beckon to Keineth to sit on his knee. Then he would tell a story. It
would be, perhaps, something about India or they would travel together
through Norway; or it would be Custer's fight with the Indians or the
wanderings of the Acadians through the English Colonies in America, as
portrayed in Longfellow's Evangeline.

But for three days Keineth had had neither lessons nor stories--she had
not even wanted to go out into the park to walk. For her dear Tante,
with a very sad face, was packing her trunks and boxes, and Daddy had
gone out of town.

To-morrow the little woman was going to sail on a Norwegian boat for
Europe. The trip seemed to Keineth to be particularly unusual because
Tante and Daddy had talked so much about it and Tante had waited until
Daddy had gotten her some papers which would take her safely into
Europe. So much talk and the important papers made it seem as though
she was going very far away. Perhaps she did not expect to come back to
America--she stopped so often in her work to kiss Keineth!

Keineth could not remember her own mother, she had died when Keineth
was three years old; and as far back as she could remember Tante had
always taken care of her. These three, the golden-haired delicate
child, the serious-faced Belgian gentlewoman, who had given up a
position in one of New York's schools to go into John Randolph's
household, and the father himself, living for his work and his
daughter, led what might seem to others a very strange life. The man
had kept his home in the old brick house on Washington Square in lower
New York even after the other houses in the square around it gradually
changed from pleasant, neat homes to shabby boarding-houses or rooming
houses with broken windows and railless steps; to dusty lofts; to