ook her breath
away. A Garrett was offering it. That name hated all her life. But did
she hate it now?

There was no more work that day for the author. Nor ever again did her
genius shine out in rapturing periods till she drew inspiration from the
grand environment of the old homestead. Here Robert Garrett is not an
unwelcome guest. Young Herbert is in fact quite devoted to the grave,
sedate man with the tender heart. Will his benign influence one day
still further cement the new friendship?

The Singer's Christmas

A HOLIDAY STORY

The air of the December day was soft and mild. All the world was in the
streets, glad of a respite from the late cold "snap," which had brought
out furs and heavy wraps.

Signora Cavada was taking her accustomed drive, chaperoned by a
comfortable looking American woman; for this was an American city, and
the famous prima donna was winning nightly laurels at the Louisville
Opera House.

To-day, the carriage with its high-stepping bays sought a new
neighborhood, that the great singer might not be bored with repeated
views of the same places. As it bowled along an old man in tattered
garments approached, hat in hand, and held it toward the open window for
alms. The driver cracked his whip peremptorily above the straggling gray
locks of the suppliant, and drove on toward the suburbs.

"Who was that poor old man?" asked the singer in excellent English.

"Oh, only a beggar; the streets are full of them just before Christmas,"
replied her companion.

"Is he very poor?" persisted the signora. "In my own country we have
beggars--they make a business of begging. But that was a grand face.
I shall go back again to look for him; tell the driver."

Accustomed to obey the caprices of her mistress, the duenna gave the
order and the carriage turned back. There stood the old man as before,
but this time he did not approach the equipage.

"Come here," said the signora, holding out a neatly gloved hand.

Fixing his faded eyes, now kindling with something like hope, upon her
lovely face, he came nearer, and at her bidding told his story. It was a
common one: Ill-health, a vagabond son, his earnings all gone, no work,
and finally beggary.

"And have you no one to take care of you? Where do you live?"

"In that old shed, madam," he answered, pointing to a tumbled down cabin
once used as a cobbler's shop. "And I have with me my little girl, my
grandchild."

"A little girl in that place?