a painter's atelier. With
mingled feelings we stepped within this modest den of a great artist,
which held his treasures. These were never shown to the casual observer,
nor to the merely curious; they were reserved for the trusted few.

The walls were lined with sketches; heads, still life, landscapes, all
subjects alike interested the painter. A rugged bust of Verdi, over life
size, modeled in plaster, stood in one corner. On an easel rested a
spirited portrait of Maurel, done by himself.

"My friends tell me I should have a larger studio, with better light;
but I am content with this, for here is quiet and here I can be alone,
free to commune with myself. Here I can study my art undisturbed,--for
Art is my religion. If people ask if I go to church, I say No, but I
worship the immortality which is within, which I feel in my soul, the
reflection of the Almighty!"

In quiet mood a little later we descended the white stairway and passed
along the corridors of this house, which looks so foreign to American
eyes, and has the atmosphere of a Paris home.

The artist accompanied us to the street door and bade us farewell, in
his kindly dignified manner.

As the door closed and we were in the street, my friend said:

"A wonderful man and a rare artist. Where shall we find his like
to-day?"

IV

A VISIT TO MME. LILLI LEHMANN

A number of years before the great war, a party of us were spending a
few weeks in Berlin. It was midsummer; the city, filled as it was for
one of us at least, with dear memories of student days, was in most
alluring mood. Flowers bloomed along every balcony, vines festooned
themselves from windows and doorways, as well as from many unexpected
corners. The parks, large and small, which are the delight of a great
city, were at their best and greenest--gay with color. Many profitable
hours were spent wandering through the galleries and museums, hearing
concerts and opera, and visiting the old quarters of the city, so
picturesque and full of memories.

Two of us, who were musicians, were anxious to meet the famous dramatic
soprano, Lilli Lehmann, who was living quietly in one of the suburbs of
the city. Notes were exchanged, and on a certain day we were bidden to
come, out of the regular hours for visitors, by "special exception."

How well I remember the drive through the newer residential section of
Berlin. The path before long led us through country estates, past
beautifully kept garde