e of the members of this new world
she had taken by storm. We had looked together over the accounts in the
papers; it was nothing less than a triumph. Richetti was making all
sorts of arrangements for her.

After a long dispute she consented to take my piano with her.

"I'm afraid she won't do it," Frieda had told me, when I broached the
subject to her.

"I--I should be so glad to think it had belonged to--to the only two
women I have--have ever----"

"Poor darling David," said the sweet old painter, wiping her glasses,
"Why--why don't you speak?"

"Because--just because," I answered.

"I know, she is moving into another world now. I am glad she is taking
Eulalie with her. But she can never forget you, Dave. You will always be
the best and dearest of friends to her. You must go and see her often."

"I'm afraid it will never be quite the same, Frieda. She will have a
little parlor now, and it won't be like the room she trusted me to
enter, the place where Baby Paul first saw the light, the dingy quarters
in which her new voice was born. Oh! Frieda! Have we ever fully realized
how patient she was, how resigned? We surely never did because we could
not know how great her loss had been. We merely had an idea that she had
been deprived of a few golden notes, and all the time she knew that she
had lost a treasure beyond compare. And yet how brave she was through it
all! With what courage she went to work in that poor little shop to gain
the pittance that might keep her and Baby Paul farther from want! We
have never once heard her whimper, nor has she ever seemed really
discouraged. Sometimes she showed great sadness, of course, but it was
born of her misfortune and of her fears for the little one, because of
the love for him that surged in her heart. God! Frieda, but you women
are brave and strong!"

"Yes, David dear, especially when we find a good man to lean upon," she
answered.

And so, as I have said, Frances went away to a very decent little
apartment Frieda found for her, and Eulalie was installed in a kitchen
of her own, and the latchstring was always out for us. I enjoyed some
pleasant days of tacking a few photos on the walls and hanging
portieres. Some of the time I had to work alone, for she was much taken
up. Three weeks after the concert she went away on a tour, having joined
forces with Tsheretshewski, the great cellist, an obese and long haired
artist with a wife and seven children, who became a thin