
 hovering in the still keyboard. It was my dear old 
 master's spirit that came out of the cold and dark 
 to comfort me. 
 
 Suddenly I hear angry voices in the next room. 
 A woman's name was muttered in harsh guttural 
 tones, and then the words "Are you mad?" came 
 quivering loud through the thin partition. There 
 was a great passion astir. The suppressed sound of 
 weeping brought that to me, and I raised my tear- 
 filled eyes wonderingly. My imagination knew 
 what was going on behind the closed door. 
 
 "Why did you come here ?" shrilly questioned the 
 man. He veiled the sharpness well. I hardly rec- 
 ognized the hard tone to be that of Max Frieder 
 but it was. 
 
 Indignation grew upon every feature of my face. 
 Determination stole into my heart. My whole body 
 quivered with suppressed emotion. I looked about 
 me vaguely at first, a terrible anxiety in my eyes. I 
 could picture a rabbit caught in the hunter's trap do>- 
 ing the same thing. I could see it pull and wrench 
 the wounded part free until it succeeded. I could 
 even see the little flying figure, the ears erect, scud- 
 ding cross country into the shelter of the leafy 
 bushes. 
 
 I found a pencil on the corner of the piano, and, 
 taking down the piece of music from the rack where
 
 130 Lotie 3n 
 
 it stood, I wrote: "I still carry my ideals unsul- 
 lied." From the next room came the words : 
 
 "Here is the money now go you have been 
 well paid, and I am through with you. Do you 
 understand, Marion, I am through! When I have 
 worn out a string on my violin I replace it. My 
 love for you is worn out. Remember that, and never 
 come here again." 
 
 I still held the pencil in my hand. Over my face 
 a horror hung, a dread, an awful dread. I hastily 
 added the word, "Good-by." I then put the music 
 back on the rack, and, like the snared rabbit, fled. 
 Out in the deepening twilight I hurried, I feared 
 the tightening of some invisible forces about me, to 
 chain me there. 
 
 r My heart ached. Yes, I suffered. My ideals 
 \ were bruised and bleeding, but I held them to my 
 / bosom and hurried on. Max Frieder was a hunter, 
 and I was afraid; even as the rabbit of the sports- 
 . man, in the open field.
 
 Cfje GUeam'ng m 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 There was a hansom standing to the right of me, 
 when I reached the street. The man lay sprawled 
 out luxuriously in the high seat. He was asleep, 
 tired out from entreating the public for its patron- 
 age. The cabbies of New York worked hard, and 
 long hours of service weakened their power of en- 
 durance. I called to him. He was awake and alert 
 in an instant. 
 
 At first he could not follow the sound, and stood 
 up, peering eagerly in front, for the voice summon- 
 ing him. Finally twisting around on all sides, he 
 spied me as I waved my hand in his direction. He 
 snapped his long whip to enliven his lanky beast; 
 it stood motionless, dead to sight and sound, even 
 as its master had been. 
 
 The horse responded quickly as if accustomed 
 to sudden flurries of excitement from the heights 
 above him. The driver made a wide sweeping curve 
 in the street, and reached me in less time than I 
 can tell about it. 
 
 "I want to drive for an hour," I said as he drew 
 the shambling animal to a standstill and opened the 
 doors of the hansom. 
 
 "Leave me at the Bijou after that," I added, and 
 stepped in. 
 
 It was a cold night. I reveled in the frosty chill
 
 132 Lotie Sn 
 
 that was abroad. My cheeks burned, and the sting- 
 ing winds cooled their fever. 
 
 I cast no backward look at the building beneath 
 whose shelter my dear master had lived. I knew his 
 spirit had left the scenes of his inspiration, driven 
 away by alien hands. He loved harmony, and there 
 was no harmony beneath the roof of his studio. A 
 false note had been struck, and its vibrant tone still 
 echoed. But I carried away in my heart the note 
 of memory. The winder of his mood had taken 
 flight and left the imps of darkness to reign alone. 
 
 My wraps were scanty and a shiver ran over me 
 as the zephyrs beat upon me. I still wore the blue 
 gown and it was low in the neck. The soft, thin, 
 lacy material clung to my shrinking body as if to 
 warm it by nearer contact. I paid no heed, I was 
 absorbed. There was not a nerve or muscle off 
 guard, and I knew no fear of the gale. Ah, let the 
 wind blow ! ( Its fierceness was a caress. J) The emo- 
 tion stirring through my body had taxed its en- 
 durance to the uttermost, yet I would not succumb. 
 Let the winds blow! 
 
 The evening lengthened, and uncaring, I leaned 
 back in the dirty, time-worn vehicle with wide star- 
 ing eyes, seeking every object that flitted across 
 their vision. 
 
 We drove out Fifth Avenue, people were hurrying 
 by ; the day's labor at an end, they sought the shel- 
 ter of home. A room was home in New York, and 
 why not? Love is the wall, the roof, and the foun-| 
 dation of home. Love is not limited to space. It \ 
 is not brick or stone, size or shape, love is love, and i
 
 Cfje 3eat)ing 133 
 
 / love is home. This may sound vague to others, but 
 \ not to me. 
 
 The street was lined with carriages. We moved 
 slowly, the horse turning in and out, guided by skill- 
 ful hands and the ever-flourishing whip. 
 
 I sat, my fingers interlaced, my lips drawn tightly t 
 shut, uncaring. I had no idea of time, my brain 
 was tired. I was still in the midst of my pain. The 
 struggle had been intense, and now a new patience , 
 was settling over me. I endured and was calm, yet \ 
 I wanted to move on and on. I wanted to forget } 
 life itself, run away from it, into nothingness, where ( 
 there was peace. 
 
 A sudden jerk. The lanky animal responded to 
 the pulling of the reins heroically. He braced his 
 two front legs sturdily upon the slippery asphalt, 
 and, drawing all fours bravely together, landed the 
 hansom in front of the theatre entrance. I raised 
 my eyes, yes, it was "The Bijou." There were the 
 lights over the sidewalk. But what was the name 
 of the attraction they outlined? I looked closer, 
 surely nothing dimmed my sight. A dizziness swept 
 over me. Was there no forgetting? The lights 
 spelled the title of the play: It was called "The 
 Bastard." It looked different to-night. I saw it 
 for the first time, it seemed. It was real now, 
 though not the tragedy of a youth, but of a mai- 
 den. I rebelled. I could not go before that rest- 
 less crowd. 
 
 They stood outside now patiently waiting their 
 turn at the little window. They pressed hurriedly 
 through the door of the theatre. It was late, but I 
 had no consciousness of that. I was reaching out
 
 134 ILotte 3n 
 
 in the darkness to find courage, or a deeper horror. 
 A light that would raise me into the heights, or cast 
 me deeper into the hell of despair. The burden was 
 becoming too heavy and I was sinking beneath it, 
 when the face of Charley Grey rose before me in all 
 the strength of its noble manhood. 
 
 It was a face like my father's because the courage 
 and the truth were the same behind the masque of 
 life of different countenance, but of the same mold 
 in manhood. Charles Grey ! What would this hurt, 
 that had come to me mean to him? Would it les- 
 sen me in his eyes? Oh, God, have mercy! I cried 
 in my heart. I called to the cabby to drive on, and 
 he did as he was bidden. What would they do back 
 there in the theatre ? There could be no play with- 
 out me. It was too late to fill my place. I could 
 see them hurrying frantically about, and what would 
 "he" think? I was a coward, turning my back at 
 the first approach of the enemy. The goodness of 
 Mr. Alexander flashed before me. The long days 
 of study with the dear Professor in the old house 
 let furnished his birthplace Charles Grey's! 
 
 Then I was flung back on myself. I must minister 
 unto my need, there was no hand near to ease my 
 pain. Oh! I could not be a coward I would re- 
 turn, I would be brave. My mother had ever been 
 strong. I was the child of an inspired love, not the 
 offspring of a weak passion. I would go back. 
 Perhaps the darkness was but the shut door into the 
 garden of rest. 
 
 I called nervously to the cabby above. I poked 
 my fingers through the little window over my head 
 and said:
 
 C&e GHeam'ng 135 
 
 "Hurry back to the theatre, quick quick! Do 
 you hear, quick !" The old horse did his best. One 
 clumsy hoof, then the other, beat upon the pavement. 
 With a jerk of the reins we once more pulled up 
 before The Bijou. The crowd had thinned out. 
 "Oh, how late could it be?" I cried, as I opened 
 the door. My purse where was my purse ? I had 
 not taken it to the musical, knowing of no need. 
 
 I bade the man wait, and hurried into the theatre. 
 Mr. Alexander's office was empty. I frantically ap- 
 proached the man at the window selling tickets, but 
 just then the clerk of the office came running to- 
 ward me. I explained my need, and then flew 
 round to the stage entrance. I had hardly reached 
 my dressing room when Mr. Alexander came in 
 without even knocking and quite breathless. 
 
 "You have given us such a fright, Elsa," he cried. 
 His ruddy face was really pale, and he smoked furi- 
 ously upon the stump of a cigar. 
 
 "The orchestra has commenced the overture," he 
 said. "I telephoned everywhere. Can you make 
 it, child?" he asked, in a shrill, unnatural voice. 
 "Can you make it? And where were you?" 
 
 "To-morrow, my friend to-morrow," I an- 
 swered to his last question. "To-morrow you shall 
 know." 
 
 "But would that to-morrow come?" I said in- 
 wardly. He fidgeted about, poor man, completely 
 unnerved. Wilbur Knowles came to my rescue, and 
 I pulled him impulsively into the hall. Had he seen 
 beyond the deceitful calmness I had assumed into 
 my quivering soul ?
 
 136 LOBC Kn 
 
 "I am here now, Mr. Alexander," I called out. 
 "Don't worry, I'll be ready on time!" and I shut 
 the door upon both of them. Liza had my shoes 
 off and my coat had fallen to the floor. 
 
 I was terribly calm. "The blue dress is all right, 
 Liza. The audience will like the change, don't you , 
 think?" I asked, in as careless a voice as I could 
 summon. "Just hand me a wet towel and I'll have 
 my make-up on in a minute." 
 
 "You did give us a scare, though, Miss Elsa," she 
 persisted. 
 
 "I am ill, Liza. I thought I could not do my 
 part to-night ; but I will, and you will help me, won't 
 you ?" In my need I touched her arm, and my lips 
 trembled. 
 
 She saw that I was unhappy, and her fingers flew 
 to do my bidding. The paint and powder hid the 
 troubled lines in my forehead. The weariness be- 
 neath my eyes was erased as by magic, but the ex- 
 pression in their depths remained, as if to mock at 
 artificiality. 
 
 "Have you had supper, Miss Elsa ?" timidly asked 
 Liza, her dark face full of anxiety. 
 
 "I could not eat it, my good woman. It would 
 choke me." 
 
 She felt her mistake, and hurriedly put two let- 
 ters into my lap. 
 
 "I brought them over from the hotel," she said, a 
 little gladness irradiating her countenance. I seized 
 them fiercely. The brush and comb fell to the floor 
 in my eagerness. I drew in a deep sigh. It was 
 the touch I needed in the dark, where I stood, a
 
 Cfre meaning 137 
 
 word from my mother, and it had come. What mat- 
 tered now? The garment of my despair fell away, 
 while I opened and read her message to me. But I 
 could not read it all, for the orchestra had stopped 
 playing. 
 
 Outside my door I could hear the gentle hurry- 
 ing of feet to the wings. I was ready, too, and 
 among them as the great curtain slowly rolled to 
 the top. 1 was there, the central figure in the gay 
 feasters. The garden scene had lost none of its 
 fascination, life looked as beautiful amid the roses 
 as it did yesterday at the matinee yes, there was 
 even a sweeter fragrance amid the blossoms. Or 
 was it my imagination? My feet trod the same 
 paths, but some of the petals had fallen. It was the 
 blossoms I trampled beneath my feet that filled the 
 air with fragrance. 
 
 "Verily," I sighed, "the heart is like a flower 
 which yields not its sweetness till it be crushed." 
 
 The play was over. I stumbled into my dressing 
 room. An awful fatigue gripped my being. I was 
 dizzy a black monster rose before me. It would 
 clasp me, I could feel its long, powerful arms reach- 
 ing reaching. It looked me straight in the eyes 
 and seemed to say "You are mine!" I clutched at 
 the back of a chair, my eyes grew big with terror. 
 My tongue was paralyzed, I could not speak. The 
 blood had left my veins, I was cold. Oh, it was so 
 cold, and the long arms came nearer and nearer] 
 A great terror was upon me. 
 
 The weight of mountains bore me down. I could 
 not scream, I could not weep. Suddenly the black 
 monster crept away, a soothing voice calmed my 

 
 138 Lone 3(n 
 
 fear. The lids lay heavy over my eyes, and the 
 voice of despair that cried aloud in my heart was 
 silent. Then there was nothing, no pain, no more 
 struggling, only peace. I had fainted.
 
 Cfje G3eatring 139 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The shock of my irregular birth had come to me 
 like a heavy blow from a hand I loved. It was life, 
 the fate of life that had struck me speechless. I 
 spent hours and days thinking about it. I stared at 
 the facts in blank consternation. I could not realize 
 it. I could not understand. My father lived but a 
 few blocks away. I loved him with all my heart, 
 yet I could not touch his hand. I could not tell him 
 of her, back in the cottage. How patient and good 
 she was and how her fingers ached wi.th the in and 
 out of the stitches. The joy of finding him I must 
 chain in my heart, never set it free to throb in the 
 air about him my father. 
 
 I sobbed these days of unrest. I sobbed the life 
 out of me. What was the matter with me? I 
 asked myself this question many times. But no an- 
 swer came. Was I going mad that I could not find 
 the light again? I struggled bravely with my 
 thoughts, endless thoughts that came to sap my en- 
 ergy. 
 
 I awoke one cloudless morning, still trembling 
 over what I had learned. My being was filled with a 
 longing to go to my father and claim him and tell 
 him of her. I even made plans of how to carry it 
 out, and the words I would speak. Why should I 
 waste a day? I was nearly twenty years old and
 
 140 ose 3n 
 
 had never known the touch of a father's hand upon 
 my life, only the picture to fill the place of flesh 
 and blood. 
 
 I tried to drink in the mood of the sunbeams, 
 their golden light lay over me as a blanket of love. 
 But I could not give myself into their keeping. My 
 face was turned to where the shadows fell. I was 
 still amid the storm waves, and my vessel had not 
 even sighted land. 
 
 The problem of life still faced me and was still 
 unsolved. The wings of my soul were being tried 
 for the first time. For the first time in my life 
 I walked in the valley of sorrow, and I was alone 
 there, though I had fluttered as a bird over its low 
 windings, when a child, as I sat with my mother in 
 close communion. 
 
 A valley is full of richness. Was it possible that 
 my valley would yield a richness to me? My soul 
 was wakened into real living. Life was all so dif- 
 ferent from what I had thought to find it. It was 
 a struggle of souls, and at once I knew the fierce 
 battle my mother had faced. Must I yield all my 
 dreams? I held a bit of paper in my hand. It was 
 a line from Charles Grey, and read : 
 
 "Will you drive with me at three o'clock?" 
 
 I had seen a great pleading in his eyes since the 
 night I fainted. It fascinated me. A whole week 
 had passed since then. I was ill, yet I would not let 
 them know, but in his eyes something said : 
 
 "Tell me what it is." 
 
 "How could I tell him?" I said aloud, in answer 
 to my whispered words. I could feel life slipping 
 away from me and hid in my room that none should
 
 Cfre ftOeatring 141 
 
 suspect, except when I was at the theatre. I felt the 
 whole world was watching and waiting the result. 
 I was ashamed of the weakness that held me, and 
 some hours I rose up free and happy-hearted, but 
 sank down helpless after only a step. 
 
 To-day I would make another effort. I would go 
 with Charles Grey into the world of action, and the 
 glad out of doors might change the range of my 
 vision. 
 
 "May I come in?" Mrs. Alexander smiled at me 
 from the hall and stretched out her arms to me as 
 she spoke. I rested my head on her shoulder as I 
 whispered my answer : 
 
 "Of course, you are always welcome, dear friend." 
 
 I gave her hand a gentle pressure, and said, "I 
 am going to drive with Mr. Grey," she smiled, and 
 a merry twinkle in her eye made the smile full of 
 meaning. I blushed, and a lightness of heart came 
 in the tinge of color that spread over my cheeks. 
 
 "I just wanted a look at you, child. I'll be off 
 now. It's nearly three, and you are not ready." 
 My visitor opened the door and was gone. I didf 
 not try to detain her, I liked being alone these daysj 
 
 ******* 
 
 Every minute for the next two hours I breathed 
 in ecstasy. Some drives are different from others. 
 My drive seemed filled with constant surprises. They 
 crept before my vision and tempted forth my eager 
 enthusiasm. My eyes feasted upon the winding 
 road-ways, the sudden wooded spaces now bare of 
 leaves, and the quick turns into newer, sweeter 
 glimpses of nature, a nature emptied of all. Cen-
 
 142 Lotie 3n 
 
 tral Park was beautiful beneath the cover of late 
 fall. 
 
 Memory is the yellowing page of past joys. We 
 write upon the pages of to-day that we may con 
 them over to-morrow. I printed the sweetness and 
 charm of this drive on the memory scroll of my 
 heart. Some hour I could live it all over again 
 when the edges were worn .and frayed. 
 
 My companion was silent, letting me drink in the 
 tonic of the fragrant zephyrs. We entered a road 
 called "The Retreat." It was guarded at the en- 
 trance by two stately elms. They were tall and 
 soldier-like of aspect, fit sentinals to so enticing a 
 pathway. 
 
 "The fairies surely hold nightly revels here," I 
 cried aloud, drawn out of all bitterness of thought. 
 
 All around us lay the city, but it seemed a great 
 way off. The trees standing stripped of their glory 
 were even more beautiful than when the leafy 
 splendor was upon them. The sky was above me, 
 the real rugged soul of nature was about me, at my 
 side sat Charles Grey, and at that moment I was con- 
 tent. We had seen very little of each other of late,;' 
 but he had grown into my life. I could feel the! 
 tender shoots of friendship for him taking root in 
 my heart. Would that friendship flower into love?) 
 I was glad that I had come out into the sunshine' 
 with him. The ideal in "him" would not crumble 
 in my hands. 
 
 I turned my face toward him as the thought came 
 and met a look in his eyes that I had never seen there 
 before. They were off guard ; I was confused and 
 rearranged my hat to avoid his discovering my em-
 
 Cbe S&eafcing 143 
 
 barrassment. He started to speak the language of 
 his eyes, but thought better, for his words changed 
 to a simple announcement : 
 
 "We have arranged to visit the studio of George 
 Carton, Miss Elsa. Will you join the group?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," I responded, so quickly that I im- 
 agined he maryeled at my impulsiveness. "I want 
 to know him better," I went on. He turned his head 
 in my direction. I could feel his eyes upon me, and 
 then the horse was suddenly urged forward. 
 
 He was confused at my interest in the poet- 
 painter. There was a throbbing in my heart. It 
 was like a madness that called for expression. 
 
 "By the way, I believe he has some pictures in 
 the Metropolitan. Would you like to stop and see 
 them, Miss Elsa?" he asked, as we came in sight 
 of the museum. 
 
 "Oh, yes, do stop, I love pictures!" I cried. It 
 was growing late and we hurried faster, that we 
 might just get a glimpse. He put his horse in 
 charge of a negro boy, and we ascended the long 
 flight of steps. It was nearly closing time, and we 
 sought only the paintings we had come to find. 
 They were in the centre gallery. Two large can- 
 vasses, one was a field of clover with the rain upon 
 it. I felt the wetness of the rain as I stood there. 
 The pale, tiny clover-blooms drooped their heads in 
 the down-pour. There was just a hint of brightness 
 through the clouds, as if the artist could not resist 
 adding a dash of hope to the charm of an otherwise 
 gloomy scene. 
 
 The other picture was an oak tree with the prom-
 
 144 Lotie 3n 
 
 ise of a beautiful spring all about it. But the tree 
 was barren and dead in the midst of bud and leaf. 
 There was a loneliness about the picture that af- 
 fected me strangely. It had a tinge of fulfillment 
 in the color strokes, and the harmony of the arrange- 
 ment was perfect, but I felt the artist himself was 
 the dead tree. It was a hopeless picture to me, for 
 the great tree permeated the scene. The spirit of the 
 lonely man had gone quivering into it, and it spoke 
 to me. It stood, a soul that would never know an- 
 other spring, although nature was abloom upon 
 every side. 
 
 "We will have to go, Miss Elsa," said my com- 
 panion. "There comes the guide to tell us it is clos- 
 ing time." 
 
 He took my arm and led me away. I could feel 
 the tenderness of his heart toward me in the touch 
 of his hand. He bent closer till his face almost 
 touched mine. A softened mood was upon him, was 
 love bidding his lips speak? I could not let thernf 
 utter those words to-day. Not to-day my heart 
 cried perhaps never! 
 
 I shook myself loose from his care and forced the 
 cheer into my countenance, and flung frivolous 
 words at him mercilessly until the seriousness left 
 his eyes. A dumb hurt expression flitted over his 
 face, and he mutely questioned my attitude. Why 
 would I not let him speak? I could see that he 
 was misled, and I was sorry, yet I could not listen to 
 love words now. I was not able to tell my story 
 to him yet. I would never risk another hour with 
 him alone, I promised myself, as I took his hand in 
 farewell at the door.
 
 CDe 
 
 Mrs. Alexander was in the hotel office when I 
 entered, and we went in to dinner together. 
 
 "Elsa, do you want us to send for your mother?" 
 she asked, as we sat down. 
 
 "You are ill, I know it," she urged. 
 
 "Oh, no, don't do that!" I cried, thoroughly 
 alarmed. 
 
 "You must not even write her about your fears. 
 You won't, will you? It would frighten her. Oh! 
 you will not, dear Mrs. Alexander?" I begged. 
 
 "But you are so pale and troubled-looking, Elsa. 
 It worries me," she answered. "I want to comfort 
 you in her stead, but I can't, it seems," she went on. 
 
 "No one can help me, my friend," I answered. "I 
 will be myself in a few days." 
 
 I ordered a hearty supper, and laughed over it 
 in my old-time way to prove the truth of my words. 
 My mother must not know I was aware of my 
 father's presence, I was certain of that. A great 
 fear was upon me lest in my letters there had crept 
 a line to worry her. I returned to my room and 
 wrote to her at length before I left for the theatre. 
 I went into raptures over the bricks and stones of 
 the great city. I raved about the hurrying throngs, 
 and ended the last pages by asking all sorts of ques- 
 tions about Betsy, so eager was I to cover up any 
 little careless word I might have penned in my half 
 dazed condition of the past week. The clock chimed 
 seven as I folded the letter and hid it in the white 
 envelope. I then rapped at Mrs. Alexander's door, 
 and together we went to the theatre.
 
 146 Lotoe 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The first shock of finding my father was over; 
 yet I still groped in the darkness and sought wildly 
 for the light. ( I was a girl capable of looking 
 squarely in the face the problems of life.) I had 
 been reared close to the beat of my mother's heart, 
 and this had given me a power to reason and decide 
 far beyond my years. I meant to live my life as 
 she had done ; her pose was strong and self-reliant. 
 I was courageous, yet I trembled in fear that my 
 despair would overwhelm me. A larger vision of 
 life was before me, and I wanted to grow into its 
 bigness. 
 
 It was the day of our visit to the studio of George 
 Carton. As I sat in his presence it was the artist I 
 saw before me, the father was lost. From the midst 
 of fur rugs Mrs. Alexander beamed at me. A pro- 
 voking little laugh curved her lips as she watched 
 me with narrow, knowing eyes that seemed to say, 
 "Have you added a married man to the list of your 
 conquests ?" 
 
 She was not the only one that stood apart and 
 wondered at the admiration our host gave to me. 
 Charles Grey was moody and silent, did he so mis- 
 understand the artist's admiration for me that he 
 was unhappy? The great room in which the group 
 of congenial spirits was gathered seemed dominated
 
 Cfte leatring 147 
 
 by a strange fascination. It was a little world of 
 its own, endowed with its own wonderful law of 
 attraction, as if under the rule and sway of unseen 
 forces. 
 
 A mysterious charm lay over the most trivial de- 
 tails of the place. The light falling through the 
 small paned windows shed an illusive color of ro- 
 mance over the couch and the rugs, and also the men 
 and women grouped within. At once they were of 
 the elements that controlled. The books on the table 
 had their niche, and the pictures were the charm of 
 the place, for in them the soul of the artist moved. 
 One could forget all the discord, all the shams of 
 life here, the soul was freed to soar to the heaven 
 of its dreams. 
 
 With that strange hunger of youth for knowl- 
 edge I bent over each picture of a portfolio. The 
 artist was patient with every detail, and himself 
 explained the mysteries of color and illustrated on 
 a small box cover tricks of his brush. 
 
 "It seems as if I had known you always, Miss 
 Grier," he insisted, as he let his fingers slip care- 
 lessly around the palette that he held. "Your face 
 perplexes me I might say it haunts me." 
 
 A ripple of laughter interrupted him. Wilbur 
 Knowles was giving a scene from a vaudeville sketch 
 he had just written. It was full of rare comedy, and 
 his little audience was convulsed. The merriment 
 drew us into the midst of the circle. A glow had 
 sprung into my eyes from my father's question, and 
 in another instant I should have claimed him, but 
 for this interruption. His query lay on my heart 
 so tenderly, like a child begging to know. Wilbur
 
 148 Lone 3n 
 
 Knowles was a privileged friend. I almost felt his 
 familiarity intrusive, yet this might have been be- 
 cause I was shut out from their dear comradeship. 
 
 He told us of the ghosts that haunted the room, 
 and advised us seriously to get away before sun- 
 down. His voice was full of pathetic pleadings of 
 high and low intonations. His humorous face 
 watched our host attentively as he flung recklessly 
 forth the daring words. I expected my father to 
 rise in his indignation and turn us all out. But his 
 glance was forbearing, and if he flinched at the ref- 
 erence to the brown curtained wall, there was no 
 expression of it upon his face. Each feature re- 
 mained impenetrable, and the quivering sensitive 
 heart-anguish was unsuspected by all save myself. 
 His eyes laughed good-naturedly, but the mouth was 
 firm and unsmiling. 
 
 "Well, it's no business of ours," continued Wilbur 
 Knowles, "whether the lady or the tiger shall step 
 from behind the denim, eh, Carton ?" 
 
 The hysterical humor I had worked myself into 
 subsided. Wilbur Knowles was a wit, and I could 
 not help responding to his banter. 
 
 "Well, I must be off, Carton," said our funmaker, 
 and the echo of unholy laughter followed him as the 
 door closed. 
 
 From a little room off the studio came the faint 
 aroma of boiling coffee, and the tension from which 
 I had suffered relaxed. Our host left us for a mo- 
 ment and presently pulled the curtains apart and 
 invited us into a cozy little nook. I sat by his side, 
 and opposite me was Charles Grey. 
 
 When I raised my eyes to his I saw he was watch-
 
 149 
 
 ing me intently with a puzzled reproachful look. 
 "You are not playing with me?" the look said. But 
 the uneasiness of his stare made no impression upon 
 me, lost as I was in the consciousness of a new re- 
 lationship. This was my father, and I was happy. 
 He was mine, and I laughed softly to myself. 
 
 I was too absorbed in the analysis of my own 
 feelings to store away the bits of humor that passed 
 over our cups. It was all there though, the joking, 
 the quick repartee and I sat in its very midst and 
 let the tragedy slip away. It seemed incredible 
 that it could assume so comfortable an exterior 
 viewed at nearer range. 
 
 "What a luxury not to be a slave to the moving 
 hands on the clock's face," said Mr. Alexander in- 
 terrupting my retrospection. His eyes wandered to 
 an ancient time-piece in the far corner of the studio, 
 as he finished his remark. 
 
 "Of course you would find the ticker, my dear," 
 said his wife, in a half-scolding way. "All work 
 and no play, you know" she pouted. 
 
 "What is your part in the evening's performance, 
 my dear madam, the lead or the ingenue?" he re- 
 torted playfully. 
 
 "I do the ingenue for you, John Hamilton Alex- 
 ander !" and she waxed warm in her role of offended 
 dignity. We all laughed. They were a devoted 
 couple, this plain middle-aged pair, and the raillery 
 was good fun. There was no covert meaning under- 
 neath the words, and its sharpness could be thor- 
 oughly enjoyed. 
 
 "I rebel," I cried, throwing myself headlong into
 
 150 Lotos 3n 
 
 the argument; "I rebel, I'll not go. How's that, 
 Mrs. Alexander, for a strong support?" 
 
 "You shall be tried and sentenced for stirring up 
 strife, my dear," said Mr. Alexander, pulling down 
 his vest front, to give emphasis to the scorching 
 words. 
 
 "You will sentence me to what, John Hamilton ? 
 Life imprisonment with you? Oh, how dreadful! 
 That the full limit of the law should be enforced 
 upon a helpless female, that she should be thrust into 
 such prison walls! What are we coming to?" 
 
 The firm lines around the mouth of our host grad- 
 ually relaxed as we conversed. Then came a genuine 
 brightening up of his countenance. A tender light 
 crept into his eyes that I loved. It seemed as if the 
 picture were before me. The likeness of twenty 
 years ago stood out clear and recognizable. 
 
 "One last lifting of the cup, friend, and we will 
 take ourselves off," said Mr. Alexander. The negro 
 boy poured once more the fragrant beverage, and, 
 seeing Mr. Alexander's anxiety rising, I took the 
 lead and made ready for departure. 
 
 It was but a short call, yet I had seen my father. 
 Another side of his character had been revealed 
 the real man in the midst of his work, the man that 
 had won the heart of my mother. 'Twas the artist 
 who had entertained us, and I felt I had ventured 
 just a step into his world. 
 
 Where this step would lead me I did not ask. I 
 only knew that my feet must push on in his direc- 
 tion. As we stood at the door I looked back into 
 the room. If I could but stay behind and sit yonder 
 in that shaft of light falling so lovingly upon the
 
 Cfte aaeatifng 151 
 
 weaving of the rug if I could but recline there at 
 his feet and tell him of her! The room spoke to 
 me, as if supplicating, nay entreating me to linger. 
 "Was he a happy man ?" I found myself asking the 
 question almost aloud as I let the rest go down the 
 hall without me. I went over to the wall that a last 
 view of a small print of Rosetti's might live in my 
 memory. It charmed me, and I started when a voice 
 over my shoulder said : 
 
 "A wonderful symbol of divine love isn't it, 
 Miss Grier?" 
 
 "Love is holy, don't you think?" I asked, not 
 noticing his question. 
 
 "Almost too holy ever to have perfection in this 
 world, my child," he answered, a tenderness in his 
 voice. "Dante approached his through an angel. 
 Love only lay over his pathway as a light that led 
 steadily up and up. Perhaps it is best so, but the 
 way is lonely sometimes with the light, always be- 
 yond. You noticed the stretch of brown denim over 
 there, didn't you, Miss Grier?" he said, turning from 
 Rosetti's poppy-strewn chamber of dreams and 
 pointing to the side wall. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, and I blushed. It was the 
 wall of mystery. 
 
 "Of course you have, how could it go unnoticed 
 after that imp of a funmaker, my friend Knowles, 
 drew such pointed attention to it. But I don't mind 
 him, Wilbur is all right, if he is a bit hasty. His 
 hair is red, you know," and a slight amused curv- 
 ing of his lips changed the whole expression of his 
 face. 
 
 "Behind that curtain is a picture, Miss Grier. No
 
 152 Hotie 3n 
 
 eye has ever seen it, since the hour I looked upon it 
 finished. It is called a mystery by my friends. 
 Miss Grier, if you will come here to-morrow morn- 
 ing I will unveil the picture for you. Will you 
 come?" 
 
 I stood transfixed before him. I could not speak. 
 
 "Perhaps you wonder why I disclose my secret 
 to you. I will be frank. I do not know why. 
 There is a voice within that bids me draw the veil 
 aside. Perhaps it is the hour for the child of 
 my past energy to stand forth revealed. Who can 
 tell the subtle impulse within us that prompts our 
 actions? Will you come?" 
 
 I was hurrying to the door as he spoke. A 
 thought of the waiting ones below had dawned upon 
 me, and I caught my breath quickly at what they 
 might think of my tardy coming. I trembled as I 
 held out my hand in farewell, and the words : 
 
 "I will come," fell from my lips. Soft as blown 
 petals flutter to the earth they echoed through the 
 room, "1 will come."
 
 C&e Cleaning 153 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Mr. Alexander was drawing his face into fretful 
 grimaces when I joined them in the hall below. 
 He walked toward the door and back again in a rest- 
 less manner, that told me how irritated he had be- 
 come over the delay. He felt impelled to wait my 
 coming, but the forced waiting made the nerves 
 nearly jump out of his skin. Poor Mr. Alexander! 
 I hurried faster, as I saw him tramping about so 
 irritably. I could not read the expression on his 
 good lady's face. It appeared shadowed by a frown, 
 but there was a kindly light shining in her eyes that 
 gave the lie to the frown. 
 
 Charles Grey stood a statue by the door. I ap- 
 proached them like a culprit, a thoroughly penitent 
 one, too. The full measure of dissatisfaction is not 
 easy to hurl at a wrong doer under such circum- 
 stances. We paired off and hastened into the street. 
 I pretended not to notice the humor of my party, 
 but with a forced gaiety in my voice tripped along, 
 wholly unconscious of guilt. 
 
 My escort was moody and preoccupied. We 
 finally reached the hotel an ill-assorted group. Mr. 
 Grey lifted his hat at the hotel entrance. Although 
 he pushed open the door for me, I had grown an- 
 noyed at his ill manners by this time and gave 
 him only a tilt of the head as he turned into the
 
 154 jLotie 3n 
 
 street once more. Mr. Alexander had thawed out. 
 The brisk walk and his dear lady's busy tongue had 
 worked the change, or was it the thought of dinner? 
 By the time we separated at the elevator, his genial 
 smile had returned. 
 
 I went to my room, the walk had quite unnerved 
 me. I had grown to love this little retreat of mine. 
 I put off the garment of the world here ; its worries 
 fell away. I looked around as I entered. A still- 
 ness hovered over the place. Everything was in 
 perfect order in the tiny room. How white and 
 clean was the bed, the regular ticking of the clock 
 inspired a poise that I longed for. That one search- 
 ing glance brought me peace, and quietness lay on 
 my heart as a blessing. 
 
 I had hardly closed the door and breathed in the 
 still comfort offered me, when a knock opened it 
 again. The bell-boy stood framed before me, and 
 said as my eyes questioned : 
 
 "A lady to see you, miss." 
 
 "To see me?" I cried. 
 
 "Yes, miss, and she's been waitin' a long time," 
 he answered. 
 
 "What does she look like ?" I asked. The thought 
 came perhaps my mother was below. I grew red 
 and white by turns, my feelings rising recklessly 
 between hope that it was she, and fear that perhaps 
 it was not. 
 
 "Her looks, boy? Tell me about her looks; her 
 face, her dress, her hair. Quick, answer me!" I 
 cried, now thoroughly aroused. 
 
 "Really want to know, miss?" he smiled, and the
 
 Cfre Wearing 155 
 
 stretch of mouth looked hideous to me. Why would 
 he grin in that awful way, I said to myself. 
 
 "Well, she's a crummy sort, miss, and that's no 
 lie," was the information he finally offered, and 
 then added: 
 
 "Tall and angular looking, miss, and say, her 
 hair is surely oiled. Gee, but it's shiny and black 
 and as flat to her head as the scales on a fish. 
 
 "Oh, it is Mrs. Aiken !" I cried. 
 
 "That's it. She pushed that name at me, but I 
 forgot," he cried. "I ain't so bad at description, am 
 I?" he asked. "I hit it off swell. You got the pho- 
 tograph instanter, didn't you?" 
 
 I was too excited to answer. I only urged him 
 to hurry and to tell her I would be right down. 
 
