"I'm not quite sure how I would behave in public." Without a word she took off her gloves, sat down at the piano and sung in low tones of melting tenderness. When the last note died away, he rose quietly, came to her side, and took her hand. "I never knew, little girl, how my life has grown into yours until I'm about to lose you." "But you're not going to lose me. Remember I'm coming back to sing for you before thousands. And I'm going to make you proud of me." "I couldn't know how deeply and tenderly I love you, child, until this moment when I'm about to say goodbye." The little figure was very still. Her eyes drooped and her lips trembled pathetically. She knew that he had said too much to mean a great deal. He had spoken of his love for her as a "child," when long ago the child had grown into the tragic figure of a woman who had learned to wait and suffer in silence. She tried to speak and her voice failed. Her hand began to tremble in his. She turned and faced him with a smile, pressing his hand. The cab was at the door and her father calling from below. "Goodbye, Jim," she said tenderly. "Goodbye to the dearest little chum God ever sent to cheer a lonely unhappy man's soul." A sob stilled his voice and she turned her face away to hide her tears. He still clung to her hand. "It's been a long time," he said hesitatingly, "since you've kissed me, girlie; just one for remembrance!" With a quick movement she drew her hand away and started with a laugh toward the door. "No, Jim, I'm afraid I'm getting too old for that now." He made no reply but stepped to her side and grasped her hand. "Then again, goodbye." "Goodbye." He pressed her hand to his lips. The slender body quivered and her face flushed scarlet. She hurried down the steps to the cab, turned and threw him a kiss. He watched the cab roll down Fourth Street toward the pier while a great wave of loneliness overwhelmed him. He slowly climbed the stairs toward his room, and passed the door of Harriet's on the way. It was open and he looked in expecting her to appear suddenly before him with a smile on her serene little face. He noted how neat and tidy she had left her nest; not a sign of confusion, the floor swept clean, everything in its place and the bed made with scrupulous care. The whole place breathed the perfume of her sunny character. On the mantel he saw a love letter she had written to her father. "How thoughtful of the little darling," he exclaimed. "God knows he'll need it to-night." He hurried to his own room with the hope that she might have left one for him. He searched his mantel and bureau in vain and had just given up with a sigh when his eye rested on a card fastened over the old-fashioned grate in the fire place. His hand trembled as he read it: "DEAR JIM: