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 "Mother has written me." She did not turn around. "She hasn't even enough money to come for me. She could only send me"—he quivered at the choke in her voice—"my railroad ticket. She can get me a place in the Saint Katherine's School for Girls, teaching music." She added bitterly: "And deportment!"

"Don't go."

"What else can I do?" she cried, facing him with the accusation of her tears. "I can't stay here. You—no one"

"I will," he pleaded. "Don't go. Give me a chance. Come and see Kidder with me. Take anything—until we find out. This sort of thing can't be done in a day. Take it until we can get something better."

"Take what?"

"The 'extra' work—like Miss Morris. It'll only be five or six dollars a week, but it'll help pay expenses until—I have lots of money. Don't go. I—it'll be the end of everything." Her silence emboldened him. "I've been waiting here for you. I knew you'd come, to study, to go on the stage—the concert stage. And I've been waiting. That's why I thought this theatrical work—would be good—to be near you. . . . And now, if you give it all up and go away, there won't be anything for either of us. There's nothing for you, up there, teaching music in a girls' school." He ended faintly: "And there's nothing here for me, if you go."

She replied, with some of her old spirit: "You didn't seem to care whether I went or not!"

"I know. It hasn't been Everyone has been