story had passed: her birthplace, education, situation; and now she
was saying:

"I have always had the temptation, but I have always resisted it.
Now,"--with a blush at her excuse,--"it may be your spring weather,
your birds, your flowers, your sky--and your children in the streets.
The longing came over me yesterday: I thought of it on the stage,
I thought of it afterward--it was better than sleeping; and this
morning"--her eyes moistened, she breathed excitedly--"I was
determined. I gave up, I made inquiry, I was sent to you. Would it be
possible? Would there be any place" ("any rôle," she said first) "in
any of your asylums, in any of your charitable institutions, for me?
I would ask nothing but my clothes and food, and very little of that;
the recompense would be the children--the little girl children," with
a smile--can you imagine the smile of a woman dreaming of children
that might be? "Think! Never to have held a child in my arms more than
a moment, never to have felt a child's arms about my neck! Never to
have known a child! Born on a stage, my mother born on a stage!" Ah,
there were tragic possibilities in that voice and movement! "Pardon,
madam. You see how I repeat. And you must be very wearied hearing
about me. But I could be their nurse and their servant. I would bathe
and dress them, play with them, teach them their prayers; and when
they are sick they would see no difference. They would not know but
what their mother was there!"

Oh, she had her program all prepared; one could see that.

"And I would sing to them--no! no!" with a quick gesture, "nothing
from the stage; little songs and lullabys I have picked up
traveling around, and," hesitating, "little things I have composed