“It’s her protégée, Dana,” interposed Miss Cahill. “Edith won’t tell you the straight of it, so I shall. Edith found her already at the settlement. She was awfully poor, but she had this glorious voice and she was trying to support herself, and earn enough to have her voice trained. And she would come over Sunday evenings--she lived near the settlement--and sing for the men and women. You ought to see how they appreciate it and how they listen to her quite quietly, as if astonished and charmed into silence. She is nearly as poor as they, and it is all she can do for them, she says--I forget what she did, type-writing or something--and she was going to an awfully bad teacher and getting her voice ruined, and so Edith made friends with her in that way. She has now sent her to Alden and really supports her so she can devote herself entirely to her music.” Miss Minot glanced quickly up in a little embarrassed way. “Louise is terrible!” she said, laughing. “But you cannot imagine how wonderfully beautiful her voice is. It is one of those naturally perfect voices--she had always sung, but never suspected what an extraordinary gift she had until two or three years ago. It’s such a tremendous satisfaction to do something for a voice like that. One gets so tired spending on one’s self and cultivating one’s own little society voice, that can just be heard across the drawing-room if everyone keeps quite still! Alden says she will be ready for Marchesi in six months, and for the Grand Opera in a year.” “And one of these days, when she is a great prima donna and has married a marquis, or a count at least, she will come back and patronize you and send you a box for the matinée!” remarked Cahill. Miss Minot shook her head smilingly. “You are very cynical and you don’t know her in the least. She is very beautiful and very fine and most grateful--absurdly grateful.” “And she adores Edith,” put in Miss Cahill. “She has been her only friend and confidant, and she worships her and treats her as if she were a goddess, and I believe she would have her hands chopped off or her eyes burned out, or be executed quite cheerfully, to show her devotion.” Miss Minot looked openly amused. “I don’t know about all that, I’m sure!” she said, “but I don’t think she would patronize me. Besides it would not be strange if she were cynical and hard like yourself, Mr. Cahill,” she went on smiling over at him, “for she has had a great deal of trouble already.” The girl pushed her chair back a little, and her fine, earnest face grew grave and perplexed. Miss Cahill gave a little gasp. “I _knew_ she had a history, Edith! She looks like it. She is awfully pretty,” she went on, turning to her brother. “I have seen her several times at the settlement, but we are not friends yet--I doubt if she even knows my name. I would like to know her, though--there is something so sad about her eyes and mouth, and her voice makes one cry.”