idn't know
myself. I could hardly tell her that it was because, at least
theoretically, every beautiful woman is loved by every man, nor could I
say that it was because she had inspired me with pity for her.

"We have had a few pleasant moments together," I replied, "and I am ever
so glad that Baby Paul has derived so much benefit. The kindness you
speak of is mere egotism. I have given myself the great pleasure of
your company. I do not suppose you realize how much that means to a chap
whose usual confidant is his writing machine, and whose society, except
at rare intervals, is made up of old books. My dear child, in this
transaction I am the favored one."

I was surprised to see a little shiver pass over her frame.

"Oh! Mr. Cole, sometimes I can't help feeling such wonder, such
amazement, when I think of how differently all these things might have
come to pass. I--I was going off to the hospital on the next day. I
should surely have met kindness and good enough care, but no one can
understand what it was to me to have Frieda come in, with her sweet
sympathetic face. It was as if some loving sister had dropped down to me
from Heaven, and--and she told me about you. I--I remember her very
words; she said that you were a man to be trusted, clean of soul as a
child, the only one she had ever met into whose keeping she would
entrust all that she holds most dear."

"Frieda is much given to exaggeration," I remarked, uneasily.

"She is not. Think of what my feelings would have been on the day when
they would have sent me out of the hospital, with not a friend in the
world, not a kindly heart to turn to!"

"My dear child," I said, "I believe that, if you have not been
altogether forgotten by the gods and goddesses, it was because you were
worthy of their kindest regard. I am confident that our little trip on
the water will make you sleep soundly, and I trust that you will have
pleasant dreams."

Yes! I occasionally call her my dear child, now. Neither my forty years
nor the thinness of my thatch really entitles me to consider myself
sufficiently venerable to have been her parent. But I am the least
formal of men and find it difficult to call her Madame or Mrs. Dupont.
If I did so now, I think that she would wonder if I was aggrieved
against her, for some such foolish reason as women are always keen on
inventing and annoying themselves with. Once in a while I even call her
Frances, but it is a habit I ought not to per