d so I am. What
can I do?"

"Learn to use it," said Channing. "You must have lessons, of course."

"Oh, I've had them. The best singing-teacher in Lexington came here once
a week all last winter."

"Lexington!" Channing smiled.

"You think I ought to have one from Louisville or Cincinnati?" she asked
anxiously. "I didn't really seem to learn very much from the Lexington
one."

Channing smiled again. "I'm afraid you won't get the sort of training
you need this side of Europe. Your mother must send you to Germany, or
at least to New York."

She made a gesture of despair. "Then there's no use talking about it.
I'll never leave mother, never! I'll just have to go on practising out
here as best I can, with nobody to listen to me."

"I'll listen to you," consoled Channing, "whenever you'll let me."

"But you'll be going away soon."

"Not very soon," he said. He did not add that he had decided on the
moment to remain Farwell's guest until he had exhausted this new
interest thoroughly. Channing was not the man to deny himself the luxury
of any passing sensation.

He had found himself pleasurably wakeful during the night, thinking of
the picture the girl made as she rode into the glare of lamplight,
skirts and hair in disarray, laughing like a young Bacchante, the spirit
of youth and joy incarnate. Now he drew her out very skilfully, so that
he might watch the changing expressions on her vivid face as she talked,
or smiled, or bent broodingly over the child in her arms. Here, he
thought, was temperament as well as talent. Properly handled, the girl
had a career before her.

Nor was his curiosity about her entirely impersonal. Channing, as a
rule, felt rather at a loss with girls. Occasionally in his work he
found it necessary to introduce the young person, chiefly by way of
contrast, and then he did extravagant justice to her rose-white flesh
and her budding curves, and got her as speedily as possible into the
arms of the villain; after which she became interesting. His natural
taste in heroines was for the lady with a past, preferably several
pasts. The blot on the woman's character was as piquant to him as the
mole upon her shoulder. He had spent an impressionable youth in Paris.

But this Bouncing Bet of the Banister, as he had called her, this young
wildwoods creature with all the instincts and none of the experience of
his own class, gave an effect of warmth, of vitality, that thrilled him.
His gaze kindled