 "All right, miss I'm off. But say, she's got a 
 gown on that would set you crazy, one of them 
 changeable plaids. They's the latest figure, though ; 
 my sister's got one," he said, as he turned to do my 
 bidding. "She ain't got the figger to wear it, 
 though. It takes the slender kind of make up." I 
 hardly caught his words, for I had gone into the 
 room, leaving the door ajar. 
 
 I went over to the glass and looked critically at 
 my face. The dark rings beneath my eyes must be 
 erased. A good report of my looks must be taken 
 back to my mother. It took but a moment to dash 
 cold water into my eyes. The chilly plunge brought 
 the life and brightness. I then returned to the 
 mirror once more and added some of the mysteries 
 that I had learned from my make-up box. 
 
 A quick repinning of my hat, a turn of the key in 
 the door, and I was in the hall. A few steps and
 
 156 Lone 3n 
 
 the elevator ascended at the push of the button. A 
 quick descent and an eager rush for the parlor on 
 the first floor. When I first entered the room no 
 one was to be seen. I started to explore, and there 
 around the corner from the door sat Mrs. Theodore 
 Aiken resplendent in the changeable silk gown. 
 
 She held out both arms, and I went into them as 
 if I had always known the sweetness of their em- 
 brace, such kindly feeling does absence from home 
 prompt in the heart. 
 
 "My mother, what of her?" I cried, drawing 
 away from the tenderness of her arms. I looked 
 into her face eagerly, "Is she well." 
 
 "She is, my dear child, and sent you this with 
 her love," was the reply. A small package was put 
 into my hands. My fingers closed over it fondly, 
 but I was full of questions. I would wait, to know 
 its contents. 
 
 "Why did you come?" I asked, "and when did 
 you come?" 
 
 "One question at a time, my child," she answered. 
 "That husband of mine came here on business, and 
 I just calmly announced to him I'd come along, too. 
 He was that taken back at my decision that he 
 couldn't refuse, and so here I am. You know, my 
 dear, I wanted to see you in my girl's finery." 
 
 A quick filling of her eyes told how her heart 
 still cherished the memory of her lost darling. "I 
 just had to come," she repeated, and she smiled 
 through the tears. 
 
 "You shall see me," I said eagerly. "I will wear 
 the prettiest of the gowns, and I will do my best to 
 bring her image before you."
 
 fflleatifng 157 
 
 "It will be almost like having her come back, 
 won't it, Miss Elsa?" she asked. 
 
 "I hope so, dear friend," I answered. 
 
 "I left Mr. Aiken at a meeting with some men. 
 I thought maybe you and I would take a bite to- 
 gether. He promised to join me at the theatre," 
 she went on. 
 
 "Oh, that will be fine!" I cried. "We will go 
 down stairs and eat dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Alex- 
 ander." 
 
 We found them in their own particular corner. 
 As we entered the room they were poring over the 
 menu. Their surprise at seeing Mrs. Aiken equaled 
 mine. It was a merry party that gathered around 
 the table. Mrs. Aiken beamed at me, and the 
 flowers in her bonnet nodded, as she waxed eager in 
 her conversation. 
 
 After dinner we walked slowly to the theatre. 
 We had much to talk about. Her words were like 
 a balm to my sore heart, they recalled to me my 
 home. It was almost like seeing my mother, and a 
 great longing filled my heart to hear her voice. 
 
 It was dark in the narrow passage when we en- 
 tered the theatre. We groped our way in almost 
 utter blackness. 
 
 "The electrician has forgotten the hour, I guess," 
 I said, keeping tight hold of Mrs. Aiken's hand to 
 guide her in my footsteps. When I reached the 
 dressing-room door I turned on the light, and my 
 snug quarters looked attractive after the gloom of 
 our entrance. 
 
 The busy work behind the curtain bewildered her, 
 yet she liked the attention she inspired. There was
 
 158 obe 3(n 
 
 a happy light over her countenance, and when I 
 donned the pink dress, her hands trembled as they 
 lay folded upon the soft silk of her gown. 
 
 I came toward her for nearer inspection, she fin- 
 gered my skirt like a child. She loved each shim- 
 mering fold and caressed them as one does living 
 things. 
 
 "You had better go out front now, Mrs. Aiken," 
 I said. "That is the last call. Here is Mr. 
 Knowles. You will take her around, won't you?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Must I go?" the poor lady murmured. "I 
 won't see you again, child. We return on a late 
 train. I wish I could stay another day." 
 
 "Oh, do! I cried, interrupting her. 
 
 "You see," she answered, "it's been a long time 
 since I have stirred away from home. I would 
 hate to have my old man return without me, and he 
 says he must get back." 
 
 "Tell my mother how I look, won't you?" I asked, 
 "and take this, and this, and this to her," I cried, as 
 I kissed her on both cheeks. 
 
 Mr. Knowles interrupted our parting abruptly and 
 led her away. But there was something to happen 
 that would make me forget the good lady out front. 
 I tried to find her amid the sea of faces, but could 
 not. I turned to my part disappointed, to discover 
 Charles Grey still thoughtful and morose. He car- 
 ried the gloom of the afternoon into the play. 
 
 During the first scene his lips spoke words of 
 love to me, but there was a hollow echo in the tender 
 avowal of his passion. It nettled me. I knew Mrs. 
 Aiken was watching every movement, and I wanted
 
 Cfre ftOeatifng 159 
 
 to do my best. The enthusiasm would not come. I 
 could not get into the proper pitch. 
 
 I tried in every way to bewitch him, and finally 
 felt him soften. I never played the role better. 
 Suddenly at the end of the scene he followed me 
 into the wing, and said : 
 
 "Elsa, I love you. That was no fake scene to 
 me. It was real." His eyes dilated, he caught hold 
 of my hands and held them closely. 
 
 "Look at me, dear," he said, a great gentleness 
 in his voice. "I need you, Elsa. The world is 
 full of women, but I want only you, dearest." 
 
 A strange wist fulness came to me with his words, 
 and for one moment I let my heart leap into my 
 eyes. 
 
 "I must go!" I cried, trying to pull my hands 
 away. 
 
 There was a moment of delay. My face was 
 burning with the truth of my feelings toward him, 
 but I could not let my lips speak them. There was 
 a barrier between us. I made another gesture to 
 go, but he still held my hands. It was dark where 
 we stood, and his whispered words fell on my ear 
 like music. Yet I forced myself away and left him 
 standing there alone. 
 
 If I could but pierce the future, I sobbed to my- 
 self as I crept into my dressing-room. To have a 
 heart that reaches out for its mate and to be cast by 
 fate into the chamber of silence, to have a wild 
 longing thrill through my being, and day by day to 
 strive and struggle, to sink back exhausted! 
 
 I rushed through the days in my thought, they 
 were endless, and there was no love to shed its light
 
 160 
 
 along the path. Once again I tried to understand 
 the conflicting emotions that struggled within me. 
 Once again I responded to the suppressed call that 
 echoed through the empty corridors and stood wait- 
 ing my next entrance.
 
 C&e ftOeafcfng iei 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 I had been unkind to the man I loved. For the 
 first time I ^acknowledged passionately to myself 
 that I loved. The sound of the words fell strangely 
 upon my ears as I whispered them to my heart. 
 The man I loved. A sigh fell from my lips. He 
 was not near, only love was beside me love, 
 tangible and sweet. 
 
 'to 1 
 
 "Then lifting up mine eyes as the tears came, 
 I saw the angels, like a rain of manna, 
 In a long flight, flying back Heavenward ; 
 Having a little cloud in front of them, 
 After the which they went and said, 'Hosanna' ; 
 Then Love said, 'Now shall all things be made 
 clear.' ' 
 
 I loved. I boldly proclaimed my love. My heart 
 sent quivering its messages of rapture. I loved. 
 "Now shall all things be made clear," I repeated 
 again, and yet again. The words lingered with me 
 to put courage into my faltering steps. I was limp 
 and helpless yes and restless to get through the 
 evening. 
 
 In the next act dear Mrs. Aiken was completely 
 forgotten. That she was watching me came as a 
 thought that had no meaning. I moved through the
 
 162 Lotoe 3n 
 
 scenes as one asleep. A dull apathy was upon me. 
 I was a machine, all the parts were well oiled. 
 Everything was in running order. My hands moved 
 at my bidding, my feet walked in the direction they 
 were guided. My whole being responded to the 
 wonderful mechanism of mind, but my heart was in 
 a heaven of dreams. 
 
 I had watched for the coming of love into my 
 life. Love was with me and for one moment had 
 lifted me on the tender intonations of his voice, 
 into a world where angels wing. I drew in a quick 
 breath and stood rigid with anticipation, not know- 
 ing what my next meeting with Charles Grey would 
 mean to me. My mother! Unconsciously she was 
 beside me not forgotten in this real trial of my 
 youth, not relegated away from the path of my 
 life ; there beside me she stood, visioned ! Her pres- 
 ence was as real to me as the scent of a rose-jar 
 whose fragrant odors rise in the air, when the cover 
 is lifted. 
 
 Once again I seemed to hear her say, "My little 
 baby you are all I have, you are all I can hope to 
 have of love. How can I give you up send you 
 out into the world? How will it treat you? It 
 mustn't hurt my little one." 
 
 It was hurting me. It was cruel, this world that 
 I had entered. I had come clothed with youth to 
 worship at its shrine. I had brought a heart un- 
 sullied, the sweet odors of the woods clung to my 
 dress, and my hands were full of blossoms, but they 
 were withering. Would the world scorch them? 
 Would they die? 
 
 "O Mother!" I cried, "your prayer is unan-
 
 Cfte GUeatring 163 
 
 swered." Suddenly her voice came to me as once 
 again I waited my summons before that sea of faces. 
 
 "There is nothing to fear out there," said the 
 voice. "He is in the world of people your father 
 nothing will harm you there, in his world." 
 
 How tenderly the words floated by me, wafted to 
 me in my loneliness over the mountain of my de- 
 spair. Dear Mother! 
 
 My soliloquy was interrupted by Wilbur Knowles. 
 He stood back of me quite a minute before speak- 
 ing. I felt his presence, but gave no sign until a 
 laugh burst from his lips. 
 
 "Such a pensive maiden," he cried, "dreaming of 
 God knows what!" 
 
 I smiled up at him. I was deeply fond of my stage 
 director. He had been patient and kind in the hours 
 when I had tried to follow the flights of his imagina- 
 tion. How often he had freed his thought and 
 tossed us all as feathers into a breathing living 
 world born of his enthusiasm. We had been mov- 
 ing lifeless before him, and he was the power that 
 sent us glowing into the picture we were portraying. 
 I was fond of him, was glad of his presence now. 
 
 "What would you think of me if I should really 
 tell you of what my dreams are woven?" I asked, 
 facing him direct, my eyes full of many questions. 
 There was a pathetic arching of my eyebrows, and 
 my voice stirred him deeply. I could feel the cur- 
 rent of his sympathy for the unknown sorrow that 
 clutched at my heart. 
 
 He laid his hand on my shoulder. "I would have 
 your dreams happy ones, my little Elsa." There
 
 164 Lone 3n 
 
 was a quick filling of my eyes with tears at his 
 words. 
 
 "Is not faith a strange virtue?" he went on. "I 
 have had the faith to hope that some day a little 
 girl, such as you, would bring love into my life 
 faith to believe? How oft I hear its echo over the 
 far hills, and I am there! Down into the valley it 
 glides, and I am here ! In and out among the crowd 
 that keeps life throbbing in the city streets. I have 
 pressed on, grown weary of the path, yet ever on, 
 and on, my faith lifted on high." 
 
 His voice died away with the words, and I looked 
 into his eyes and knew how it was with him. 
 
 "Did you ever find her, Mr. Knowles?" I asked. 
 . "Yes, Elsa, only to lose her," he answered. 
 / "And you have kept your faith ?" the words were 
 spoken in a whisper, as if I were in a holy place 
 / and too much prying into its secrets would dese- 
 crate. 
 
 "I have kept my faith and still press on toward 
 love," he answered. 
 
 There was an invisible tie between us. Suddenly 
 my faith responded to his, and I said : 
 
 "My dream was as yours, and I will have faith, 
 even as you. The world is full of happiness, and 
 it is for you and me !" 
 
