"Isn't it," inquired Morrison, phrasing his question carefully,
"isn't it, with no disrespect to La Chance intended, isn't it rather
unusually good fortune for a smallish Western city to own a real
musician?"

"Well, La Chance bears up bravely under its good fortune," said Sylvia
dryly. "Old Mr. Reinhardt isn't exactly a prime favorite there. He's a
terribly beery old man, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve. Our house
was the only respectable one in town that he could go into. But then,
our house isn't so very respectable. It has its advantages, not being
so very respectable, though it 'most killed me as a young girl to feel
us so. But I certainly have a choice gallery of queer folks in my
acquaintance, and I have the queerest hodge-podge of scraps of things
learned from them. I know a little Swedish from Miss Lindström. She's
a Swedish old maid who does uplift work among the negroes--isn't that
a weird combination? You just ought to hear what she makes of negro
dialect! And I know all the socialist arguments from hearing a
socialist editor get them off every Sunday afternoon. And I even
know how to manage planchette and write mediumistically--save the
mark!--from Cousin Parnelia, a crazy old cousin of Mother's who hangs
round the house more or less."

"I begin to gather," surmised Morrison, "that you must have a
remarkable father and mother. What are _they_ like?"

"Well," said Sylvia thoughtfully, "Mother's the bravest thing you
ever saw. She's not afraid of _anything_! I don't mean cows, or the
house-afire, or mice, or such foolishness. I mean life and death, and
sickness and poverty and fear...."