ted street and stood still to listen. The memories of
the perfect summer floated around him again. Something in the music
seemed to call to him, to plead with him, to try to console and cheer
him with a wonderful, playful tenderness like the pure wordless
sympathy of a child.

"If she had only known how to play it like that," he said to himself;
"if she had only cared enough--she would have called me back. But here
is a woman who does know--and perhaps even for me--well, I will fight
a little longer."

So he turned back to his lonely lodging, guided and impelled by
something that he could not quite understand, and did not even try to
explain. Surely it would be absurd to think that the chance hearing of
a bit of music could have an influence on a man's life.

III

That turn in the Rue de Grenelle seemed like the turn in the tide of
his fortunes. The morning mail brought an order for five hundred
francs, with a letter from the editor of the _Epoch Magazine_, saying
that he liked the article on "The Cradle of the Revolution" very much,
and that he wished the author would do three papers for him on the
"Old Prisons of Paris," A week later came a letter from the editor of
_The World's Wonders_, saying that if the author of the excellent
article on Vesuvius would procure photographic illustrations of it at
their expense, they would be glad to pay a hundred dollars for it, and
asking if he felt like doing two or three articles on "The Little
Chateaux of France" during the summer.

Richard felt, not so much that he was "himself again," but that he was
a new man. The touch of praise for his work refreshed him more than
wine. His friends, the _Beaux Arts_ men and the newspaper
correspondent, noticed the change in him, and accused him of being in
love.

"Not much," he laughed, "but I am at work--two articles accepted and
commissions for five more."

They joyfully gave him all the hints and helps they could, and told
him where to find the books that he needed. He settled down to his
reading bravely and made copious notes for his articles. On Sundays he
went with his three friends to spend the day at some resort in the
suburbs. He played the violin only on these country excursions and at
night in his room when his eyes were tired. The rest of the time he
toiled terribly. His boyish dream that the world lay at his feet was
ended, but instead he felt that he had the power to do something
fairly good, if he worked hard eno