a great artist must often miss--something with a flavor more subtle
than the realization of a strong role, than passion, than success. It
was when the baby was sleeping in her own bed, its combed head
dinting one of her own white pillows, that she looked across to her
deft, tactful maid.

"I believe I have found a new sensation, Marie," she remarked.

The maid smiled. "I had little sisters," she answered
inconsequently.

"Yes?" said Truda. "I had nothing--not even a little sister."

The new sensation remained with her that night, for the baby
slumbered peacefully in her arms; and several times she awoke to bend
above it and wonder, with happiness and longing, over the miracle of
that little dependent life cast away on the shores of the world. By
morning its companionship had so wrought in her that she could have
given the manager a clear answer if he had come again to ask what she
proposed to do with the child in the event of no one claiming it. But
he did not come. Instead, there came a big red-haired young Jew,
asserting that he was the child's uncle.

Truda was at breakfast in her room when he arrived and was shown in;
opposite to her at the table, the baby was making the most of various
foods. It greeted him with shouts and open welcome; no further proof
was needed to establish his claim. Truda, delicate and fragile in a
morning wrapper, a slender vivid exotic of a woman, shaped as though
by design to the service of art, looked up to scan him. He stood just
within the door, his peaked cap in his hand, great of stature, keen-