again becoming conscious of the stony presence, smiled a little.
"Aunt Mary would have found sympathizers in Munich," he said.
"That's Germany, ain't it?" said Eliza, words and breath interlocking.
"Yes. Most of Uncle Sam's relatives want to see plainer what's doing; at least those who are able to buy pictures."
"Ahead of her time!" gasped Eliza, her blood racing through her veins. "Ought to 'a' been in Germany!"
And then the most amazing occurrence of Philip Sidney's life took place. There was a rush toward him, and suddenly his Medusa, his witch, his miser, his harpy was on her knees on the floor beside him, covering his hand with tears and kisses, and pouring out a torrent of words.
"I've nearly died with dread of you, Mr. Sidney. Oh, why isn't she here to hear you say those words of her pictures! Nobody was ever kind to her. Her relations paid no more attention to her, or her work, than if she'd been a – a – I don't know what. She was poor, and too modest, and the best and sweetest creature on earth; and when your sketches came she admired 'em so that I began to hate you then. Yes, Mr. Sidney, you was a relative, and goin' to be a success, and the look in her eyes when she saw your work killed me. It killed me!"
"Do, do get up," said Philip, trying to raise her. "Don't weep so, Eliza. I understand."
But the torrent could not yet be stemmed.
"I've looked forward to your comin' like to an operation. I've thought you might laugh at her pictures, 'cause young folks are so cruel, and they don't know! Let me cry, Mr. Sidney. Don't mind! You've given me the first happy moment I've known since she left me. I was the only one she had, even to go to picture galleries with her, and my bones ached 'cause I was a stupid thing, and she had wings just like a little spirit o' light."
Philip's lashes were moist again.
"I wish I had been here to go with her," he said.
Eliza lifted her streaming eyes. "Would you 'a' gone?" she asked, and allowed Phil to raise her gently to her feet.
"Indeed, I would," he answered gravely, "and we should have lived together, and worked together."
"Oh, why couldn't it 'a' been! Why couldn't it 'a' been! What it would 'a' meant to her to have heard what you said just now about her pictures!"
Phil's hands were holding Eliza's thin shoulders, and her famished eyes were drinking in the comfort of him.
"I have an idea that we ought not to believe that we could make her happier than she is," he said, with the same gravity.
"I know," faltered Eliza, surprised; "of course that's the way I ought to feel; but there wasn't ever anything she cared much about except paintin'. She" – Eliza swallowed the tremulous sob that was the aftermath of the storm – "she loved music, but she wasn't a performer."
Phil smiled into the appealing face.
"Then she's painting, for all we know," he said. "Do you believe music is all that goes on there?"
"It's all that's mentioned," said Eliza apologetically.
"I have an idea that dying doesn't change us any," said the young man. "Why should it?"
"It didn't need to change her," agreed the other, her voice breaking.
"I believe that in the end we get what we want."
"That's comfortin'."
"Not so you'd notice it," returned Phil with conviction. "It makes the chills run down my spine occasionally when I stop to realize it."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that we had better examine what we're wanting; and choose something that won't go back on us. Aunt Mary did; and I believe she had a strong faith."
"We never talked religion," said Eliza.
"Just lived it. That's better."
"I didn't," returned Eliza, a spark of the old belligerency flashing in her faded eyes. "I can't think of one single enemy that I love!"
"You were everything to Aunt Mary. Do you suppose I shall ever forget that?"
"I sat down in front o' those pictures in the Metropolitan Museum," said Eliza, her lips trembling again. "It's awful big, and I got so tuckered, the pictures sort o' ran together till I didn't know a landscape from a portrait. Then I used to take on over somethin' that had a seat in front of it, and she'd leave me sittin' there starin'. Oh, Mr. Sidney, I can't think o' one other mean thing I ever did to her," – remorseful grief shook the speaker's voice, – "but I'd ought to 'a' stood up to the end. It would 'a' showed more interest!"
Phil squeezed the spare shoulders as they heaved. He laughed a little.
"Now, Eliza, whatever way you managed it, I know you made her happy."
"Yes," groaned the repentant one, "she said my artistic soul was wakin' up. Do you s'pose where she is now she knows it was black deceit?"
"She knows nothing black where she is," – Phil's voice rang with decision; "but she does know more than ever about love and sacrifice such as you have shown her. Beside," in a lighter tone, "how about your artistic soul? See how far above everybody else you understood her pictures."
Eliza's hungry gaze became suddenly inscrutable. "Mr. Sidney," she began, after a pause, "I loved every stroke her dear hand made, but" – again pain crept into the breaking voice – "you said yourself America wasn't worthy of her, and I'm only what you might call the scum of America when it comes to insight and – and expression and – and atmosphere. Usually I had sense enough to wait till she told me what a thing was before I talked about it; but one day, I can't ever forget it, I praised a flock o' sheep at the back of a field she was doin' and she said they was – was cows!"
Sobs rent the speaker and she covered her eyes.
"I told her – 'twas my glasses," she went on when she could speak. "I – told her they – hadn't been right for – a long time. She laughed – and tried to make a joke of it, but – "
Eliza's voice was drowned in the flood.
Phil patted her shoulders and smiled across the bowed head at the forlorn mantelpiece, where the sketches, unconscious of forgiveness, still turned faces toward the wall.
"You've grown awfully morbid, alone here," he said, giving her a little shake. "You should be only thankful, as I am, that Aunt Mary had you and that you were here to take care of her to the end. Come and sit down. She wrote me a wonderful letter. I have it in my pocket and I'll show it to you."
Eliza obediently yielded herself to be guided to a chair. Pluto had selected the best with unerring instinct; and suddenly into his feline dreams an earthquake intruded as Phil tossed him lightly to the floor.
Drawing his chair close to Eliza, who had wilted back against the faded cretonne roses, the young man drew from his pocket an envelope and took out of it a letter, and a small card photograph.
"Mother gave me this old picture of Aunt Mary – "
Eliza pulled herself up and took it eagerly. "I must get my glasses," she said. "I've cried myself nearly blind."
Phil's
