are.” She spoke almost coldly. One would have thought it was another and an almost indifferent person whose affairs she was discussing.

“But how can you be ignorant?” said Hannah. “Does he refuse to answer your questions?”

“No—he doesn’t refuse to answer them, though it is evident he thinks them useless and annoying—but generally he tells me he doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know how much money he has, or whether he is rich or poor?”

The other nodded in acquiescence.

“Why, how on earth can that be so? Doesn’t he always have money to pay for things as you go along?”

“Yes—heretofore he has always had. I have needed nothing for myself. All the handsome clothes you see me wear belong to my poor, miserable trousseau.” She smiled bitterly as she said it, but there were no tears in her eyes and her voice was utterly calm.

“What makes you think, then, that he may not continue to have plenty?”

“A letter I read without his permission, though he left it on the table and probably didn’t care. I have been troubled vaguely for some time to find he knew nothing whatever about his business affairs, and that he merely drew on his lawyer for what he wanted, and was always content so long as he got it. Lately, however, although he had been looking for a remittance, the lawyer’s letter came without it, and it was that letter that I read. I saw he looked annoyed, but not for long. He put the letter down and spent the evening playing solitaire, as he always does when he doesn’t go to the theatre. After he went to bed I read the letter. It was from the lawyer in the far West, who had always had charge of the money left by his father—and he said that having repeatedly warned him that he could not go on spending his principal without coming to the end of his rope, he had to tell him now that the end was almost reached. He might manage to send him a remittance soon by selling some bonds at a great sacrifice, and as his orders were imperative of course he would have to do this, but he notified him that there was scarcely anything left, a certain tract of land, which was almost valueless, and that, he said, was the entire remnant of his inheritance, which could never have been very much as he certainly has no extravagant tastes.”

“Why didn’t you tell him you had read the letter and ask him about it?” said Hannah, her rather acute little face animated and serious at once.

“I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“That a woman had no business meddling with men’s affairs, and that he could not help it.”

“But if it is so why doesn’t he get something to do?”

“I asked him and he said he couldn’t.”

“But had he tried?”

“He said he had—several times.”

“What could he do?”

Christine shook her head.

“I have wondered,” she said, “and I can think of nothing. He said he was not trained to any business, and I know no more what to tell him to do than he knows himself. The lawyer advised him to go to work, but did not suggest how. He spoke as if he did not know of his marriage, for he said a man ought to be able to get something to do that would support one.”

“Oh, Christine! and is this all you accomplished?”

“This is all.”

“How long ago was it?”

“About a week.”

“And you have gone through with all that rehearsing and dressing and acting with this weight on your mind? How could you do it?”

“I was determined to do it. It kept me from thinking. I could not withdraw at the last moment. I knew that as soon as the performance was over I would have to look the thing in the face somehow, though I am more helpless than any child. The thought has pursued me through everything. It terrifies me less when I sit and face it calmly, so, than when I put it by and it comes rushing back—as it did to-night while I was singing my last solo. I thought it would take my breath away, but instead it seemed to give an impulse to my voice that made me sing as I had never sung before. I wondered to hear myself, and I was not surprised the people applauded. It was a love song, but what did I care for the stupid man who stood and rolled his eyes at me sentimentally while I sang it? I was in a frenzy, not of love, but despair. This last knowledge that has come to me has put the final touch. To be an actual beggar, as I may be before long, leaves nothing more but death—and that would be peace and satisfaction and joy.”

“But surely your father will help you when he understands.”

“He has no money generally. I know he had to borrow some to get my wedding clothes. He explained to me that the last cent of my little inheritance from my mother had been spent on my education. Besides,” she added, with a change of tone that made her face harden, “I shall not tell him. I feel bitterly toward my father. He could never have truly loved me: he wanted to rid himself, as soon as he could, of the burden of me. So I am left absolutely without a friend. I don’t forget you, Hannah,” she added quickly. “You are my friend, I know, and would help me if you could. Your love can help me and it does and will, but we are poor little waifs together—only you can do something to support yourself, and your mother loves you, while I am utterly helpless and have no love in all the world except what you give me. Oh, Hannah, you must never leave me!”