piano keys.

They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every--but
I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was
to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen
with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another
in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar
and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra
seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a
private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat--the
ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh,
light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven
each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and
inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese
sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman
doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as
the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr
Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too
hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing
dish bubbling.

For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening
she came home elated.

"Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest
people! General--General A. B. Pinkney's daughter--on Seventy-first
street. Such a splendid house, Joe--you ought to see the front door!
Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw
anything like it before.

"My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's
a delicate thing--dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest
manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week; and,
just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two
or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now,
smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice
supper."

"That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with
a carving knife and a hatchet, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going
to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high
art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or
lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar