"Your sister; your"
Doris shook her head, "Nobody."
"You're not alone? Ma che! Bambino! That will never do—never. So young, so beautiful, and alone."
This same question had been so maddeningly discussed at home that Doris Stanton answered sharply, with all the confidence of a kitten spatting in a corner, "Yes, I'm alone, and quite able to take care of myself, thank you."
The wiser woman only smiled, and stroked the child's arm, "Going to Milan for five years; ah, but you Americans have so ridiculously much money, and"
Miss Stanton shook her head, "I have very little, very little. I shall support myself while I study." The great singer smiled again, and whispered, "Carissima fanciullo! Impossible."
The Signorina Aurora was very practical. She knew what it meant to support herself and study. She, like Doris, had been far too pretty for Milan, Vienna, Leipsic, Munich. So she held the girl very close, patted her brown hair, and talked of ways and means. Nobody could resist this woman: Doris Stanton told her exactly how much money she had in that scanty wallet which was entrusted to the purser—not the price of one song from the Signorina Aurora.
"Now, now," the singer said, "we shall mend
