r Orion.
Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses of
comfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies in
efficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take.

From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude,
and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. I
believe that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited the
infant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that he
smiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blow
had been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to grow
shorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought a
little consolation.

I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatly
made up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. I
insisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair,
knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to my
consternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she did
not want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyes
were a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that it
gave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter of
confidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp and
woof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads and
heart-strings sorely strained.

She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing in
Providence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel of
great price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad,
the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over.

There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointments
and rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher had
begun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other young
women had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge of
merit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, Paul
Dupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize of
the _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man.
There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sung
Gounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was then
that, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to the
vibrant notes the man could cause to weep an