r, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a
swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a
lost happiness.

"Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some
Chopin."

At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability
to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and,
in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano,
though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand;
what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and
the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution.
Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is
all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her
music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips.
I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an
overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most
wonderful musicians of the world.

Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the
back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of
Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories
evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back
to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first
time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect
her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of
the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berceuse_." Then the young
mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and
sweetness with a blessed peace of soul.

When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I
thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances
was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest
to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of
some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable
indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about,
searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my
experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that
begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes
of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the
street or, even, I may atte