Perhaps I heard a little noise, and perhaps I only felt eyes on me, but in any event, I turned--something made me turn--and then I said, “Why, Miss Sheila!” for although I had never seen the pretty woman who stood in the doorway, I had often--very often--seen the picture of the girl she had been, and the years had not changed her much. She came toward me as I got up, and she held out both hands, and I saw that she had felt tears, for her long lashes were wet, and made into little points. “Bless you, darling child!” she said, as she kissed me, “how did you know?” and I said, “Mother has a picture of you, and of course we’ve always talked of you, for Mother loved you so much; she said you were so _kind_ to her!” “Kind to her?” she echoed, “dear soul, think of all that she did for me--” And then her eyes brimmed again, and Mother spoke quickly of how they had met, because I think she felt that it was too hard for Miss Sheila to remember the time when Mother, then a trained nurse, had cared for Miss Sheila’s younger brother who died. “Right by the First National,” Mother said, “and there I was, coming out of Mr. Duffy’s with a pound of liver, and I looked up and saw dear Miss Sheila!” “And I’ve tried to find you everywhere, Margaret,” said Miss Sheila to Mother, “but that trip--I traveled, you know, after we parted, and I lost hold of threads for a time, and then when I came back I couldn’t locate you. I suppose you married the young interne in the Pennsylvania Hospital, during that interval?” Mother laughed, flushed and nodded. “He used to write her letters that weighed seven to eight pounds, _every day_,” said Miss Sheila to me, as she shook her pretty head disapprovingly, “I assure you the poor postman grew quite stooped; I hope, Jane, that no young interne writes to _you_?” And I told her that none did, and that I wouldn’t let any, because I wanted a husband whom I would know by sight, anyway, and one that didn’t smell of ether. And then I put my hand on the piano--“It’s this with me,” I said shyly, because I do feel shy about my playing. It makes me feel lumpy in my throat from the way I love it, and that embarrasses me. “I don’t wonder,” said Miss Sheila as she looked at me searchingly, “I heard you . . . Jane--” And she didn’t wave her wand, but I saw the flicker of its silver magic in the air-- “Jane,” she continued, “I have a hobby, and it is helping girls to find work that they like, and after finding it, helping them to go on with it. . . . This, because I, myself, have been without work, and suffered from it. . . . You can play, my child, and your mother is going to give me the great pleasure of letting me help you play better. . . . You are, Margaret? _My dear, remember the old days, and all that you did for me!_ . . . Jane,” (she turned back to me) “in Florence there is rather a marvelous teacher named Michele Paggi, and in October you shall go to him!” * * * * * That was the story.