One night, near the end of July, after I had been watching beside her
for some hours, I went into the parlor and, throwing myself into the
big arm chair, dozed off into a fitful sleep. I was suddenly aroused
by one of the neighbors, who had come in to sit with her that night.
She said: "Come to your mother at once." I hurried upstairs, and at
the bedroom door met the woman who was acting as nurse. I noted with
a dissolving heart the strange look of awe on her face. From my
first glance at my mother I discerned the light of death upon her
countenance. I fell upon my knees beside the bed and, burying my face
in the sheets, sobbed convulsively. She died with the fingers of her
left hand entwined in my hair.

I will not rake over this, one of the two sacred sorrows of my life;
nor could I describe the feeling of unutterable loneliness that fell
upon me. After the funeral I went to the house of my music teacher;
he had kindly offered me the hospitality of his home for so long as I
might need it. A few days later I moved my trunk, piano, my music, and
most of my books to his home; the rest of my books I divided between
"Shiny" and "Red." Some of the household effects I gave to "Shiny's"
mother and to two or three of the neighbors who had been kind to us
during my mother's illness; the others I sold. After settling up my
little estate I found that, besides a good supply of clothes, a piano,
some books and trinkets, I had about two hundred dollars in cash.

The question of what I was to do now confronted me. My teacher
suggested a concert tour; but both of us realized that I was too old
to be exploited as an infant prodigy and too young and inexperienced
to go before the public as a finished artist. He, however, insisted
that the people of the town would generously patronize a benefit
concert; so he took up the matter and made arrangements for such an