two; then I had to travel for my firm, and when I was away met a girl—a pretty, attractive girl. Then it was all romance, love, dreams; and I married her on my little income. She had no money. I married her, and hoped after we had our little cottage furnished to again return to my art. In a year we paid for enough furniture to make it comfortable, but then there was a baby to be considered, and I said, 'Well, in a year or so I shall go back to my dreams; now I must work for my wife and child.' But the years passed, and children came about me, one, two, three, four, every year fresh expenses, less hope, till I am no more a man, only a machine for money-making—keeping the wolf away."
"And the pretty lady," said the child, whose memory had lingered upon the romantic part of his father's story, "where is she?"
"Your mother." The man smiled unwillingly. "A true woman, a good woman, but without imagination or sympathy. She never knew I loved art, I dared not tell her. She would have despised me. She would have thought me selfish if I had turned even for a moment to it. She is not selfish; she has