 It was peace that touched my soul as I left him 
 to answer my cue. I paused, frightened. There 
 sat Charles Grey in a large armchair by the fireside. 
 The orchestra was playing a low melody. All was 
 still and tranquil upon the stage, and in the dark in 
 front I knew many countenances were eagerly 
 watching the unwinding of the events of the play.
 
 Clie ftOemring 165 
 
 How vividly stood out the characters of the play. 
 The old man just buried, the sorrowing son and 
 the letters, mysterious and dreadful, that had 
 stripped her, the mother of the bereaved boy, of 
 purity and truth. Once again as that first time back 
 in my home village, I was eager to enter and lend 
 my aid to the lonely youth. My face was flushed 
 as I stepped before the footlights my entrance 
 brought forth a gratifying applause, and I waited 
 until it subsided. I had won admirers, and it pleased 
 me. 
 
 I realized now that the play I had entered into 
 for the first time in my home village had become a 
 part of my life was my life. It had been but a 
 play then, yet I had thought it real. The sorrow, 
 the puzzling of that poor bereaved boy! It had 
 become mine now. By magic each event was poig- 
 nant with meaning that pointed at me. I was Hul- 
 bert, the miserable son, grieving over his birth and 
 the loss of an ideal. I would make Charles Grey 
 know that it was for me that he must sorrow. I 
 was the one irregularly born, though my mother had 
 not sinned. 
 
 I would make it plain to him and then let his 
 love decide. I was grateful for the stage setting of 
 green life about me. Once again I went to the table 
 as he had asked me to do many nights before, and 
 the eager crowd awaited me again. The letters were 
 open that would disclose his birth, the youth of the 
 play. I read and re-read them and tremblingly 
 glanced his way. Still following the cues of the 
 plot, I reached his chair-back, and, leaning over, 
 kissed his forehead.
 
 166 Lone 3In 
 
 "Now I can tell you how much I love you, Hul- 
 bert," I repeated. "I love you with all my soul, 
 with all my being," and then leaning closer, I whis- 
 pered, "I, too, was born as the youth of the play, 
 will you understand?" 
 
 The last few words were not in the lines. I spoke 
 them impressively. It was to the creature of some 
 writer's imagination that I spoke, but Charles Grey 
 received the message. It was for him. The vast 
 audience, my identity as Helene, the sweetheart of 
 Hulbert in the drama forgotten, I was living my 
 life, he, my beloved, must know of the obstacle be- 
 tween us, and I hoped the awkward sentence would 
 disclose the truth. 
 
 The words had a far-away sound. Had I spoken 
 them ? Had he comprehended ? The curtain slowly 
 descended. An overpowering desire for flight was 
 upon me, and before he could detain me I was gone. 
 I rushed into my dressing-room and tore myself free 
 from my raiment, sent Liza to call a cab, and with 
 orchestra still playing, I was away beneath the dark 
 sky of night. I had unveiled my secret before him, 
 and I was terror-stricken, sick with fear, but he 
 knew, Charles Grey knew.
 
 Cfte Sacking 167 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 That night I thought morning would never come. 
 Morning, whose dawn would send over the horizon 
 of the dire blackness that enveloped me, a little ray 
 of light. Morning, whose song birds, astir, would 
 twitter and trill with eager voices in the silence of 
 my despair. What hope had I, that a new morning 
 would ever rise to send bright rays into the gloom 
 where my eyes looked? I had broken through the 
 spell of control that had held me. Events were 
 whirling me beyond my depth. 
 
 The stillness, the calm respose of night seemed 
 unending as I lay feverish and wakeful. I stared 
 out at the sky, the few stars that rose above my 
 window flickered like a candle in a dark room, and 
 my thoughts, unbidden, approached the threshold of 
 to-morrow. As the night had deepened and I tossed 
 in anguish upon my bed, a fury grew upon me. I 
 became a creature swept away by events outside of 
 myself. I did not like being hurled along, controlled 
 by unseen hands. I would be master of my own 
 fate. 
 
 Unconsciously I pushed the fiends back, that they 
 should not impel me on, on, at their own will. I 
 would rise out of my weakness and face bravely the 
 result of my rash words. Why! why! had I tit- 
 tered them ? I cried aloud. No answer came, I was
 
 168 kotie 3n 
 
 forgotten. The world was asleep, and tears filled [ 
 my eyes as I lay wide-eyed and lonely in my bedJ 
 I was but an atom, and there were millions upon 
 millions of atoms in the universe. 
 
 One could lose the path and lie forgotten amid 
 the briers. I sobbed. It was all over now, the 
 sweet hope that had led me on dreaming through the 
 days. Why should it be over? I sighed. If he 
 loved me why? (Could man's love rise to the 
 heights of real testing ?$ I would know, the dawn 
 would unfold. The curtain that fell between our 
 souls would be lifted, we would face the naked 
 facts, and I should know. 
 
 The world might point its fingers of scorn, but if 
 the arms of my beloved were about me there would 
 be no dread in my heart. I could rise above its 
 criticism and look down from the heaven of my joy 
 upon the folly of unthinking ones. As separate 
 beings they were helpless, it was the united laughter 
 of scorn that had power, and Charles Grey and I 
 together could face that force undaunted. Was his 
 love big enough to take my hand, go our way and 
 face only the path ahead where to-morrow, divine 
 and pure, made the worry of to-day a vision, but 
 seen through half-blind eyes? I wanted his love 
 God knew the hungry ache in my heart. Thus the 
 night crept slowly on. Gradually the blackness was 
 lifted from the window-pane and the dawn crept to 
 the edge of the sill as if begging admittance. Such 
 a pale pure light, so new to life that it still had the 
 hint of the Glorified Radiance. 
 
 It found me weary and unresponsive. I even 
 stole out of bed, drew the shades close, and then
 
 Cfje fflleartng 169 
 
 turned my face to the wall. Tired nerves relaxed 
 as the full realization came that I must find rest ere . 
 the sunlight flooded my room. What a terrible pun- 
 ishment is meted out to us when tired eyes upon 
 the threshold of sleep, weary utterly for the uncon- 
 scious drooping of eyelids, yet cannot close. Then 
 when the lids yield and press over the eye-balls, to 
 pray for sleep, for utter oblivion, yet to lie ever 
 >' awake awake! 
 
 How dire the calamity that brings about such con- 
 ditions ! It was noon when I awoke. Upon the wall 
 over my bed there lay a dim sickly glow. The sun- 
 light through the curtains was yellow and pale. I 
 felt like a mummy peeking out of his tomb. I extri- 
 cated myself from the myriad weavings of thought 
 that had bound me ere sleep had overtaken me. I 
 knew how those, shut away from the clear, sweet 
 rapture of day must feel. 
 
 I sent the curtains flying to the top edge of the 
 window-panes, and a glorious radiant light flooded 
 the place. The charm of the tender sky was upon 
 everything. I then loked at the clock for the sec- 
 ond time. Was it really noon? Yes, the big hand 
 pointed directly to twelve. My promise to visit the 
 studio of my father flashed across my mind. Could 
 I go? He had expected me in the morning. Per- 
 haps the afternoon would do as well. 
 
 I longed to see him, there was a yearning within 
 that called me to his presence. I dressed slowly, and 
 as I put the finishing touches to my hair the vigor 
 of the new day was upon me. I had the cafe nearly 
 to myself, when I entered. I enjoyed the prospect 
 from the window of the hurrying throng along the
 
 170 otte 3n 
 
 streets. There was a real interest in my heart as I 
 sent my eyes searchingly down the long columns of 
 the morning paper. The toying with my knife and 
 fork amused me, so differently do events turn upon 
 us under the broad sunlight of day. 
 
 As I sipped my coffee there were healthy thoughts 
 stirring through my mind. I faced the horror of the 
 night clothed in the garb of my youth, and there was 
 no dismay upon my countenance. I was just dipping 
 my fingers into the finger bowl, when a couple at 
 the next table attracted my attention. She was a 
 timid, meek little woman. A sort of far-away echo 
 of the man opposite her. He was a big, well-fed 
 creature, flashily dressed, a satisfied expression 
 beaming from his eyes. Her flashiness was faded, 
 as if the worn out part of his garment had fallen 
 upon her. 
 
 Her figure was dull and spiritless. She was his 
 echo. All individuality was lost in the superior 
 quality of his. He ordered steak, she echoed, "steak 
 by all means, John." No wonder he leaned back 
 and surveyed the room, looking beyond her to ex- 
 plore. She was an open book to him. There were 
 no hidden corners to penetrate. She had given with- 
 out measure and he was surfeited. 
 
 They were hopeless, and my glance passed on to 
 another couple on an angle from the table where I 
 sat. They were young because of the animation 
 that lit up their countenances. But the man had 
 traveled the highway of life perhaps forty years, 
 while his companion was surely thirty-five. They 
 bent toward each other in earnest conversation. 
 Their eyes sparkled, they made gestures with their
 
 Cfre SQemring 171 
 
 hands and their forms expanded. The waiter stood 
 patiently near, on the alert for the first lull in the 
 conversation. He held the menu card extended al- 
 most touching the man's ear. 
 
 His efforts were futile. It was laughable, and I 
 smiled. Finally the waiter took a step nearer, and 
 said in loud, persuasive tones : 
 
 "Beg pardon, monsieur, ze order. Voulez-vous ze 
 fish or ze meat?" 
 
 The man waved him aside. I smiled to myself. 
 It was a play, and I, an appreciative audience. Con- 
 sciousness of the spiked coat beside them, now 
 dawned upon the couple. They extricated them- 
 selves from the maze of conversation only to become 
 just as earnest over the list of tempting viands on 
 the menu card. 
 
 They were truly alive, and the joy of living was 
 upon them. It was all very entertaining, this study 
 of faces, but I must go. A letter must be written, 
 there must be a song or two gone over, before I 
 could free myself and keep my promise to George 
 Carton. The tension of the preceding night had 
 settled into something like a calmness, before the 
 routine of the day. The quick beat of my heart was 
 stilled ; my nerves were quiet though weak and un- 
 certain. 
 
 "God was still in the heavens, all was well with 
 the world." 
 
 Two hours later and I was upon the street, one 
 of the crowd whose feet tramped swiftly over the 
 pavements. A glow of color suffused my counte- 
 nance. I hardly recognized myself as the same half
 
 173 Lone 3n 
 
 frantic creature that had rushed from the theatre 
 through the night. 
 
 Mr. Carton's studio was high in the clouds, in the 
 top story of the building. I knocked timidly at the 
 door. The dark skinned youth, who had served us, 
 opened it. I entered silently, my foot falls made no 
 sound. The throbbing life in the city streets was 
 lost here. I had stepped into the heart of the Ori- 
 ent. The rugs with the tiger heads glowered 
 fiercely at me. The windows were shaded with a 
 woven fabric of silk and the chain of many colors 
 added a subtle spell. It mantled everything, the 
 mystery of many climes lived in the place. 
 
 "Is Mr. Carton in?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, miss, he is painting in the next room. I'll 
 tell him, miss, that you are here. Just be seated." 
 
 There was a sun room, as he called it, opening out 
 of the main studio. He had told me of painting 
 certain pictures there. I took off my jacket, found 
 a comfortable chair, picked up a book lying on the 
 table and waited. The book was a volume of Keat's. 
 I turned the pages found the poem "Lamia" and 
 read. Hermes, his flight and search for love fas- 
 cinated me, as I re-read the vivid description of his 
 ardor. 
 
 "A celestial heart 
 
 Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 
 That from a whiteness, as a lily clear, 
 Blushed into roses 'mid his golden hair." 
 
 Then the appearance of the snake, with the power 
 of speech, her sudden change into "a full-born
 
 Cfte Cleaning ITS 
 
 beauty new and exquisite," so absorbed me that 1 
 did not hear a step on the rug beside me. 
 
 "You have come," said a voice, and I looked up 
 startled to find my father before me. 
 
 "Did you doubt me?" I answered. 
 
 "I feared you might forget," he responded, as 
 he drew up a chair and sat down. We talked of 
 many things, the snake-woman of the poem that lay 
 open on my lap. We compared portrait painting" 
 with the outlining of nature, and the voice with the 
 power of the pen. 
 
