said. "I remember it so well.
It was green. Do you recall it, Lucretia?"

Miss Lucretia nodded, her frail hands busy with the tea-cups.

"I do. And the turban with the green plume you wore with it."

Mark glanced from the picture of the child to the face of the woman
whose youth was past. Was it tragedy for her, he wondered, that she
had never known in its fullness the meaning of love and home? Or was
she happy burning with her own diffusing light full of the warmth of
humanity, loving, and giving to all the world instead of one lover?

Miss Lucretia interrupted his reverie.

"I suppose you are going over to see Stella this evening, and we old
people shall have to amuse ourselves without you as best we can."

Mark lifted his Lowestoft tea-cup and set it down again before he
answered slowly:

"No, I think not. I am going to stay and have some music with Miss
Allison."

He wondered why Miss Allison had made Stella seem suddenly hard, new,
almost crude, like the modern furniture in the drawing-room beside the
fine old mahogany, with its simple decoration and tone of time.

It was that evening, which he had decided should be his last, that,
when their music was over, he handed Miss Allison Clyde a sheet of
manuscript music.

"Since you liked it," he said.

She took it, a faint color coming in her cheek. It was the manuscript
of the fifth song of his cycle, "Evening," and he had dedicated it to
her. Involuntarily she moved to give it back to him.

"No, not to me. You are too kind. But you must dedicate it to youth."

He nodded, with his smile.

"So I have: to the woman who has youth in her heart." Then he drew
out the package of letters. "And these," he said in a lower voice,
"are yours also." He handed them to her silently.

"Mine?" She turned over the package in doubtful wonder.

"I found them in the desk with the daguerreotype. When you open them
you will understand."

Turning from the doorway for a last good night, Mark saw Miss Allison,
as he always afterward remembered her, standing by the tall mantel in
the candle-light with the unopened package of Uncle William's letters
in her hand.

ZELIG[17]

BY BENJAMIN ROSENBLATT

From _The Bellman_

[17] Copyright, 1915, by The Bellman Company. Copyright, 1916, by
Benjamin Rosenblatt.

Old Zelig was eyed askance by his brethren. No one deigned to call him
"Reb" Zelig, nor to prefix to his name the American equivalent--"Mr."
"The old on