stra. He made the poor old man leave the theatre. After that he
played in other orchestras a little, but he couldn't be depended upon,
so no one wanted to hire him.

"Father did all he could to help him, but he grew queerer and queerer.
Then he disappeared, and father didn't see him for a long while. One
cold winter night he found him wandering about the streets, so he
brought him to his room and he has been with father ever since. That was
years ago, before father was married. He isn't really my uncle. I just
call him that. The musicians used to call him 'Crazy Johnny.' His name
is John Roland."

Although Constance had averred that there wasn't "much to tell," the
third act interrupted her recital, and it was during the interval before
the beginning of the last act that Marjorie heard the story of the
fourth member of the Stevenses' household, little lame Charlie.

"Charlie has been with us a little over four years," returned Constance,
in answer to Marjorie's interested questions. "He is seven years old,
but you would hardly believe it. His mother died when he was a tiny
baby, and his father was a dreadful drunkard. He was a musician, too, a
clarionet player. He let Charlie fall downstairs when he was only two
years old and hurt his hip. That's why he's lame. His father used to go
away and be gone for days and leave the poor baby with his neighbors.
Father found out about it and took Charlie away from him, and we've had
him with us ever since."

"It was splendid in your father to be so good to the poor old man and
Charlie," said Marjorie, warmly.

"Father is the best man in the world," returned Constance, with fond
pride. "He is such a wonderful musician, too. He can play on the violin
as well as the piano, and he teaches both. If only he could get plenty
of work here in Sanford. He has a few pupils, and with the articles he
writes we manage to live, but the magazine is a small one and does not
pay much for them. He has tried ever so many times to get into the
theatre orchestra, but there seems to be no chance for him. I think
we'll go somewhere else to live before long. Perhaps to a big city
again. I'd love to stay here and go through high school with you, but I
am afraid I can't. I'm almost eighteen and I ought to work."

"Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Sanford!" exclaimed Marjorie, in
sudden dismay. "What would I do without you? Perhaps things will be
brighter after a while. I am sure they will. Why couldn'