Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1919-07-20

had forsaken him, that he had q
child to bring up! He had taken
back the mother without a word of
reproach, and an hour later the doc
tor had found him puttering among
his retorts. Loneliness and neglect
that had been her mothers excuse.
and with some justice. But what ex-
cuse had She her mothers daughter?
It'll take half an hour. miss"
Don't hurry the poor horse" she
replied. mechanically.
The cartman shifted his Quid and
spat surreptitiously. concluding that
his customer had been turned out for
not paying her rent. 1t was no new
story to him. Somebody was always
moving, because 1t was cheaper to
move than whack down the rent.
Wen, 1T was all grist to his mill: he
had no preference. She was pretty:
and generally it was the pretty ones
who moved.
Two blocks farther on. before a
house in one Of the numbered streets,
he drew up.
rs this the placer"
Eyes"
She climbed down, ran up the steps,
and rang the bell. The door opened
shortly and she vanished into the hall.
When the cartman laid the suit case
on top Of the trunk he suggested that
he wouldn't mind an extra ten cents
for beer. 1t took "all tn water out
O. yer hide. this weather"
He pocketed the tip and shuffled out
of the house, out of her life, one of
those shadow shapes which come and
go without leaving the slightest inn
preston on the memory.
The girl stood stockstill in the mid
die of the room until she heard the
shiffle shuttle of the poor old bag of
bones that had once been a lively colt
in the green fields. Into her tragic
thoughts came strangely the thought
of this horse. She had already for
gotten the master but she would al
ways remember the horse. 1t was
symbolical. Twenty years hence she
would be like that. bag of bones,
all her spirit crushed, gray-haired.
weak of eye, trembling. How dis
tinct the dull portrait was!
All her life she had been poor; al
ways she had grubbed. She had been
denied the right Of butterflies to
fly. Always they had been in debt.
She had grown to dread the door
bell, for nine-tenths of the callers
had been irascible bill collectors, and
the brunt of "shooing" them off had
always fallen upon her young Shout
ders. Her father had no idea where
his salary went. She had cooked the
meals, washed the dishes. kept the
house in order. The social life OF the
college town had been closed doors
to her. The boys had naturally
sought. with the careless cruelty Of
theinkind, those girls who had pretty
dresses, leisure and who knew how
to dance. What was it to them that
she could play the Second Symphony
If, on the other hand, she did not
know the latest ragtime? She was
pretty; but her hands were always
red from housework and her dresses
madeovers. Only two things had she
plucked from this dreary life--edu-
cation and music-and these hap
hazardly. due primarily to the kind
ness of the German professor of
music, who loved the father and un-
derstood the child.
And then one day she had been
thrown upon her own resources, un-
tremendously. by death. When the
little estate was settled up, the trif-
ling insurance paid, the furniture
sold, and the debts wiped out there
was for her meager nine hundred
dollars to begin the real battle of
life with.
She hated the small city where she
had known nothing but penury and
humiliation, and SO went to the me-
tropolis.
For ten years she had studied UNI
der the loving care of the old Ba-
Varian music master, who, back in
Munich had ranked among the great
est instructors of his time. Finding
himself too deeply involved in DO
litical intrigue. he had stolen away
to America. He had discovered the
soul in Ruth. and she became all his
itions In one. His own peculiar
genius had fired hers, even when she
was a child. unconscious of what was
stirring within. He drew wonder
full pictures for her. At the end of
the road were wealth and fame,
To possess genius and yet to fail
in attainment because OF trifline
physical defect called nerves! She
could not play before an audience;
she could not even accompany