the voices and the heavy feet of the peasant women as they went home
from their work. The garden had never been more beautiful than it was
that evening, with the silver light of the moon through the trees, and
the smell of the freshly watered earth and flowers.

We had no doubt who was to contribute the story. The Divorcée was
dressed with unusual care for the rôle, and carried a big lace bag on
her arm, and, as she leaned back in her chair, she pulled one of the
big old fashioned candles in its deep glass toward her, and said with
a nervous laugh:

"I shall have to ask you to let me read my story. You know I am not
accustomed to this sort of thing. It is really my very 'first
appearance,' and I could not possibly tell it as the rest of you more
experienced people can do," and she took the manuscript out of her
lace bag, and, settling herself gracefully, unrolled it. The Youngster
put a stool under her pretty feet, and the Doctor set a cushion behind
her back, while the Journalist, with a laugh, poured her a glass of
water, and the Violinist ceremoniously leaned over, and asked, "Shall
I turn for you?"

She could not help laughing, but it did not make her any the less
nervous, or her voice any the less shaky as she began:

* * * * *

It was after dinner on one of those rare occasions when they dined
alone together.

They were taking coffee in Mrs. Shattuck's especial corner of the