shion in a rickety old studio, cooking
behind screens, the babies sleeping on shelves.

But there seems to have been a very happy side to it--a great deal of
love and many friends, all more or less poor, but artistic and congenial
and high-thinking. The little lads, in their gentleness and fineness,
show that phase of their upbringing. They have an air which many of
my children, despite all the good manners I can pour into them, will
forever lack.

The mother died in the hospital a few days after Allegra's birth, and
the father struggled on for two years, caring for his brood and painting
like mad--advertisements, anything--to keep a roof over their heads.

He died in St. Vincent's three weeks ago,--overwork, worry, pneumonia.
His friends rallied about the babies, sold such of the studio fittings
as had escaped pawning, paid off the debts, and looked about for the
best asylum they could find. And, Heaven save them! they hit upon us!

Well, I kept the two artists for luncheon,--nice creatures in soft
hats and Windsor ties, and looking pretty frayed themselves,--and then
started them back to New York with the promise that I would give the
little family my most parental attention.

So here they are, one little mite in the nursery, two in the
kindergarten room, four big packing cases full of canvases in the
cellar, and a trunk in the store room with the letters of their
father and mother. And a look in their faces, an intangible spiritual
SOMETHING, that is their heritage.

I can't get them out of my mind. All night long I was planning their
future. The boys are easy. They have already been graduated from
college, Mr. Pendleton assisting, and are pursuing honorable business
careers. But Allegra I don't know about; I can't think what to wish for
the child. Of course the normal thing to wish for any sweet little girl
is that two kind foster parents will come along to take the place of the
real parents that Fate has robbed her of. But in this case it would be
cruel to steal her away from her brothers. Their love for the baby is
pitiful. You see, they have brought her up. The only time I ever hear
them laugh is when she has done something funny.

The poor little fellows miss their father horribly. I found Don, the
five-year-old one, sobbing in his crib last night because he couldn't
say good night to "daddy."

But Allegra is true to her name, the happiest young miss of three I have
ever seen. The poor father managed we