use to go on to-day," he said gruffly--the pretense at last
rumblings of an expiring storm.

"Nor any other day," said Mildred.

She stood and straightened herself. Her face was beautiful rather than
lovely. Its pallor, its strong lines, the melancholy intensity of the
eyes, made her seem more the woman fully developed, less, far less, the
maturing girl.

"Nonsense!" scolded Jennings. "But no more colds like that. They
impair the quality of the voice."

"I have no voice," said the girl. "I see the truth."

Jennings was inwardly cursing his insane temper. In about the kindliest
tone he had ever used with her, he said: "My dear Miss Stevens, you
are in no condition to judge to-day. Come back to-morrow. Do
something for that cold to-night. Clear out the throat--and come back
to-morrow. You will see."

"Yes, I know those tricks," said she, with a sad little smile. "You
can make a crow seem to sing. But you told me the truth."

"To-morrow," he cried pleasantly, giving her an encouraging pat on the
shoulder. He knew the folly of talking too much, the danger of
confirming her fears by pretending to make light of them. "A good
sleep, and to-morrow things will look brighter."

He did not like her expression. It was not the one he was used to
seeing in those vain, "temperamental" pupils of his--the downcast
vanity that will be up again in a few hours. It was rather the
expression of one who has been finally and forever disillusioned.

On her way home she stopped to send Keith a telegram: "I must see you
at once."

There were several at the apartment for tea, among them Cullan, an
amateur violinist and critic on music whom she especially liked. For,
instead of the dreamy, romantic character his large brown eyes and
sensitive features suggested, he revealed in talk and actions a boyish
gayety--free, be it said, from boyish silliness--that was most
infectious. His was one of those souls that put us in the mood to
laugh at all seriousness, to forget all else in the supreme fact of the
reality of existence. He made her forget that day--forget until
Keith's answering telegram interrupted: "Next Monday afternoon."

A week less a day away! She shrank and trembled at the prospect of
relying upon herself alone for six long days. Every prop had been
taken away from her. Even the dubious prop of the strange,
unsatisfactory Keith. For had he not failed her? She had said, "must"
and "at once"; and he had