"Forty dollars a week." She colored slightly and spoke with the nervousness of one not in the habit of discussing money matters. "I do not see how I could make it less. That is the fair share of the--"

"Oh, I think that is most reasonable," interrupted Mildred. "And I wish to come."

Mrs. Brindley gave an almost childlike sigh of relief and smiled radiantly. "Then it's settled," said she. "I've been so nervous about it." She looked at Mildred with friendly understanding. "I think you and I are somewhat alike about practical things. You've not had much experience, either, have you? I judge so from the fact that Mr.

Jennings is looking after everything for you."

"I've had no experience at all," said Mildred. "That is why I'm hesitating. I'm wondering if I can afford to pay so much."

Mrs. Brindley laughed. "Mr. Jennings wished to fix it at sixty a week, but I insisted that forty was enough," said she.

Mildred colored high with embarra.s.sment. How much did Mrs. Brindley know?--or how little? She stammered: "Well, if Mr. Jennings says it is all right, I'll come."

"You'll let me know to-morrow? You can telephone Mr. Jennings."

"Yes, I'll let you know to-morrow. I'm almost sure I'll come. In fact, I'm quite sure. And--I think we shall get on well together."

"We can help each other," said Mrs. Brindley. "I don't care for anything in the world but music."

"I want to be that way," said Mildred. "I shall be that way."

"It's the only sure happiness--to care for something, for some THING,"

said Mrs. Brindley. "People die, or disappoint one, or become estranged. But when one centers on some kind of work, it gives pleasure always--more and more pleasure."

"I am so afraid I haven't voice enough, or of the right kind," said Mildred. "Mr. Jennings is going to try me on Sat.u.r.day. Really I've no right to settle anything until he has given his opinion."

Mrs. Brindley smiled with her eyes only, and Mildred wondered.

"If he should say that I wouldn't do," she went on, "I'd not know which way to turn."

"But he'll not say that," said Mrs. Brindley. "You can sing, can't you? You have sung?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then you'll be accepted by him. And it will take him a long time to find out whether you'll do for a professional."

"I'm afraid I sing very badly."

"That will not matter. You'll sing better than at least half of Jennings's pupils."

"Then he doesn't take only those worth while?"

Mrs. Brindley looked amused. "How would he live if he did that? It's a teacher's business to teach. Learning--that's the pupil's lookout. If teachers taught only those who could and would learn, how would they live?"

"Then I'll not know whether I'll do!" exclaimed Mildred.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," said Mrs. Brindley. "No one can tell you. Anyone's opinion might be wrong. For example, I've known Jennings, who is a very good judge, to be wrong--both ways."

Hesitatingly: "Why not sing for me? I'd like to hear."

"Would you tell me what you honestly thought?" said Mildred.

Mrs. Brindley laughingly shook her head. Mildred liked her honesty.

"Then it'd be useless to sing for you," said she. "I'm not vain about my voice. I'd simply like to make a living by it, if I could. I'll even confess that there are many things I care for more than for music.

Does that prove that I can never sing professionally?"

"No, indeed," Mrs. Brindley a.s.sured her. "It'd be strange if a girl of your age cared exclusively for music. The pa.s.sion comes with the work, with progress, success. And some of the greatest--that is, the most famous and best paid--singers never care much about music, except as a vanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with a certain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. The rest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes the singer, not brains or temperament."

"Do let me sing for you," said Mildred. "I think it will help me."

Between them they chose a little French song--"Chanson d'Antonine"--and Mrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. "I wish to listen," said she, "and I can't if I play."

Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sang neither better nor worse than usual--sang in the clear and pleasant soprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When she finished she said:

"That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?"

Mrs. Brindley reflected before she replied: "I BELIEVE it's worth trying. If I were you, I should keep on trying, no matter what anyone said."

Mildred was instantly depressed. "You think Mr. Jennings may reject me?" she asked.

"I KNOW he will not," replied Mrs. Brindley. "Not as long as you can pay for the lessons. But I was thinking of the real thing--of whether you could win out as a singer."

"And you don't think I can?" said Mildred.

"On the contrary, I believe you can," replied Mrs. Brindley. "A singer means so much besides singing. The singing is the smallest part of it.

You'll understand when you get to work. I couldn't explain now. But I can say that you ought to go ahead."

Mildred, who had her share of vanity, had hoped for some enthusiasm.

Mrs. Brindley's judicial tone was a severe blow. She felt a little resentful, began to cast about for vanity-consoling reasons for Mrs.

Brindley's restraint. "She means well," she said to herself, "but she's probably just a tiny bit jealous. She's not so young as she once was, and she hasn't the faintest hope of ever being anything more than a piano-teacher."

Mrs. Brindley showed that she had more than an inkling of Mildred's frame of mind by going on to say in a gentle, candid way: "I want to help you. So I shall be careful not to encourage you to believe too much in what you have. That would prevent you from getting what you need. You must remember, you are no longer a drawing-room singer, but a candidate for the profession. That's a very different thing."

Mildred saw that she was mistaken, that Mrs. Brindley was honest and frank and had doubtless told her the exact truth. But her vanity remained sore. Never before had anyone said any less of her singing than that it was wonderful, marvelous, equal to a great deal that pa.s.sed for fine in grand opera. She had known that this was exaggeration, but she had not known how grossly exaggerated. Thus, this her first experience of the professional att.i.tude was galling.

Only her unusual good sense saved her from being angry with Mrs.

Brindley. And it was that same good sense that moved her presently to try to laugh at herself. With a brave attempt to smile gayly she said:

"You don't realize how you've taken me down. I had no idea I was so conceited about my singing. I can't truthfully say I like your frankness, but there's a part of me that's grateful to you for it, and when I get over feeling hurt, I'll be grateful through and through."

Mrs. Brindley's face lighted up beautifully. "You'll DO!" she cried.

"I'm sure you'll do. I've been waiting and watching to see how you would take my criticism. That's the test--how they take criticism. If they don't take it at all, they'll not go very far, no matter how talented they are. If they take it as you've taken it, there's hope--great hope. Now, I'm not afraid to tell you that you sang splendidly for an amateur--that you surprised me."

"Don't spoil it all," said Mildred. "You were right; I can't sing."

"Not for grand opera, not for comic opera even," replied Mrs. Brindley.

"But you will sing, and sing well, in one or the other, if you work."

"You really mean that?" said Mildred.

"If you work intelligently and persistently," said Mrs. Brindley.