red. "Your voice will ripen."

"And will I ripen too?"

He laughed. "I don't want you ever to be any different from what you
are."

She was thoughtful a moment, for Peter had always taken pains to be
sparing in personalities which had nothing to do with her voice.

"But I don't want always to be what I am," she protested, "just growin'
close to the ground like a pumpkin or a squash."

He laughed. "You might do worse."

"But not much. Oh, I know. You're teachin' me to think--and to feel--so
that I can make other people do the same--the way you've done to me. But
it don't make me any too happy to think of bein' a--a squash again."

"Perhaps you won't have to be," said Peter quietly.

"And the factory--I've got to make some money next winter. I can't use
any of Aunt Tillie's savin's. But when I know what I _might_ be doin',
it's not any too easy to think of goin' back _there_!"

"Perhaps you won't have to go," said Peter again.

Her eyes glanced at him quickly, looked away, then returned to his face
curiously.

"I don't just understand what you mean."

"I mean," said Peter, "that we'll try to find the means to keep you out
of the glass factory--to keep on with the music."

"But how----? I can't be dependent on----" She paused with a glance at
him. And then quickly, with her characteristic frankness that always
probed straight to her point, "You mean that _you_ will pay my way?"

"Merely that I'm going to find the money--somehow."

But she shook her head violently. "Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that,
Mr. Nichols. I couldn't think of it."

"But you've got to go on, Beth. I've made up my mind to that. You'll go
pretty fast. It won't be long before you'll know all that I can teach
you. And then I'm going to put you under the best teacher of this method
in New York. In a year or so you'll be earning your own way----"

"But I can't let you do this for me. You're doin' too much as it is--too
much that I can't pay back."

"We won't talk of money. You've given me a lot of enjoyment. That's my
pay."

"But this other--this studyin' in New York. No, I couldn't let you do
that. I couldn't--I can't take a cent from you or from any man--woman
either, for that matter. I'll find some way--workin' nights. But I'm not
goin' back," she added almost fiercely between her teeth, "not to the
way I was before. I won't. I can't."

"Good. That's the way great careers are made. I don't intend that you
shall. I'm going to mak