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 soothed by the slipping of blue loop after loop and the dropping of the rain. Every minute was precious to her. Now he is more at peace—now—now

I know what I'll do, she thought. I'll get his things down from the attic, the old theater and all his materials, and I'll fix up the studio so he can have it every bit for himself. If only I can get him really interested in his scenery it will help him more than anything else in the world. That's the work he's always loved. And he is interested now; he has forgotten everything else—I can tell from his face.

What did it matter that she had a still life started, a jar of creamy peonies against a background of the old kimona embroidered with sea turtles, in careless folds it had taken her half a morning to arrange? She could finish it in her own room, or, if she couldn't, what she really needed was out-of-door sketching.

I'm going to fix it for him to-night, she thought. I can't wait! As soon as he goes to bed I'll get to work. He's never had a real place all of his own here. His room's the size of a match box, anyway, and then I have a lot of my things under his bed—the piece box and the cutting table and my patterns. I'll have it all done to surprise him to-morrow!

When the crack under his door was dark she carried the stepladder up from the cellar and began taking down her paintings—Nellie Verlaine in Grecian costume, fish, onions, the apple blossoms in a stoneware crock she had really finished last month. She pulled