is worth to the art world, succored him--nursing him as a
Sister of Charity might, sacrificing herself, and even risking her
reputation in order to restore him to life and health.

And this view of the case I am quite willing to accept. Mr. Hadow is no
joker, like that man who has recently written an appreciation of
Xantippe, showing that the wife of Socrates was one of the most patient
women who ever lived, and only at times resorted to heroic means in
order to drive her husband out into the world of thought. She willingly
sacrificed her own good name that another might have literary life.

Hadow has gotten all the facts together and then dispassionately drawn
his conclusions; and these conclusions are eminently complimentary to
all parties concerned.

It was only a few months after Chopin met George Sand that he was
attacked with a peculiar hacking cough. His friends were sure it was
consumption, and a leading physician gave it as his opinion that if the
patient spent the approaching Winter in Paris, it would be death in
March.

The facts being brought to the notice of George Sand, she had but one
thought--to save the life of this young man. He was too ill to decide
what was best to do, and was never able by temperament to take the
initiative, anyway, so this strong and capable woman, forgetful of self
and her own interests, made all the arrangements and took him to the
Isle of Majorca in the Mediterranean Sea. There she cared for him alone
as she might for a babe, for six long, weary months. They lived in the
cells of an old monastery at Valdemosa, away up on the mountainside
overlooking the sea. Here where the roses bloomed the whole year
through, surrounded by groves of orange-trees, shut in by vines and
flowers, with no society save that of the sacristan and an aged woman
servant, she nursed the death-stricken man back to life and hope.

To better encourage him she sent for and surprised him with his piano,
which had to be carried up the mountain on the backs of mules. In the
quiet cloisters she cared for him with motherly tenderness, and there he
learned again to awake the slumbering echoes with divine music. Several
of his best pieces were composed at Majorca during his convalescence,
where the soft semi-tropical breeze laved his cheek, the birds warbled
him their sweetest carols, and away down below, the sea, mother of all,
sang her ceaseless lullaby. When they returned to France the following
Spring, M. D