lashes without turning her head. "You see," she added, "I have made up
my mind."

"It's a premium on discourtesy," he answered, "but I yield."

Near the place where she stood there was a fallen log, and he seated
himself upon it, placing his hat on the ground as though for a continued
stay, regarding her curiously.

She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet she
showed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to him
the impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went or
stayed.

"Tell me," he said, "before you sing, where have you studied?"

"I?" she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful. "In Paris, in
London, in Rome, in New York." There was bitterness in her tone. "I am a
_gamin_ of the world, monsieur."

"Tell me," he repeated, insistently.

She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, looking
into the sunset.

"Won't you tell me?" he asked again, his tone more intimate than before.

"Ah, why should I?" And then, with a sudden veering: "After all, there
is little to tell. I was born in Paris of poor--but Irish--parents." She
smiled as she spoke. "My mother was a great singer, whose name I will