that bewildered her.

"But--is it--_nice_?"

"Better than a boarding-house. Two or three other girls lodge there, the
housekeeper is obliging, and the experience--well, at least it's
enlightening."

"I wish you'd come here. Why don't you?"

"Oh, could I?" I cried with sudden frankness. "You can't think how glad
I'd be! The studio was awfully nice at first, and I've made the best of
it, but I know Ma--Mother and Father would be pleased. If it wouldn't be
too much trouble--"

And so easily it was all arranged. Of course after she had seen me, heard
me, felt the charm of me--of Her--Aunt Frank couldn't leave Her in the
studio!

I'd have been glad to avoid the journey back to Union Square with John;
for the evening, with all its perplexities, had been paradise, and I
dreaded to have him bring me back to earth with words of love. I ought to
be more than usually tender towards John now, when he has just lost his
mother; but when the Bakers' door had closed behind us, and we stood
together under the crispy starlight--for it had cleared and turned cold
during the evening--I talked feverishly of things that neither of us cared
about, and kept it up all the way home.

John scarcely seemed to listen to my chatter. He was as if under a spell,
and his dark, strong face glowed with the magic of it. As we approached