"
The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook. "Perhaps,"
Stella persisted, "you don't know of a private asylum that would satisfy
you?"
"My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended my
husband in his last illness told me of it. A friend of his receives a
certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than
the cost of maintaining them. An unattainable sum to _me!_ There is the
temptation that I spoke of. The help of a few pounds I might accept,
if I fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back. But a larger
sum--never!"
She rose, as if to end the interview. Stella tried every means of
persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain. The friendly
dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both
been silenced by another interruption from the next room.
This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome. The poor boy
was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet. "Now
he is happy!" said the mother. "He is a born musician; do come and see
him!" An idea struck Stella.
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