Kitty might have suspected something if her new friend had not had the name of being so close-fisted.  Who would dream that Hedwig Vogel could be free-handed?—­she who would beat a gemAYse-frau out of two cents; she who refused to subscribe to the fund for painters’ widows, declaring that it was as likely she would leave a widow as be left one.  She was not susceptible, she cared naught for sweet smiles and gentle ways.  That she, a gaunt, grim, brusque woman of fifty, could suddenly feel all the stifled mother-love within her spring up,—­that was preposterous, the vain imagining of a romancer.

They worked together, these two, in Hedwig Vogel’s studio, and Kitty strove to make up for her lack of talent by her abundance of patience.

“Why did you decide to be a painter?” FrA¤ulein Vogel asked her one day.

“Because I had a start in that line,” Kitty answered.  “If I had had a start in music I should have tried to play or sing.  I wonder if I could sing?  They say everybody has a voice.  People are just like fields:  plough ’em up, plant cabbages, plant potatoes, you can raise some sort of a crop.  How do you happen to be a painter?”

Hedwig Vogel paused, palette in one hand, brush in the other.  “Because I would rather paint than eat,” she answered.

“That is genius,” said Kitty solemnly.  “I would rather eat.  That is lack of genius.  But because I want to eat I paint.  That is—­what would you call that?”

“You have a daub of ochre on your nose,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.

“Anyway,” Kitty remarked after a while, “if worse came to worst I could teach.  There is German.  Now, I really speak German well, don’t I?  I could teach that.”

“Oh, you have the gift o’ gab!” said the painter.  “But you will be married, sure.”

A long silence followed.  “I am twenty-four,” said Kitty.

“There is no safety for you this side of the grave,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.

“I may be married, but I doubt it,” Kitty continued.  “I—­” And then she dropped her brushes, flung herself prone on the floor, and burst into passionate tears.  Hedwig Vogel did not try to comfort her, but she knelt beside her and put her strong right arm about the girl’s quivering shoulders.  At last Kitty sat up and brushed back her tangled hair.

“Every day I think of him,” she said.  “Every day I hope, I pray he will come.  I watch for the postman,—­I have watched for him so long.  He never brings me a letter, but my heart stops beating when he draws near the house.  When he rings the bell, when the servant comes up the stairs, I shut my eyes.  I can almost believe I have the letter in my hand.  I almost see the words.  But there is never a letter,—­there never can be.  Oh, I—­” She rose and walked to and fro.  “I am to blame,” she added, laying her hand on Fraulein Vogel’s shoulder.  “I wronged him by my suspicion, my petty jealousy; then I ran away from him, and expected him to roam over Europe trying to find me.  I hid myself from him, and I am eating my heart out because he does not come.”