 A shaft of light through the dim fabric that 
 shaded the windows to my left, fell over his face. 
 His forehead was high and splendid with the fingers 
 of heaven upon it. His eyes were fathomless, clear 
 pools whose depths I hungered to penetrate. 
 Through his hair a few stray silvered locks lay be- 
 side their fellows, but they only intensified their jet 
 blackness. The hair was thin at the temples, the 
 nose sharp and the mouth firm and close set. 
 
 I loved his countenance, and my eyes softened as 
 I faced him. 
 
 "I'll leave you a minute, Miss Grier, I want to 
 insure against interruption," he said. When he re- 
 turned a faint flush tinged each cheek, lifting the 
 general pallor. His eyes shone bright, I had never 
 seen so enlarged a pupil. It was rimmed in the 
 divine. 
 
 He approached the brown denim that curtained 
 the wall opposite me. He pulled one corner from 
 its firm fastening. Gradually the bottom was re- 
 leased and then the sides hung loose and limp. He 
 motioned me to the couch that stood beneath the
 
 174 Lotte 3n 
 
 curtain. I came at his bidding, my face expectant, 
 was lifted to his. I was caught in the radiance that 
 enveloped him. I waited, my hands, palm to palm, 
 my eyes vainly trying to penetrate the denim. 
 
 For one moment he faced me, his back to the 
 wall, the silence between us. 
 
 "I haven't looked at this picture for twenty years, 
 Miss Grier. Old memories are surging in. They 
 stir through my breast. There is almost a faint- 
 ness creeping over me." 
 
 He turned quickly as the last word fell from his 
 lips. His right hand gave a sudden jerk, and the 
 painting was once more exposed to the light of day. 
 The action dazed me at first. In the quick falling 
 of the curtain, his tall form shadowed the wall, and 
 gave me but a glimpse. I saw only indistinctly, but 
 as my eyes became used to the scene an awe settled 
 over me. My lids opened wide, my whole coun- 
 tenance was alert, and I stared intently. Slowly my 
 eyes sought his, the whole truth of the tie that 
 bound us, father and child, was in their depths. But 
 his face was turned to the wall. He was lost in 
 the picture. Once more I faced the canvas and a 
 quiver of delight ran through me. It was my 
 mother's face I looked upon.
 
 C&e (Kleatotnjj 175 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 "You like the picture?" he said, turning to me 
 abruptly, his voice having 1 in it a wail, a bitter, bitter 
 loneliness. "You like it?" he repeated the words 
 absently, and their sound sent a quiver upon the air, 
 the heartache, that had been endured so many years. 
 "I have named it Motherhood, for all of life is 
 upon that square of canvas." 
 
 "How beautiful!" I cried, giving vent to an in- 
 ward impulse that roused me to speech. "You are 
 a portrait painter. There is the real tint of the soft 
 flesh in her arm, and the flush overspreading her 
 face is wonderful." 
 
 I flashed from my eyes hints of many words that 
 lay upon my heart to be spoken, but he was far 
 away in thought, yet I knew he heard what I had 
 said, because his lips murmured : 
 
 "I never paint portraits now, and never shall let 
 my brush follow the outline of the human form 
 again." 
 
 There was a heaviness of death in his words. 
 They fell on the air like corpses and there was a 
 hopeless quivering in his voice that sent a chill 
 through him. He still loved my mother, though 
 he could see no turning of the road that might lead 
 to her. I did a desperate thing, for I was ever 
 impulsive. I took a step nearer to him, he was
 
 176 Hotte 3n 
 
 gazing abstractedly into the picture, and I took his 
 hand and held it lovingly between my palms. 
 
 "Tell me about the portrait, will you?" I asked 
 as I gently led him toward the sofa. He yielded, 
 not realizing that I was guiding him there at my 
 will. 
 
 "There is nothing to tell," he said dully. "I put 
 my life, my heart in that picture, and as one dead I 
 walk through the world of the living." 
 
 He grasped my hand, his eyes were downcast 
 and his fingers pressed firmly around mine. I let it 
 remain in his clasp. It was a fluttering bird, safely 
 housed. The world seemed far away as we sat 
 there, and at last yielding to a force within that I 
 could not disobey, I drew away my hand, went 
 across the room, and took from the wall a small 
 mirror that hung near the door. 
 
 He noticed my action, but did not question me. 
 I sat down beside him again and held the mirror 
 in front of us. 
 
 "Look!" I cried. He sent one quick glance into 
 the glass and then turned toward me, a puzzled ex- 
 pression in his eyes. 
 
 "What is it? I don't understand," he said. 
 
 "The faces !" I urged. "They are alike. Do you 
 not see the resemblance ?" He turned his gaze once 
 more into the mirror. 
 
 "Yes," he murmured, "the same dark eyes, the 
 cast of countenance not unlike. What are you tell- 
 ing me in the glass, child? What is it?" 
 
 A terrible anxiety shook his frame. "Did you 
 ever have a child ?" I asked, as I let the mirror drop
 
 Cfre fflleatrin IT? 
 
 upon my lap. His face grew livid, his lips were 
 white, and his speech thick as he answered : 
 
 "A child ? No, never !" It was my turn to grow 
 troubled. There was an appeal in my voice as I re- 
 peated my question. 
 
 "You never had a child? Never?" 
 
 A wistful eagerness quivered in my tone. I was 
 puzzled. Why did he not know his own? I was 
 wounded, and a terrible fear clutched me. I tried 
 to lift the cloud that was settling upon me I must 
 penetrate it, find the light. 
 
 I arose and approached the canvas upon the wall. 
 My fingers sought contact with the woman's face, 
 as she reclined upon the low couch. I let them 
 stroke the golden hair that fell about her, a veil of 
 glory. 
 
 I drew closer, yet closer to the portrait. When 
 my face was on a level with hers of the picture I 
 pressed my cheek where my fingers had strayed 
 and my lips whispered softly, "My mother." 
 
 The words were as magic to the man sitting near 
 me. He was at my side in an instant. 
 
 "Your mother!" he cried. "How dare you sully 
 the woman I love? How dare you?" 
 
 His lips threw the words at me harshly. It was 
 the freeing of a nature, that for one moment shook 
 off the bonds that held it under control. He grasped 
 me roughly by the shoulders. The cold sweat stood 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 "Your mother!" he repeated. "My God! what 
 do you mean ? Are you mad, child ?" and he forced 
 me upon the sofa, impelling my eyes to rest upon 
 the fire of his.
 
 178 Hob* 3n 
 
 "Yes, that is my mother's picture," and great 
 sobs shook my voice. I was afraid. I had felt so 
 sure of what I said, but his actions made me doubt. 
 Once more I sent my voice fearlessly forth into 
 the room. 
 
 "Yes, my dear mother looks at me from your 
 painting. My mother, who is now sitting at home 
 in our cottage pressing her fingers where the labor 
 of her hands has supported me all my life fitting 
 me to enter your world !" 
 
 I hurled the words at him defiantly. He should 
 know how she struggled shut away alone. He 
 reached for my hand, and his tall form shook as 
 with ague. 
 
 "Your father, child! Who was he?" he whis- 
 pered the words, his breath was labored like that 
 of a dying man, it touched my cheek hot and fe- 
 verish as he bent near me. 
 
 "Your father!" he repeatd. "Who was he?" 
 
 I turned and lifted the mirror from the sofa 
 once again and held it before his face. The silence 
 that enveloped us at that moment was full of solem- 
 nity. A solemnity that reaches one only at the en- 
 trance of an old cathedral, which for centuries has 
 gathered the sorrows of a nation within its vaulted 
 ceiling, where faces have been lifted in prayer, and 
 hearts have burned with agony, as forms bent low 
 in supplication. 
 
 It was the stillness within the arches of an old 
 cathedral that was about us as I lifted the mirror 
 and held it before him. One moment his eyes found 
 the image reflected there, but it seemed that he could 
 not understand. I leaned nearer to his side, until
 
 Cfre (KHeatimg 179 
 
 my eyes looked into his in the glass, and I whis- 
 pered softly: 
 
 "The face reflected there is my father's." 
 
 "Impossible!" he cried. "And yet, dear God, is 
 it true?" 
 
 I had never seen any one so utterly overcome. I 
 laid the mirror on a chair and put my arms around 
 his neck unbidden. The clasp of my embrace soothed 
 him, for the trembling ceased. 
 
 "Is it true, child ?" he questioned helplessly. "Are 
 you my daughter?" His voice was old and tired. 
 
 "Tell me of your mother. Tell me of her!" he 
 begged. 
 
 I drew a stool to his feet and did his bidding. I 
 pictured the village where we had lived ever since 
 I could remember. I told him of my earliest child- 
 hood, of the garden where the roses and heliotrope 
 ran wild everywhere. I described each room of the 
 tiny home, the stars in the painted sky, of my little 
 bedchamber. Then I told him of the dear Pro- 
 fessor and the gladness in my mother's heart that 
 I was to sing. I dwelt lovingly upon the close com- 
 radeship that existed between us. He interrupted 
 me to say : 
 
 "Yes, she was ever that. She was my pal, too, 
 in the old days." I then described minutely the 
 sweet curves of her face with the real light of 
 motherhood upon it. He listened as one dazed and 
 bowed his head as if in deep thought. Suddenly 
 he looked up and again his eyes searched the pic- 
 ture before him. 
 
 "All my theories of life are slipping away, child 
 slipping away," he cried.
 
 180 ILotte 3n 
 
 Then he looked at me critically. He examined 
 my hands and face carefully as if he thought to 
 find something wrong about me. My flesh must be 
 different, something must be imperfect in it, but he 
 could find no flaw. 
 
 "It is fair, even as hers," he murmured. 
 
 "Why should anything be wrong with me?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, Elsa, child, I don't know!" he answered, 
 in a bewildered way. "I don't know where my 
 thoughts are taking me. I have always held such 
 stern rules of duty before me. Duty, the formal 
 submission to duty, that's it. I have held to the 
 letter of duty, and now to face you, the child of 
 my love, bewilders me. It almost seems as if some- 
 thing must be wrong with you, though God knows 
 our love was pure, my darling's and mine. One 
 hour I forgot duty and took love to my bosom and 
 it brought you. It bewilders me. 
 
 "The letter of the law, Elsa, that is what I have 
 always lived by the letter of the law. I held to 
 it that God and the world demanded the sacrifice of 
 my heart. Are you happy, child? Has your life 
 been a beautiful one?" 
 
 "Oh, so beautiful!" I cried eagerly. "All hap- 
 piness, no cloud, dear father, to mar it, until the 
 night of your musical, when I first saw your face. 
 But that cloud is disappearing, now that I can 
 claim you mine," and I looked up at him fear- 
 lessly. 
 
 "God is love, father," I whispered, and he looked 
 at me intently as I spoke, as if the light were flood- 
 ing his soul.
 
 C&e MJeatiing 181 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Gradually the deep lines left his forehead, and 
 calmness settled over his countenance. It grew upon 
 him as we talked, as if peace had entered his soul. 
 
 "You are like the picture in her desk now," I said, 
 looking up at him. 
 
 "And you knew me because of that?" he ques- 
 tioned, and then his voice took on a far-away, 
 dreamy accent as he went on, "I remember the pic- 
 ture. I painted it for her one day as we sat in 
 the studio, a rainy afternoon. She wore a blue 
 dress, that I loved; it was the color of her eyes. 
 Ah, I remember her, that gloomy day. She was 
 beautiful. The whole world was in the depths of 
 her dear eyes for me. It was late when she left 
 me, my beloved," he murmured as he rambled on, 
 giving me glimpses of the sweet moments that 
 united them. 
 
 "And you knew me at the musical?" he repeated, 
 going back in his thought. 
 
 "At once," I answered. 
 
 "Poor child," he said, and patted my hand lov- 
 ingly. I had banished the horror of his thought, 
 and he was beginning to piece the broken bits of 
 his life together. 
 
