always sealed their letters with their thumb nails.

Whenever Francesca and I call her "Salemina," she knows, and we
know that she knows, that we are seeing a group of noble ancestors
in a sort of halo over her serene and dignified head, so she
remains unruffled under her petit nom, inasmuch as the casual
public comprehends nothing of its spurious origin and thinks it was
given her by her sponsors in baptism.

Francesca, Salemina, and I have very different backgrounds. The
first-named is an extremely pretty person of large income who is
travelling with us simply because her relatives think that she will
"see Europe" more advantageously under our chaperonage than if she
were accompanied by persons of her own age or "set."

Salemina is a philanthropist and educator of the first rank, and is
collecting all sorts of valuable material to put at the service of
her own country when she returns to it, which will not be a moment
before her letter of credit is exhausted.

I, too, am quasi-educational, for I had a few years of experience
in mothering and teaching little waifs and strays of the streets
before I began to paint pictures. Never shall I regret those
nerve-racking, back-breaking, heart-warming, weary, and beautiful
years, when, all unconsciously, I was learning to paint children by
living with them. Even now the spell still works and it is the
curly head, the "shining morning face," the ready tear, the
glancing smile of childhood that enchains me and gives my brush
whatever skill it possesses.