wski's shoulder and said--

"We love your husband, madame. He has been such a bully friend to us,
such a wonderful friend."

"Poof, my dear Bobbie," murmured Potowski.

("J'ai perdu ma tourterelle.")

Fairfax asked, looking directly at her, "Will you really sing for us,
Madame Potowski? Can you sing some old English ballad? We have not heard
a word of English for many a long day."

Potowski wandered softly into a familiar tune. He smiled over his
shoulder at his wife, and, standing by the piano, Caroline
Carew--Carolina Potowski--put her hands over her husband's on the keys
and indicated an accompaniment, humming.

"If you can, dear, I will sing Mr. Rainsford _this_."

Tony took his place on the divan.

Then Madame Potowski sang:

"Flow gently, sweet Afton."

In New York Tony had said, as he sat in the big Puritan parlour, that
her voice was divine. No one who has ever heard Carolina Potowski sing
"Flow gently, sweet Afton" can ever forget it. Tony covered his face
with his hands and said to himself, being an artist as well, "No matter
what she has done, it was worth it to produce such art as that."

"Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,
My Mary is asleep by your turbulent stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."

Little Gardiner once more leaned against his arm; restless little Bella
in red, her hair down her back, slipped out of the room to read in
peace, and he sat there, a homeless stranger in a Northern city without
a cent of money in his pocket, and the desires of life and art shining
in his soul.

"Flow gently, sweet Afton."

He indistinctly heard Dearborn open the door. A woman slipped in and
went over and sat down by her lover. The two sat together holding hands,
and "Sweet Afton" flowed on, and nobody's dream was disturbed. Little
Gardiner slept his peaceful sleep in his child's grave; his mother slept
her sleep in a Southern cemetery; the Angel of Resurrection raised his
spotless wings over the city of the silent dead, and Antony's heart
swelled in his breast.

When the Comtesse Potowski stopped singing no one said a word. Her
husband played a few bars of Werther and she sang the "Love Letters."
Then, before she ceased, Antony was conscious that Nora Scarlet had
recognized him. Before any embarrassment could be between them, he went
over to her and took her hand, saying warmly-