fairs, and that he
could not help it."

"But if it is so why doesn't he get something to do?"

"I asked him and he said he couldn't."

"But had he tried?"

"He said he had--several times."

"What could he do?"

Christine shook her head.

"I have wondered," she said, "and I can think of nothing. He said he was
not trained to any business, and I know no more what to tell him to do
than he knows himself. The lawyer advised him to go to work, but did not
suggest how. He spoke as if he did not know of his marriage, for he said
a man ought to be able to get something to do that would support one."

"Oh, Christine! and is this all you accomplished?"

"This is all."

"How long ago was it?"

"About a week."

"And you have gone through with all that rehearsing and dressing and
acting with this weight on your mind? How could you do it?"

"I was determined to do it. It kept me from thinking. I could not
withdraw at the last moment. I knew that as soon as the performance
was over I would have to look the thing in the face somehow, though I
am more helpless than any child. The thought has pursued me through
everything. It terrifies me less when I sit and face it calmly, so, than
when I put it by and it comes rushing back--as it did to-night while I
was singing my last solo. I thought it would take my breath away, but
instead it seemed to give an impulse to my voice that made me sing as
I had never sung before. I wondered to hear myself, and I was not
surprised the people applauded. It was a love song, but what did I care
for the stupid man who stood and rolled his eyes at me sentimentally
while I sang it? I was in a frenzy, not of love, but despair. This last
knowledge that has come to me has put the final touch. To be an actual
beggar, as I may be before long, leaves nothing more but death--and that
would be peace and satisfaction and joy."

"But surely your father will help you when he understands."

"He has no money generally. I know he had to borrow some to get my
wedding clothes. He explained to me that the last cent of my little
inheritance from my mother had been spent on my education. Besides," she
added, with a change of tone that made her face harden, "I shall not
tell him. I feel bitterly toward my father. He could never have truly
loved me: he wanted to rid himself, as soon as he could, of the burden
of me. So I am left absolutely without a friend. I don't forget you,
Hannah," she added quickly. "You a