An afterthought had a tendency to dim the little French girl’s hopes. Angelo, she remembered, had called her on the phone the day before.

He had, he assured her, nothing of importance to say. “And that,” she told herself now, “means no letter. And yet, he may have forgotten. Ah, well, we’ll hope. And I shall not go there until evening. That will give the mailman one more day to do his bit.”

She called to mind the things Angelo had told her. He and his companions were very close to the bottom. His precious treasures, rugs and all, must soon go. They were living from hand to mouth. Dan Baker had been earning a little, three or four dollars a day. “Doing impersonation.” That is what the old trouper had called it, whatever that might mean. Swen had hopes of earning something soon. How? He did not know. As for himself, he had found nothing. He had even offered to sell books on drama at a book store; but they would not have him.
202

“Sell books.” She sat staring at the wall now. “Who would buy them?”

She was thinking of blue-eyed Merry and of her last visit to the basement shop. “It is hard,” the brave little Irish girl had said to her. “For days and days no one has entered the shop. And we need money so badly.

“But we have hopes,” she had added quickly. “The holiday season is coming. Perhaps those who cannot buy costly presents will come to our shop and buy mended ones that are cheap.”

“I am sure of it,” Jeanne had said.

“And see!” Merry had cried, pointing at the marble falcon with the broken beak, that rested on the shelf above her desk. “See! He is still looking toward the sky. All will be well.”
203

“Oh, little girl with your smiling Irish eyes,” Jeanne had cried, throwing both arms about her, “How I love you! Some day I’ll be rich. Then I shall give you a falcon all made of gold and he shall be looking toward the sky.”

Now as she sat alone in her room, she thought again of the marble falcon, and murmured, “I wonder if the falcon told the truth. I wonder if all will be well? Truly, in such times as these it is necessary to have great faith if one is to be brave.”

She threw herself into her dances that day with abandon. By the time she had done the last wild whirl she had worked herself up to such heights that she felt sure that a change for the better would come.

“It is as if I were preparing for some great event,” she told herself, “a trial of my skill that will mean great success or terrible defeat!”

But as she went toward the studio she was given a shock that came near to breaking her poor little heart.

She had rounded a corner when a sudden rush of wind seized her and all but threw her against a beggar who, tin cup in hand, stood against the wall.
204

The sight of the beggar caused her to halt. There was, she remembered, a dime in her side coat pocket.

She looked again at the beggar, then thrust her hand deep for the dime. The beggar seemed pitifully, hopelessly forlorn. His battered hat was drooping with snow. His long gray hair was powdered with it. The hand that held the cup was blue with cold. In a sad and forlorn world he seemed the saddest and most forlorn being of all.

She had the dime between her fingers and was about to draw it forth when another look at the old man made her start. A second look was needed before she could be convinced that her eyes had not deceived her. Then, with a sound in her throat suspiciously like a sob, she dropped the dime back in her pocket and hastened away on the wings of the wind, as if she had seen a ghost.

“Impersonations,” she whispered to herself, as a chill shook her from head to foot. “Impersonation. He called it that. He would do even this for his friends!”
205

The beggar standing there in the storm was none other than Dan Baker.

“I’ll call Kay King,” she said to herself, with another shudder. “I’ll call him to-night. I’ll tell him he may have those bags. And when he brings me the money I shall give it to Dan Baker. And he must accept it, every dollar.”

She found Angelo at the studio when she arrived. No one else was there. Swen, he explained, had gone out on some sort of work. Dan Baker was doing his “impersonations.” Again Jeanne shuddered at that word.

Angelo had greeted her with the warm affection characteristic of his race. Now he led her to a place beside the fire.

After that neither seemed to find words for small talk. Each was busy with thoughts that could not well be expressed. Angelo, too, hailed from a warm and sunny clime. This wild storm, ushering in winter so early in the year, had sobered his usually buoyant soul.

After a time she asked him about the letter.

“A letter?” he asked, seeming puzzled. “Did you expect a letter to come here?”
206

“Perhaps I did not tell you.” She nodded toward the corner where the three pigskin bags stood. “When I wrote the letter to my friend, I gave him this address.”

“I see. Well, there has been no letter.”

“I suppose,” she said dully, “that I may as well turn the bags back to Kay King and get the money.”

“Must you?” He looked at her sharply.

“I think I must. I’ll call him on the phone now.”

Before she could put this plan into execution, Swen came bursting into the room. He wore no cap. His hair was filled with snow. His face was red with the cold. But his spirits were buoyant.

“Had a whale of a time,” he shouted boisterously. “And see! I have three whole dollars! To-night we feast.”

Petite Jeanne heaved a sigh of relief. There was money in the house. Now she need not call Kay King, at least not until morning.

“A day of grace,” she told herself.
207

It was some time later that, chancing to catch a glimpse of the talented young musician’s hand, she saw with a shock that they were covered with blisters.

“He has been shoveling snow in the street,” she told herself. An added ache came to her overburdened heart.

Dan Baker came in a moment later. Beating the snow from his hat, he threw it into a corner. Having shaken the snow from his hair, he advanced to greet Jeanne.

“He doesn’t kn............