The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellent and far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriously sustained a thesis upon "De Omne Scibile." Now we have to confess that human knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, is altogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all. The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at an encyclopedia always fill me with humility.

Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and, foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, and then at me, with a rather pitiful air.

"I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But this black one might do, if——"

This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my own limitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by the garment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who was talented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This one looked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityingly informed that some things were to be added and others removed, before it could possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, were either too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and the skirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or, possibly, too wide.

Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed the matter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the East River. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directing her attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received a confident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with an ample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, and pulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the result of their excursion.

"How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam of triumph.

"I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to put it on," I told her.

My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from many angles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudly informed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eight seventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Street before they had unearthed it.

"It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't much choice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits her remarkably well."

"It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may be glad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and are to bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait. I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is rather doubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a risky departure from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such as it is."

"Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it will sell just like the others."

"I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by going over to Camus for dinner?"

"Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont. "In—in the first place it is much too soon—after—and then you know I haven't a thing to wear."

"In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Frieda firmly, "and, in the second, you have a hat anyway, and I'm going to fix that black dress a little. Just a dozen stitches and some pins. Come into your room with me."

She dragged her out of the room, and I was left to wonder how that complicating baby would be disposed of. I had begun to think the infant sometimes recognized me. When I touched one of his little hands with my finger, he really appeared to respond with some manifestations of pleasure; at least it never seemed to terrify or dismay him. His mother was confident that he liked it.

Perhaps an hour later they came out, and I looked at Frances in some surprise. I gained the impression that she was taller and more slender than I had thought.

"You give me that baby," commanded Frieda. "I want you to save your strength, my dear. I should make David carry it, but he would drop it or hold it upside down. Come along, my precious, we're going out to walk a by-by."

Master Paul seemed to make no objection. I call it a dreadful shame that Frieda never married and had a half a dozen of her own. She's the most motherly old maid in the world, and infants take to her with absolute enthusiasm. I followed them, somewhat doubtfully, wondering what figure Master Paul would cut at Camus. I knew that they allowed little dogs and there was a big tortoise-shell cat that wandered under the chairs and sometimes scratched your knee for a bit of fish, but I had never seen any young babies in the widow's establishment. This one might be deemed revolutionary or iconoclastic. Should we be met by uplifted and deprecating palms and informed with profuse apologies that the rules of the house did not favor the admission of such youthful guests?

In a few minutes my doubts were set at rest, for we walked off to the hive inhabited by the washerwoman. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Dupont kissed her baby, as if she were seeing it for the last time. Then Frieda hastened upstairs with it and came down, two minutes later, blowing like a porpoise.

"He'll be perfectly safe," she declared. "Madame Boivin says he is an angel, and Eulalie was there. She said he would sleep straight on end for two hours. I told her we should be back before—I mean in good time. Now come along!"

I could see that the young mother only half approved of the scheme originated in Frieda's fertile brain. Two or three times she looked back as if minded to return at once and snatch up her baby, never to leave it again.

"My dear," said Frieda, "don't be getting nervous. Nothing can possibly happen, and you know how very careful Eulalie is. Little by little you must get back into the world. How are you going to face it, if it frightens you? Put on a brave, bold front. Here is a chance for you to have a few moments of enjoyment. Seize upon it and don't let go. A dark cellar is no place to pick up courage in, and you must come out of the gloom, child, and live a little with the others so that you may be able to live for Baby Paul. There's a good girl!"

Frances opened a little black bag and pulled out a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes once or twice. Then she looked up again.

"Oh! Frieda! I ought to be thanking God on my bended knees for sending you to me, and—and Mr. Cole too. Indeed I'll do my best to be brave. It's—it's difficult, sometimes, but I'm going to try, ever so hard."

I am afraid that the little smile with which she ended these words was somewhat forced, but I was glad to see it. It was a plucky effort. She was seeking to contend against a current carrying her out to sea and realized that she must struggle to reach the shore in safety. I saw Frieda give her arm a good hug, and the three of us walked to Seventh Avenue, then north a couple of blocks, after which we turned to the right till we came to the electric lights of the Widow Camus's flamboyant sign, that winked a welcome at us.

I remember little about the dinner itself, but, after the rather insipid fare at Mrs. Milliken's, I know that Frances enjoyed it. The place did not surprise her, nor the people. During her life in Paris, after her marriage, she had probably been with her husband to some more or less Bohemian resorts, such as are beloved of artists. At first, she choked a little over the radishes and olives, but took her consommÉ with greater assurance and was quite at her ease before the chicken and salad. With her last leaf of lettuce, however, came over her a look of anxiety, and I pulled out my watch.

"Don't be afraid," I told her, "we have only been away from the washerlady for fifty minutes. See yourself, there is no deception."

"I am absolutely certain that he is sleeping yet," Frieda assured her, and turned to the perspiring waiter, ordering three Nesselrodes and coffees.

Now, when I treat myself to a table d'hÔte dinner, I love to linger over my repast, to study the people about me, or at least pretend to. Also, I sip my coffee very slowly and enjoy a Chartreuse, in tiny gulps. Frieda, if anything, is more dilatory than myself. But the dear old girl positively hurried over the little block of ice-cream, and I suspect that she scalded her mouth a trifle with her coffee. A few minutes later we were out in the street again, hurrying towards Madame Boivin's, and I wondered whether such unseemly haste could be compatible with proper digestion. We reached the tenement in a very short time.

"Frances is going upstairs with me," announced Frieda. "You had better not wait for us, for we might be detained a little. I'll bring her home, and we shall be perfectly safe. You go right back and smoke your old pipe till we return."

"Don't hurry," I told her. "I might as well wait here as anywhere else. It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll stroll home; take your time."

So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned against a decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men were assembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, in repeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fat man sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gave me an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs. Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly and assumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as a policeman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewhere west of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but, suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressed to a deep bass by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sins were proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expression that excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man's head appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplating self-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in the street, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armed with an empty beer-pail. With this he faded away in the corner saloon, to come forth again with his peace-offering.

With such observations I solaced myself and whiled away the time. Humanity in the rough is to me fully as interesting as the dull stones picked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed, while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of the first water.

Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon the railing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with Sadie Briggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me in the way of love and passion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married a blacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family, while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, in shirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviable mortal responsible for no human being's bread and butter but his own.

Then Frieda and Frances appeared. The latter held her baby in her arms, surely feeling that it had received enough vicarious attention.

"Why, Dave!" exclaimed the former. "I'm awfully sorry you waited so long. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessed angel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, and we just talked about starch and cockroaches and things, and then Paul awoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearly time anyway and—and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleeping again."

I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyed himself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lips had not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a ravigote that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. I wished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting now for whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be little of sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow are indispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease.

I noticed how well the young mother walked with her burden. It appeared to lend her form added grace and to complete her beauty.

On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearly all the lodgers were assembled, taking the cool of the evening. The two girls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old lady looked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been in bed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained a neutral attitude. One of the young men assured Mrs. Dupont that her baby was a corker.

"This," said Mrs. Milliken, urbanely waving her hand towards a heavy and florid gentleman, who had kept in the background, "is Mr. O'Flaherty. He owns the garage on the next block and has the second floor back."

This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and gave me a crushing grasp. I rejoiced for Mrs. Milliken that she had the room rented, but promised myself to keep my hands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to share the steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the baby down on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you ever so much. Indeed I enjoyed every minute of it."

So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feeling that I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont says that my typewriting does not trouble her at all, and I went to work, having thought of a story about a blind man. I wrote a couple of pages and then had to stop and close my eyes. How do blind men really feel, and through what gift from on high does that peculiar smile come, which their faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in the place of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, but he answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I have spoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of course I laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call the other chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one's heart.

Then Frieda came in for a moment, to say good night.

"It has done the poor child a lot of good," she said. "I am sure she will have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged to you."

She went away, ponderously and yet swiftly. The night was becoming cooler and the door opposite was closed. I also shut mine and lit the calabash. It didn't seem so difficult, after all, to write about the blind man. When you think of it, it is possible that the difference between him and ourselves is merely one of degree.

A few more days passed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shame that I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paul to keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for having failed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her good luck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problem of keeping body and soul together, poor girl.

Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the Erie Basin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fall into it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon some accuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, was condensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word for them, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasing the small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with a gentleman on a canal boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's buttons in a box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to his wife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one that offered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along the tranquil borders of canals, edged with lush grasses and silvery willows. It was ideal! What more could a man require for happiness?

When I returned, I was very anxious to interview Frances and ask about her experiences with her first day's posing, but her door was closed.

No longer was she a sick woman, one whose bed was the clothing of illness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since I could bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right to intrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimed her again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She was working now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for her child. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. All that I could do now was to hope that, if she chanced to need any aid, she would recognize some little claim upon her friendship by coming to me again, as a bee may return for honey, leaving behind some of the pollen that means life prolonged and other flowers to come. To me such fertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life that was sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger and mayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All this she could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have been like asking for a return of the few half-faded roses I had brought her, or payment for the running of a few errands.

So I closed my door also and took up the "Light That Failed" and my calabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading and puffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. I was wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she had found the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinking wearily about having to return there on the morrow?

Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. I have not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen as mine, and, of course, she could not have a man's reasons for discretion, knowing that her coming would be hailed with an exclamation of pleasure, or, perhaps, only a sigh of relief. I recognized her weighty steps on the landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again to cogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda can always be relied on.

Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den.

"Oh! You're in!" she exclaimed. "I asked Frances, and she said you must be away since you would surely have knocked at the door. Of course she wouldn't take the chance of disturbing you, if you had returned."

"Well, I didn't want to intrude either," I answered; "she might have been changing—changing her boots for slippers or—or refreshing the baby."

"You might have tried to find out."

"Yes, that's obvious. I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duty," I replied, duly chastened.

Thus it was that the best of intentions had, as usual, gone to the place paved with such things. Yet I was rather pleased than otherwise. I learned that I was firmly enough established in the good graces of these dear women to be permitted to lay aside minor points of etiquette and act according to my first impulses. Since these must always be based on high regard and friendship, I can have little fear that they will ever be misunderstood.