“I asked Prof. about it all and he persuaded me to believe that she was only indulging in sour grapes. A few days later I managed to win favor in the eyes of the colored girl by giving her a bright red skirt that an admirer from Milwaukee had insisted on buying for me; the next day I clinched the compact by presenting her with a heavy gold chain, which had also been placed at my disposal by some country bumpkin. Then as I handed her a glass of wine, I said, ‘Alice, what was the girl’s name who was here just before I was, I mean the one who shot Prof?’ “‘Oh, honey, doan you know?’ “I have forgotten the last name. Dollie somebody, wasn’t it?’ “‘Yes, honey, dat jes it, Dollie Squires,’ she said as she smacked her wine laden lips. Then she told me the whole story. I heard her through, went to my room, took a key from my dresser drawer and tried it in the front door. That night I gave the Professor the key and told him everything I knew. He grew pale and quivered like an aspen leaf. I would have killed him if I had been armed. “The season closed; I visited my mother, took her up into the mountains and resolved to tell her all, but while there she improved so rapidly and seemed so happy at my success as a singer, that my heart failed me. I could not take away the little sweetness that remained in her life; it only spurred me on to greater deeds, when day by day I saw her eyes grow brighter, her cheeks take on a healthy glow, her voice become more cheery, I actually could not end it all. “When the season opened I left her and came back, back to the theater with its rows of light and entrancing music, back to the dinners and flowers and back to the flat and Riggles, for my mother I could do all. I was soon relieved of that responsibility, for mother died suddenly one day. I went home and for fear that her spirit might learn what I knew in regard to my father, I took all that remained and the casket containing the same, and buried it beside the only man she had loved. It was a cold, dreary day; snow, which was half rain when it struck the streets, was sifting heavily through the air. I arrived from the scene of death over the Burlington route; when I reached the Union Station it was eight o’clock, the atmosphere seemed tuned to my oppressed frame of mind; I thought to walk part way up town. I had gone but a short distance when I met a little girl about seven years old; she stopped me to beg. I looked her over, and there, under the flickering light, I saw a pinched face, so poor and thin that the drawn mouth only added pity to the expression of the big, blue eyes; the little calico frock which the wind whipped tightly around her skinny form looked as though it would fall to pieces with each gust. The pale forehead was made more ghostly by the large blue veins that were plainly seen, while the one poor little plait of hair seemed to add loneliness to the big, white ears, that I could see through. “‘Where do you live?’ was my first remark.