 "We loved your mother and I. Our love was 
 pure and sweet. Then I painted the picture, there
 
 182 otie 3n 
 
 upon the wall. It took a hold upon her that made 
 me wonder. She lingered hungrily before it for 
 hours. I remember so well the day it was finished. 
 I left the room for a moment, and when I returned 
 it had my darling completely under its spell. She 
 clung to me piteously, whispered words of love into 
 my ears. Her voice was mesmeric, her whole soul 
 was in it. It flooded my senses and I drank in the 
 sweetness of love from her lips eagerly, as one faint 
 and thirsty upon a desert 
 
 "A madness was upon me as I listened to the low 
 murmur of her voice. 'Let us go away/ she begged, 
 'just for a day, a week. Take me on the water far 
 from the noisy pavements. Let us seek the island 
 of love and moor our boat to its shore.' I could not 
 resist her pleading," he went on, a look of raptur- 
 ous memory creeping into his eyes as he revealed 
 the secrets of his heart to me. "I had just fin- 
 ished painting my greatest picture, the full glamour 
 of success was upon me, and I loved her, Elsa, I 
 loved her, even as she loved me. 
 
 "We slipped away and were lost from the world. 
 I had a sailboat, I stocked her with food, and 
 made ready to receive my darling. She came to 
 me at evening, the sunset in her hair, her eyes 
 radiant with happiness, and we drifted away from 
 the haunts of men. The great waves rocked us into 
 an oblivion of such perfect joy, that I have never 
 realized its like again. 
 
 "But we awoke, and looked into each others' 
 souls. She penetrated the secret recesses of my 
 thought, and one morning when I sought her after 
 our return to the whirl of life she was gone."
 
 Cfre meaning 183 
 
 He ceased speaking, arose, and went over to a 
 desk in the corner of the room unlocked a secret 
 drawer and took out a letter, yellow and worn, and 
 gave it to me. It was my mother's handwriting, 
 and I fingered the pages tenderly, and my voice was 
 low and indistinct as I read the closely written sen- 
 tences aloud at his bidding. 
 
 "My heart has touched yours, and I was awake 
 to its quick throbbings. A deep subtle understand- 
 ing has penetrated my being. I wear no cloak of 
 regret. I love you, and loving you, I go away that 
 your love may ever remain true." 
 
 "She was gone, Elsa," he interrupted, "gone, and 
 I knew not where to seek her. There was nothing 
 to explain her flight but that little note." I had 
 glanced up at his words, and now returned my eyes 
 to the yellowing sheet of paper in my fingers and 
 continued to read aloud: 
 
 "I have known the sweetness of you, and I am 
 content. I cannot remain, now that we have un- 
 veiled our love," and that was all, only her name 
 "Alta" at its close. 
 
 "I sought for her everywhere, child," he said, 
 taking up the thread of our conversation. "My 
 heart died in my breast, and I veiled the picture. I 
 believe in God and the Bible, and a child thus be- 
 gotten horrifies me. She had a deeper vision, Elsa, 
 I feel that, as I sit here. How strange and fearful 
 it all is. You, my little one, hurled into the world 
 under such circumstances ; I cannot bear it ! 
 
 "The same problem is before me now that I faced 
 twenty years ago. I cannot solve it, my brain 
 whirls." I pushed him gently back upon the couch.
 
 19* T Hone 3tn 
 
 He did not resist me. He was tired with trying to 
 solve the mystery of life. I knelt by his side and 
 laid my head on his breast. 
 
 "There is but one thing that troubles me, father," 
 I said, as my fingers stroked his forehead. 
 
 "And that, Elsa?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Is Charles Grey," I answered. "What will he 
 say to all this ?" 
 
 "Must he know, dear?" he asked, startled that I 
 would expose our secret. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" I cried; "he is all the world to me. 
 He is my world, and if he loves me in spite of my 
 birth there is no other world to fret .me. I have 
 been reared to look into the problems that*beset us." 
 As I spoke, confidence grew upon me. I had the 
 courage of my mother, as I said bravely: "There 
 is no blackness of despair that the light of love can- 
 not penetrate. There is no God that will hurl you, 
 or my mother, or me, into a bottomless pit. Love 
 is for the glad daylight of the flowers and green 
 life 'love is the glad world of expression, father, 
 dear." He looked at me amazed as I continued : 
 "The blackness that chokes out lives is repression. 
 Nature gives her love full and free, and are we not 
 greater than nature?" 
 
 I was taking him into realms of thought, his stern 
 law-loving nature had never penetrated before. I 
 would wipe away regret, and I continued as one 
 inspired, while he listened with ever-increasing emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "If I but knew !" he cried. "If I could push the 
 curtain of life aside and see the pattern of it all." 
 
 He arose to a sitting posture. The lines about
 
 Cfre OHeartng 185 
 
 his eyes were deep. He was suffering in spite of 
 my effort. His fingers nervously rumpled his dark 
 hair, and every few minutes his eyes would close, 
 as if to catch some fleeting vision, or to still the wild 
 surging of emotion within his heart. It was grow- 
 ing late. Already the shadows were creeping over 
 the window ledge. I gently drew his figure down 
 upon the couch. Once again my hand lay upon his 
 brow. 
 
 "Sleep, father, dear, I must go, or be late for the 
 opening. Sleep and in your dreaming the vision 
 will speak. You can follow the pattern more closely 
 in the silence." I kissed him upon his lips, so long 
 lonely for her kiss my mother's. 
 
 "Our dear lady back in the little cottage, busy 
 with her work, gives you that kiss," I whispered. 
 He pressed me close to him, then his arms fell away 
 and he yielded to my pleading like a tired child. I 
 stole quietly to the door. Would the light come 
 and lead him out of the darkness and cold, into the 
 peace of understanding? I drew the door gently 
 shut. 
 
 My whole being was hushed into a wonderful 
 calm as I turned my face toward the hotel. Upon 
 every side the hurrying throng jostled by; a mass 
 of people, groping and struggling even as he, lying 
 still and quiet in the shadow-filled studio.
 
 186 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Thirty minutes had hardly elapsed when I was in 
 my own little room at the hotel, holding in my hand 
 a small package. Darkness almost veiled the place 
 and I quickly turned the light on, that I might sat- 
 isfy my curiosity, concerning the square bundle in 
 my hand. I cut the strings and tore the wrappings 
 away. The handwriting was unknown. There is a 
 joy attending the satisfaction of one's curiosity. 
 Life had seemed wrong of late, and there was diver- 
 sion in this tiny bundle. I drew away the last layer 
 of paper and disclosed a likeness of my mother. 
 
 "She has remembered," I said aloud. I had never 
 possessed a photograph of her, and it pleased me 
 that she had gratified my wish. I did not need a 
 likeness to bring her face before me. I had but to 
 close my eyes, thus shutting out intervening ob- 
 jects, then draw a veil between the outside world 
 and my inner vision, and her face was before me. 
 
 But this was a treasure, this delicate outlining 
 that gave her countenance to me. I could look deep 
 into her eyes and a smile rose out of the cardboard 
 that cleared away the perplexity which had preyed 
 upon my heart. 
 
 "She is even nearer than when in my thought," 
 I murmured. 
 
 There was a different look, some way, in the
 
 Cl)e meaning is? 
 
 face now, since the veil of her life had been torn 
 away, and I, her child, knew all. I had almost been 
 forced to sit in judgment upon my dear one, and 
 I trembled since 1 had really entered the holy place 
 of her love. How high the forehead, and the lips 
 were warm and red. 
 
 "Dear mother, you are beautiful to me," I whis- 
 pered as I gazed at my treasure. 
 
 Suddenly his face rose before me. In my reverie 
 I saw my father lying alone in the studio. He was 
 groping for the way in the silence of sleep. His 
 fingers were reaching to outline the pattern of his 
 life. Would the spirit fingers guide him and hold 
 the scheme of life before him ; trace for his bewil- 
 dered brain the pattern of it all ? 
 
 A great love for my mother came welling into 
 my heart as I stood gazing at her face. I would 
 have her happy, and yet sorrow had transformed 
 her into such sweet womanhood. Sorrow had dwelt 
 ever in her life, but she had never grown bitter in 
 its pain. There is a note of melody to be heard, 
 if we but listen, when crushed and helpless we turn 
 to the Infinite Une a note of such sweet cadence 
 that when we hear it, though all the path seem 
 lonely ahead, we are glad even in our grief. 
 
 I sighed as I put the picture upon the table, and 
 then a wonderful resolve came to me, an inspira- 
 tion that prompted me to eager action. I gathered 
 together the few things I needed, took a quick 
 glance at the clock, and, putting the photograph 
 into my handbag, hurried out of the door to the 
 elevator and into the street. 
 
 I hailed a passing cab and was driven back to
 
 188 Lope 3ln 
 
 the studio of George Carton. It was only a short 
 distance, but I had no time to lose. I bade the 
 cabby wait while I ascended to the top story and 
 silently made my way to the painter's rooms. 
 
 At last I reached the door ; it alone stood between 
 us, and a terror seized me. Our relationship was 
 so newly established, could I be so bold as to open 
 the door without knocking? "Yes, I must," I cried. 
 If he still slept it would be all right, and if awake 
 I could explain. Something told me that he slept, 
 and I held my breath as I slowly and carefully; 
 turned the knob. 
 
 Gradually I let the knob slip back in my hand, 
 and then quietly, breathlessly, I entered the room. 
 The place was enveloped in darkness, yet a few re- 
 maining rays of twilight lingered over the window- 
 sill just a flickering shaft of silver to soften the 
 hard blackness of night. 
 
 I stole over the thick rugs, my feet making no 
 sound, and reached the couch where he lay, without 
 disturbing him. For one moment I stood silent 
 there, marveling at the nobility of the face beneath 
 my eyes. The lines of care were gone, erased by 
 invisible fingers. The mouth was curved into a 
 smile. One hand lay on his breast, and near it 
 I placed the small photograph of my mother. 
 
 No subtle desire prompted the bringing of her 
 picture, yet I had unconsciously penetrated the heart 
 of his dreams. Did I plan to incline his thought 
 toward her ? I hardly knew. I had but obeyed an 
 impulse born of my love for her, and from the circle 
 of her love I had naturally reached out to him the
 
 Cfre EOeatring 189 
 
 man who for so many years had influenced her 
 thought and mine. 
 
 I bent over and kissed the dark hair lying in dis- 
 order upon his brow, then retraced my steps to the 
 door. I trembled lest I should make a false move 
 and awaken him. When the door was again closed 
 between us I breathed a sigh of relief. 
 
 The thought of eating in a public cafe grew re- 
 pugnant to me as I stood outside in the chill night 
 air. I would go direct to the theatre and make 
 some tea there on an alcohol stove I had in my dress- 
 ing room. I was not hungry, anyway. It was only 
 to keep the faintness under subjection that I en- 
 dured even the thought of tea. 
 
 I sprang into the cab and was hurried along 
 through the streets, the cabby urging his half- 
 starved animal to extra speed in the hope of another 
 dollar with a return passenger. We reached the 
 theatre. I paid him, and he was off,(t:he thud of 
 iron-rimmed hoofs sending back an echo that had 
 only the note of pain in it. J , 
 
 Poor creatures, my heart bled for the horses,) 
 weighed down with the responsibility of a heavy( 
 vehicle on their shoulders. Poor, faithful, plod- / 
 ding beasts ! I picked my way to the dimly lighted 
 entrance ; it was still early, and the bustle about the 
 box office had not commenced. I stepped into the 
 half-darkened corridor. 
 
 I knew the way, and so had no difficulty in finding 
 the door of my dressing room. Liza had been ill, 
 and I had told her to remain at home to-night, but 
 the place setmed lonesome without her. 
 
 I turned on the light and laid aside my hat and
 
 190 Lotie Sn 
 
 coat. There were some crackers in a bag on the 
 shelf. I took them down, then drew some water. 
 It was soon boiling, and I had the tea made and a 
 cup filled, fragrant and hot, in my hand. 
 
 As I sat sipping it I heard a noise outside my 
 door. It startled me at first. It was rather an 
 awful thought, the great empty building beyond my 
 vision. I listened intently, placing the cup on a 
 small table. It was a step, and I opened the door 
 recklessly that I might still the beating of my heart 
 and know quickly the shape of the fear that rose 
 before me from the outside. 
 
