d to be, when I first went to Chicago and saw all the
things in the big stores there. Never anything big, but little things,
the kind I'd never seen before and could never afford. I did take
something once, before I knew it."

Fred came toward her. For the first time she had his whole attention, in
the degree to which she was accustomed to having it. "Did you? What was
it?" he asked with interest.

"A sachet. A little blue silk bag of orris-root powder. There was a
whole counterful of them, marked down to fifty cents. I'd never seen any
before, and they seemed irresistible. I took one up and wandered about
the store with it. Nobody seemed to notice, so I carried it off."

Fred laughed. "Crazy child! Why, your things always smell of orris; is
it a penance?"

"No, I love it. But I saw that the firm didn't lose anything by me. I
went back and bought it there whenever I had a quarter to spend. I got a
lot to take to Arizona. I made it up to them."

"I'll bet you did!" Fred took her hand. "Why didn't I find you that
first winter? I'd have loved you just as you came!"

Thea shook her head. "No, you wouldn't, but you might have found me
amusing. The Harsanyis said yesterday afternoon that I wore such a funny
cape and that my shoes always squeaked. They think I've improved. I told
them it was your doing if I had, and then they looked scared."

"Did you sing for Harsanyi?"

"Yes. He thinks I've improved there, too. He said nice things to me. Oh,
he was very nice! He agrees with you about my going to Lehmann, if
she'll take me. He came out to the elevator with me, after we had said
good-bye. He said something nice out there, too, but he seemed sad."

"What was it that he said?"

"He said, 'When people, serious people, believe in you, they give you
some of their best, so--take care of it, Miss Kronborg.' Then he waved
his hands and went back."

"If you sang, I wish you had taken me along. Did you sing well?" Fred
turned from her and went back to the window. "I wonder when I shall hear
you sing again." He picked up a bunch of violets and smelled them. "You
know, your leaving me like this--well, it's almost inhuman to be able to
do it so kindly and unconditionally."

"I suppose it is. It was almost inhuman to be able to leave home,
too,--the last time, when I knew it was for good. But all the same, I
cared a great deal more than anybody else did. I lived through it. I
have no choice now. No matter how much it breaks me