美丽英文：那些触动我心扉的故事(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：李影

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美丽英文：那些触动我心扉的故事试读：

别忘了我看不到我自己，我的角色仅限于看向镜子里的那个人。

Don’t forget that I cannot see myself that my role is limited to being the one who looks in the mirror.Chapter 1岁月如歌的光阴

Life’s best lessons are learned by living.

人生最好的启示来自于生活。A Day at the Tradition传统赛的一天Christine Clifford

Several years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. It was the most difficult time I have ever faced. I think it was my sense of humor that allowed me to hold onto my sanity①. Like many people who have gone through chemotherapy, I lost all of my hair and I was bald as a cue ball. I always had enjoyed wearing hats, so when my hair deserted me, I ordered several special hats with the hair already attached. It was easy and I never had to worry about how my hair looked.

I have always been a big golf fan. In fact, I have been to twenty-three straight U.S. Opens. At one point during my cancer treatments, my husband John and I decided to get away from the cold Minnesota winter and took a trip to Scottsdale, Arizona. There was a Senior PGA Tour event called The Tradition being played, and that seemed like just the ticket to lift my spirits.

The first day of the tournament brought out a huge gallery. It was a beautiful day, and I was in heaven. I was standing just off the third tee, behind the fairway ropes, watching my three favorite golfers in the world approach the tee box: Jack Nicklaus, Raymond Floyd and Tom Weiskopf.

Just as they arrived at the tee, the unimaginable happened. A huge gust of wind came up from out of nowhere and blew my hat and hair right off my head and into the middle of the fairway! The thousands of spectators② lining the fairway fell into an awkward silence, all eyes on me. Even my golf idols were watching me, as my hair was in their flight path. I was mortified! Embarrassed as I was, I knew I couldn’t just stand there. Someone had to do something to get things moving again.

So I took a deep breath, went under the ropes and out into the middle of the fairway. I grabbed my hat and hair, nestled them back on my head as best I could. Then I turned to the golfers and loudly announced, “Gentlemen, the wind is blowing from left to right.”

They said the laughter could be heard all the way to the nineteenth hole.

几年前我被诊断出癌症，这是我人生中最艰难的一段时期。我想，正是由于我的幽默感，才让我还能保持高度的理智。正如许多经历过化疗的人一样，我的头发都掉光了，看起来就像是一颗光亮的台球。我原本就十分喜爱戴帽子，所以当我全秃了以后，我就买了几顶自带头发的那种帽子。这样很方便，我也不用担心我的发型是否好看。

我是一个狂热的高尔夫球迷。事实上，我去过23场美国高尔夫公开赛的现场。有一次，在我的癌症治疗期间，我和丈夫约翰决定离开明尼苏达州的寒冷冬天，前往亚利桑那州的斯科茨代尔旅行。那儿正举行职业高球员协会（PGA）宿将巡回赛，这一传统赛事似乎让我的精神为之一振。

第一天的锦标赛仿佛上演在一个巨型画廊里，如此美丽，至若天堂。我站在第三个球座的旁边，前面就是球道绳索，能一眼看见我最喜欢的三个高尔夫球手：杰克·尼克劳斯、雷蒙德·弗洛伊德和汤姆·维斯科普夫在发球台上的飒爽英姿。

正当他们走到球座旁时，意想不到的事情发生了。不知道从哪儿刮来一阵大风，将我配有头发的帽子吹到了赛道中央！万千的观众顿时鸦雀无声，气氛极为尴尬，我被各种眼光包围着。甚至连我的高尔夫偶像也盯着我看，因为我的帽子和头发占了他们的赛道。真苦恼！这情况尴尬至极，我知道我不能只呆站在那里，总得有谁来打破这个僵局。

于是，我深吸了一口气，沿着绳索往下走到了赛道中间。我抓起这顶带假发的帽子，尽可能优雅地将它重新戴回头顶。然后我转向了高尔夫球手们，向他们大声喊道:“嘿，先生们，风向是从左往右的！”

据说，当时1到19号洞口的观众席都洋溢起欢乐的笑声。 注释 ① sanity [ˈsænɪti] n. 神志正常；心智健康；头脑清楚；通情达理② spectator [ˈspɛkˌtetɚ] n. 观众，旁观者My Father’s Music父亲的音乐Wayne Kalyn

I remember the day Dad first lugged the heavy accordion up our front stoop, taxing his small frame. He gathered my mother and me in the living room and opened the case as if it were a treasure chest. “Here it is,” he said. “Once you learn to play, it’ll stay with you for life.”

If my thin smile didn’t match his full-fledged grin, it was because I had prayed for a guitar or a piano. For the next two weeks, the accordion was stored in the hall closet. Then one evening Dad announced that I would start lessons the following week. In disbelief I shot my eyes toward Mom for support. The firm set of her jaw told me I was out of luck.

Spending $300 for an accordion and $5 per lesson was out of character for my father. He was practical always—something he learned growing up on a Pennsylvania farm. Clothes, heat and sometimes even food were scarce.

