At this Dearborn laughed aloud. "She knows a great deal about me, Tony. My dear boy, do you think we have talked much about anything but each other? Do you talk with Mrs. Faversham about me? Nora knows I live here with a chum. She doesn't even know your name." As Dearborn threw open the door they could hear Potowski playing softly the old French ballad, "J'ai perdu ma tourterelle." A woman sat by Potowski in a big chair, and the lamp on the piano shone yellow upon her. When the two men entered the studio she rose, and Potowski, still playing, said-- "Let me present, at last, my better half. Mes amis, la Comtesse Potowski." Dearborn greeted her enthusiastically, and Tony stood petrified. The comtesse, more mistress of the moment than Tony was, put out one hand and smiled, but she had turned very pale. It was his Aunt Caroline.... "Mr. Rainsford," she lifted her brows, "I think I have seen you before." Tony bowed over her hand and Potowski, still smiling and nodding, cried-- "These are great men and geniuses, _ma cherie_. You have here two great artists together. They both have wings on their shoulders. Before they fly away from us and are lost on Olympus, be charming to them. Carolina, _ma cherie_, they shall hear you sing." Robert Dearborn put his hand on Potowski's shoulder and said-- "We love your husband, madame. He has been such a bully friend to us, such a wonderful friend." "Poof, my dear Bobbie," murmured Potowski. ("J'ai perdu ma tourterelle.") Fairfax asked, looking directly at her, "Will you really sing for us, Madame Potowski? Can you sing some old English ballad? We have not heard a word of English for many a long day." Potowski wandered softly into a familiar tune. He smiled over his shoulder at his wife, and, standing by the piano, Caroline Carew--Carolina Potowski--put her hands over her husband's on the keys and indicated an accompaniment, humming. "If you can, dear, I will sing Mr. Rainsford _this_." Tony took his place on the divan. Then Madame Potowski sang: "Flow gently, sweet Afton." In New York Tony had said, as he sat in the big Puritan parlour, that her voice was divine. No one who has ever heard Carolina Potowski sing "Flow gently, sweet Afton" can ever forget it. Tony covered his face with his hands and said to himself, being an artist as well, "No matter what she has done, it was worth it to produce such art as that." "Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, My Mary is asleep by your turbulent stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream." Little Gardiner once more leaned against his arm; restless little Bella in red, her hair down her back, slipped out of the room to read in peace, and he sat there, a homeless stranger in a Northern city without a cent of money in his pocket, and the desires of life and art shining in his soul. "Flow gently, sweet Afton."