pictures that made them all fascinating. Instead of saying,
"Interesting composition, that!" or "This man was celebrated for his
chiaroscuro," Godmother was full of human stories of the struggles of
the painters and their faithfulness to ideals; and she could stand in
front of a canvas by almost any master, and talk to Mary Alice about
the painter and the conditions of his life and love and longing when he
painted this picture, in a way that made Mary Alice feel as if she'd
like to _shake_ the people who walked by with only an uninterested
glance; as if she'd like to bring them back and prod them into life,
and cry, "Don't you see? How _can_ you pass so carelessly what cost so
much in toil and tears?"

Godmother had that kind of a viewpoint about everything, it seemed.
When they went to the theatre, she could tell Mary Alice--before the
curtain went up, and between the acts--such things about the actors and
the playwright and the manager, as made the play trebly interesting.

On the East Side they visited some of the Settlements and "prowled" (as
Godmother loved to call it) around the teeming slums; and Godmother
knew such touching stories of the Old World conditions from which these
myriads of foreign folk had escaped, and of the pathos of their trust
in the New World, as kept Mary Alice's eyes bright and wet almost every
minute.

One beautiful sunny afternoon they rode up on top of a Fifth Avenue
motor 'bus to 90th Street, and Godmother pointed out the houses of many
multi-millionaires. She knew things about many of them, too--sweet,
human, heart-touching things about their disappointments and
unsatisfied yearnings--which made one feel rather sorry for them than
envious of their splendours.