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Rh she has been entrancing the English public, quite as great a success as before her marriage.”

Mary looked at her guardian, her eyes so full of appeal that he paused.

“What is it, Mary, dear?” he asked.

“Nobody has been blaming our mother all this time, have they? She is” Mary could not frame her question.

“She is an artist, Mary, and everything she does is worth doing, if that is what you would like to ask,” Mr. Moulton assured her. “She sings good music and does clever entertaining; every one praises her. She is a child and an artist; she could not be domestic, and, as long as her babies were comfortable and safe, she saw no reason why she should deny her nature and stay here. We cannot understand that”

“Yes, I can!” Jane interrupted him to cry. “I couldn’t leave an animal to suffer, but I can see why she had to go back. Isn’t it wonderful, Mary?”

“Ah, but, Jane, here’s the hard part of it!” said Mr. Moulton. “You see her days of giving and getting joy in her own way were not long. Lynette is only thirty-seven now, and, though that may sound decrepit to you, it is young. And your mother’s voice is gone, her career