ction, to satisfy the
demands of creditors. She kept back the unwelcome news from the girls,
while she held long consultations with Signor Papanti. He declared
his opinion that Rosabella could make a fortune by her voice, and
Floracita by dancing.

"But then they are so young," urged Madame,--"one only sixteen, the
other only fourteen."

"Youth is a disadvantage one soon outgrows," replied the Signor. "They
can't make fortunes immediately, of course; but they can earn a living
by giving lessons. I will try to open a way for them, and the sooner
you prepare them for it the better."

Madame dreaded the task of disclosing their poverty, but she found it
less painful than she had feared. They had no realizing sense of what
it meant, and rather thought that giving lessons would be a pleasant
mode of making time pass less heavily. Madame, who fully understood
the condition of things, kept a watchful lookout for their interests.
Before an inventory was taken, she gathered up and hid away many
trifling articles which would be useful to them, though of little or
no value to the creditors. Portfolios of music, patterns for drawings,
boxes of paint and crayons, baskets of chenille for embroidery, and a
variety of other things, were safely packed away out of sight, without
the girls' taking any notice of her proceedings.

During her father's lifetime, Floracita was so continually whirling
round in fragmentary dances, that he often told her she rested on her
feet less than a humming-bird. But after he was gone, she remained
very still from morning till night. When Madame spoke to her of
the necessity of giving dancing-lessons, it suggested the idea of
practising. But she felt that she could not dance where she had been
accustomed to dance before _him_; and she had not the heart to ask
Rosa to play for her. She thought she would try, in the solitude of
her chamber, how it would seem to give dancing-lessons. But without
music, and without a spectator, it seemed so like the ghost of dancing
that after a few steps the poor child threw herself on the bed and
sobbed.

Rosa did not open the piano for several days after the funeral; but
one morning, feeling as if it would be a relief to pour forth the
sadness that oppressed her, she began to play languidly. Only requiems
and prayers came. Half afraid of summoning an invisible spirit, she
softly touched the keys to "The Light of other Days." But remembering
it was the very last tune s