s Mrs. Boyer, clad as usual in the best
broadcloth and wearing her old sable cape, made over according to her
oldest daughter's ideas into a staid stole and muff. The muff lay on the
path now and Mrs. Boyer was gasping for breath.

"I'm so sorry!" Harmony exclaimed. "It was stupid of me; but the
wind--Is this your muff?"

Mrs. Boyer took the muff coldly. From its depths she proceeded to
extract a handkerchief and with the handkerchief she brushed down the
broadcloth. Harmony stood apologetically by. It is explanatory of Mrs.
Boyer's face, attitude, and costume that the girl addressed her in
English.

"I backed in," she explained. "So few people come, and no Americans."

Mrs. Boyer, having finished her brushing and responded to this humble
apology in her own tongue, condescended to look at Harmony.

"It really is no matter," she said, still coolly but with indications of
thawing. "I am only glad it did not strike my nose. I dare say it would
have, but I was looking up to see if it were going to snow." Here she
saw the violin case and became almost affable.

"There was a card in the Doctors' Club, and I called--" She hesitated.

"I am Miss Wells. The card is mine."

"One of the women here has a small boy who wishes to take violin lessons
and I offered to come. The mother is very busy."

"I see. Will you come in? I can make you a cup of tea and we can talk
about it."

Mrs. Boyer was very willing, although she had doubts about the tea.
She had had no good tea since she had left England, and was inclined to
suspect all of it.

They went in together, Harmony chatting gayly as she ran ahead,
explaining this bit of the old staircase, that walled-up door, here
an ancient bit of furniture not considered worthy of salvage, there
a closed and locked room, home of ghosts and legends. To Harmony this
elderly woman, climbing slowly behind her, was a bit of home. There
had been many such in her life; women no longer young, friends of her
mother's who were friends of hers; women to whom she had been wont to
pay the courtesy of a potted hyacinth at Easter or a wreath at Christmas
or a bit of custard during an illness. She had missed them all cruelly,
as she had missed many things--her mother, her church, her small
gayeties. She had thought at first that Frau Professor Bergmeister
might allay her longing for these comfortable, middle-aged, placid-eyed
friends of hers. But the Frau Professor Bergmeister had proved to be a
fri