 As I threw wide the door I almost fell into the 
 arms of Charles Grey. 
 
 "I had to come, Elsa/' he said, taking both my 
 hands impulsively. 
 
 The expression on his face was sad, and the lids 
 drooped far over his eyes. My dear boy had suf- 
 fered. He held my hands, and I let them remain 
 passive in his grasp. I was tired of struggling. 
 He drew me into his arms, and I let him. I was 
 worn out, and new courage entered my being, my 
 heart next to his. 
 
 Closer, still closer he drew me, and I made no 
 effort to free myself. My head lay on his breast, 
 he bent his face to mine. It was heaven to rest 
 in his arms, to look out upon life from the shelter 
 of his breast and feel no fear. I was young, and 
 the blood coursed through my veins like mad. Life, 
 life, was upon every side of us. All her treasures 
 were about us, we had but to stretch our hands for 
 them. Can one describe the happiness when the es- 
 sence of joy, the joy of being, is first set free within
 
 Cf)e tOeatting 191 
 
 us? When life becomes so sweet that it possesses 
 us with its wonder and we forget all else ; the 
 blood tingles, pulses thrill, lips quiver, and we would 
 express the mystery within. Love freed becomes 
 a flame, burns to a white heat, that does not con- 
 sume. 
 
 All this went surging through my being as I 
 felt his breath near mine. Then his voice broke the 
 spell as he whispered : 
 
 "My precious one, how she has suffered, and I 
 never knew until last night. Will you forgive me, 
 dearest?" and he held me closer still. 
 
 I could not speak, I could only feel, yet I raised 
 my eyes to his, and then his lips were upon my 
 lips, the world was forgotten, the magic of love 
 was over, and under, and about me. Then I drew 
 away from his embrace and looked into his eyes. 
 He met my gaze frankly. 
 
 "You know of my birth?" I cried. 
 
 "I know, Elsa," he answertd, putting his arms 
 about me and drawing me to a small sofa in the 
 room. 
 
 "How could you fear my knowing, my darling? 
 I love you, love you. Nothing could separate us 
 or change that love. If you but love me there is 
 nothing else can matter." 
 
 He whispered the words close to my ear, and 
 his face was aglow with tenderness. I let his arms ^ 
 close round me, a barrier that shut out the world^ 
 
 "Do you love me?" he whispered. "Say the 
 words, Elsa." 
 , "I do love youjf
 
 193 Lotie 3n 
 
 "Thank God for that," he murmured, as his dear 
 hand lay on my hair. 
 
 "And my father," I whispered, "is George Car- 
 ton, the painter." 
 
 I wanted him to know. I wanted both my dear 
 ones to enter into my haJSpy hour and the naming 
 of them seemed to bring them there. 
 
 He kissed my lips, and fear went out of my life 
 in that moment forever. The universe beyond my 
 dressing room faded away. Only as shadows the 
 myriad of human beings moved about me. The 
 real world was here, and I lay in its arms. The real 
 throbbing heart of life for me was here, and I felt 
 its quick beat against my breast. 
 
 "Say it again, dearest," whispered a voice. 'Twas 
 the voice of my dreams. It came to me as from a 
 great distance, as a note of music that I longed to 
 hear. I only looked my answer; he caught me to 
 his breast and kissed me. 
 
 "I have dreamed what it could mean to be loved 
 by you," he said, "to have your eyes speak the words 
 
 that have haunted me, to have But say the 
 
 words, Elsa, whisper them, your lips to mine," and 
 my heart answered to the quick throbbing of his as 
 I murmured "I love you."
 
 Cfte SOeatoing 193 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 The last flickering rays of twilight touched the 
 outer edge of the window frame that opened into 
 the studio. The room was enveloped in darkness, 
 only the quivering fingers of the sun reached 
 through the casement at intervals, to caress lov- 
 ingly the sleeping form of a man upon a fur-cov- 
 ered couch. The yellow light, now growing faint 
 and pale, lay over the silent figure mingling with the 
 hair that fell in loose disorder about the white brow. 
 Then slowly, reluctantly the glory of the glad world 
 crept away, leaving the place in darkness. 
 
 Gradually a deep, deep blackness enveloped the 
 room, unbroken by any murmur of outward voices. 
 The troubled sleeper lay still and quiet, glad of 
 oblivion. Suddenly an apparition, born of his 
 dreaming, appeared before him. The figure was as 
 a soft radiance that blended with the darkness, was 
 a part of it. 
 
 Hush! Above the sleeping man it bent, lower 
 and lower, until the intensity of its gaze reached the 
 consciousness of the individual prone upon the 
 couch. 
 
 "Arise," said the spirit, "the God of Love and 
 Life calleth for thy presence, and the woman whom 
 thou tookest to wife." 
 
 Slowly consciousness returned the man remem-
 
 194 Lotie 3tn 
 
 bered, A deep peace fell upon him, and he arose to 
 obey the voice that echoed through the silence. He 
 sought the woman he called wife, and, taking her 
 hand in his, started on his journey to the realm of 
 the Gods. He was glad he had been summoned,, 
 now he would know the truth, he \vould see the pat- 
 tern of his life. 
 
 Sorrow fell away as he journeyed on, a trium- 
 phant glow enlightened his countenance. He could 
 hear the "Well done." The experiences through 
 which he had passed in his sojourn upon the earth 
 rose before him. He viewed them calmly. The 
 morning of his youth, the wonderful expectancy that 
 had filled his breast as a boy, the bigger, surer vision 
 that had appeared in his larger manhood, and now 
 the years of fulfillment. 
 
 He pondered over them all as he went on, the 
 woman by his side. At last he neared the presence 
 of the God of Love and Life who had summoned 
 him. Dimly at first he received hints of the beauty 
 that lay in the path before him. There came steal- 
 ing nearer fragmentary glimpses of the heights to- 
 ward which his eyes had been lifted since his youth. 
 Slowly it dawned upon him, like the unfolding of 
 a beautiful dream, the light that was beyond pene- 
 trated his soul. In the distance divinely fair he be- 
 held the throne where sat the Wonderful One. 
 
 Gently he guided the steps of the woman that 
 her feet might press only into pleasant ways. There 
 were deep lines in his face, but a sweetness lay upon 
 his countenance, like a halo. The woman by his 
 side was marvelously beautiful. Through the tur- 
 moil, the fret of life, he had guided her, ever lead-
 
 Cfre leaning 195 
 
 ing her along a blossom-strewn path, thus youth 
 kept her step buoyant, her form radiant and beauti- 
 ful beyond expression. 
 
 He had shielded her from sorrow, and her eyes 
 were as clear pools reflecting only the charm of this 
 world. Though she looked out upon life about 
 her, she was as one blind. Beauty was reflected 
 there, yet she saw not the glory that was every- 
 where. The cries of the creatures that trod the val- 
 ley near her had never penetrated her being. Agony 
 of soul meant nothing to her. She had never been 
 awakened, never penetrated the veil that lay over 
 the mystery of being. . It had never been drawn 
 aside that she might carry the thrill of another big- 
 ger sphere in her heart. 
 
 Step by step they journeyed on, her hand in the 
 palm of his. She was gowned as a queen, the robe 
 that fell about her with rare ingenious skill had 
 been fashioned all the richness of the world was 
 woven into its texture. She was arrayed in the 
 glory of earth. 
 
 "What wouldst thou bring into my presence?" 
 said the God of Love and Life. 
 
 "It is duty," answered the man. "It is the woman 
 who was given me to wife. Behold, I have brought 
 her into thy presence, no blemish upon her brow. 
 She has never known sorrow," and the man drew 
 himself up in his pride. 
 
 "What is that which thou carriest in thy left 
 hand so tightly?'' asked the Royal One. 
 
 "It is my heart," answered the man. 
 
 "But why so small," questioned the God, and the 
 traveler replied :
 
 196 Lone Kn 
 
 "I have held it close. I have never allowed it 
 to breathe or expand. Else it would have reached 
 out beyond the horizon which bound it." 
 
 A compassionate look spread over the countenance 
 of the God. 
 
 "I have ever sacrificed to duty," went on the man, 
 "and starved my heart into submission." 
 
 When the pilgrim ceased speaking a sublime si- 
 lence enveloped them. Far in the distance stretched 
 vistas of a radiant world that lay beyond the throne, 
 inaccessible till the journey was at an end. 
 
 "What of the woman's soul ?" demanded a voice 
 calm and stern. 
 
 The man trembled and was afraid. No answer 
 came to his white lips, and he trembled to the cen- 
 tre of his being, as a deeper significance of his jour- 
 ney was disclosed to his heart. 
 
 "Take this and drink," said the Mighty One, 
 holding out a cup filled to the brim w r ith red wine. 
 He drank eagerly as one athirst. Suddenly his eyes 
 saw into the hidden places of earth. He traced the 
 pattern of his life and knew the mistakes of his 
 weaving. 
 
 He penetrated the worldly garb of the woman by 
 his side. He saw her soul, a misshapen mass, a 
 dim shadow but faintly outlined. It was leaving 
 her body, and he reached out eagerly and cried aloud 
 in his anguish. 
 
 "Leave the woman her soul, oh, God of Love and 
 Life!" and then, as he would have fainted in his 
 distress, an angel appeared clothed in white, a thorn- 
 branch in his hand.
 
 Cfre ffiQcatiing 197 
 
 "Take this," said the angel, "and pierce the 
 woman's heart." 
 
 The pilgrim shrank into himself, closed his eyes, 
 and murmured : 
 
 "Her heart? I cannot make her suffer by any 
 deed of mine." 
 
 "Pierce her heart with the thorn-branch," reit- 
 erated the angel. The pilgrim opened his eyes, and 
 they were filled with tears, a terrible agony lay in 
 their depths. The woman's soul was floating be- 
 yond her. Great sobs shook the man's frame, and 
 he cried aloud once again in agony : 
 
 "I cannot wound her. I must do my duty. I 
 have sworn to shelter and protect, I cannot pierce 
 her heart!" 
 
 The angel stood before him silent and held out 
 the thorn-branch. The woman's soul grew fainter, 
 fainter, more sickly, a pale, dim light. 
 
 "Pierce her heart," said the angel, and the man 
 took the thorn-branch as one in a trance, and obeyed. 
 
 Suddenly the gown of her worldly perfection fell 
 away from her. As it disappeared she turned from 
 the man by her side and into her face crept a strange 
 new loveliness, and the man marveled and called 
 aloud to her : 
 
 "Don't you know me, woman?" 
 
 "Restrain me not," she answered, and her voice 
 was low and full of tenderness, a voice he had never 
 heard before. "I must away, many need the touch 
 of my fingers," she cried. 
 
 "It is my wife!" cried the man as consciousness 
 returned. "I have wounded her beyond recovery, 
 she does not know me," he added, kneeling humbly
 
 198 Lotie in tfte 
 
 at the throne of the God of Love and Life. 
 
 "Thou hast given back her soul, and behold thy 
 heart! How it is already great." 
 
 A glorious light surrounded the traveler, and as 
 the God spoke his form grew erect and strong. 
 
 "Be not dismayed, O trembling one! Thy heart 
 would lead thee into the path of love. Follow thy 
 heart, weary pilgrim. It is well," said the God 
 
 Upon the face of the sleeping man appeared a 
 slowly dawning consciousness. He rose to a sitting 
 posture. A great peace was upon him. His eyes 
 held in their gaze a deeper vision ; the radiant love- 
 liness of another world was in their dark depths. 
 
 Through the window of the studio shone the 
 moon, a sheen of glory that gave new beauty to 
 everything. The place was transformed, and a 
 great craving awoke in the heart of the dreaming 
 one. He had just been recalled from a nightmare 
 of pain and suffering and bidden to weave the golden 
 thread of love into the pattern of his life. 
 
 The night-dark sky would never be impenetrable 
 again. The path stretched beautiful before him, 
 while still there echoed through the room as a song 
 lingers the words : 
 
 "Thy heart would lead thee into the path of love. 
 Follow thy heart." 
 
 It was the voice of the God of Love and Life. 
 A smile of infinite sweetness spread over the man's 
 countenance. 
 
 In his hands he held the portrait of a woman with 
 the sunlight in her hair. 
 
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