Dad was a supervisor① in a company that serviced jet engines. Weekends, he tinkered in the cellar, turning scraps of plywood into a utility cabinet or fixing a broken toy with spare parts. Quiet and shy, he was never more comfortable than when at his workbench.

Only music carried Dad away from his world of tools and projects. On a Sunday drive, he turned the radio on immediately. At red lights, I’d notice his foot tapping in time. He seemed to hang on every note.

Still, I wasn’t prepared when, rummaging② in a closet, I found a case that looked to me like a tiny guitar’s. Opening it, I saw the polished glow of a beautiful violin. “It’s your father’s,” Mom said. “His parents bought it for him. I guess he got too busy on the farm to ever learn to play it.” I tried to imagine Dad’s rough hands on this delicate instrument—and couldn’t.

I was ordered to practice half an hour every day, and every day I tried to get out of it. My future seemed to be outside playing ball, not in the house mastering songs I would soon forget. But my parents hounded me to practice.

Gradually, to my surprise, I was able to string notes together and coordinate my hands to play simple songs. Often, after supper, my father would request a tune or two. As he sat in his easy chair, I would fumble through “Lady of Spain” and “Beer Barrel Polka”.

“Very nice, better than last week,” he’d say. Then I would follow into a melody of his favorites, “Red River Valley” and “Home on the Range”, and he would drift off to sleep, the newspaper folded on his lap. I took it as a compliment that he could relax under the spell of my playing.

One July evening I was giving an almost flawless rendition of “Come Back to Sorrento”, and my parents called me to an open window. An elderly neighbor, rarely seen outside her house, was leaning against our car humming dreamily to the tune. When I finished, she smiled broadly and called out, “I remember that song as a child in Italy. Beautiful, just beautiful.”

Throughout the summer, Mr. Zelli’s lessons grew more difficult. It took me a week and a half to master them now. All the while I could hear my buddies outside playing heated games of stickball. I’d also hear an occasional taunt③; “Hey, where’s your monkey and cup?”

Such humiliation paled, though, beside the impending fall recital. I would have to play a solo on a local movie theater’s stage. I wanted to skip the whole thing. Emotions boiled over in the car one Sunday afternoon. “I don’t want to play a solo.” I said. “You have to,” replied my father.

“Why?” I shouted. “Because you didn’t get to play your violin when you were a kid? Why should I have to play this stupid instrument when you never had to play yours?” Dad pulled the car over and pointed at me. “Because you can bring people joy. You can touch their hearts. That’s a gift I won’t let you throw away.” He added softly, “Someday you’ll have the chance I never had: you’ll play beautiful music for your family. And you’ll understand why you’ve worked so hard.”

I was speechless. I had rarely heard Dad speak with such feeling about anything, much less the accordion. From then on, I practiced without my parents’ making me.

The evening of the concert Mom wore glittery earrings and more makeup than I could remember. Dad got out of work early, put on a suit and tie, and slicked down his hair with Vitalis. They were ready an hour early, so we sat in the living room chatting nervously. I got the unspoken message that playing this one song was a dream come true for them.

我还记得那一天——瘦弱的父亲将沉重的手风琴费力地拖到前门的情景。他招呼我和妈妈到客厅里来，然后打开了这个他视若珍宝的箱子。“看这个，”他说，“一旦你学会了它，它便会成为你终身的伙伴。”

和他发自内心的笑容不同，我只是勉强地笑了笑。因为我期待已久的，其实是一把吉他或一台钢琴。在接下来的两周里，那架手风琴都一直被放在走廊的壁橱里。一天傍晚，父亲突然宣布，我从下周起就要开始学手风琴了。带着疑惑，我赶忙向妈妈使眼色以求支援。可她紧绷的下巴告诉我，我不走运了。

花300美元买一架手风琴，每次上课再花5美元，这着实不符合父亲的性格。他一直是比较务实的——这是他在宾夕法尼亚州的农场习来的。衣物、暖气，甚至有时候连食物都会紧缺。

爸爸在一家为喷气式飞机提供引擎服务的公司担任主管。周末，他也总是在地下室里捣鼓，把一些胶合板的边角料做成实用的柜子，或者用一些零件把坏了的玩具修好。他性格内向腼腆，没有什么地方比工作台更能让他感到舒适了。

只有音乐能让父亲走出他那满是工具和材料的世界。在一个周日，我们驾车外出的时候，他一上车就打开了收音机。遇到红灯时，我注意到他的脚在有节奏地打着拍子，貌似还挺合拍的。

然而，当我在壁橱里翻找出一个像是装小吉他的盒子时，还是挺意外的。打开一看，是一把锃亮而漂亮的小提琴。“这是你父亲的，”妈妈说，“你祖父母买给他的。我想他平时忙于农务，所以没有时间学。”我试着想象父亲那粗糙的手在这精致的乐器上拨弄的场景——简直无法想象。

爸爸要求我每天练琴半小时，但我每天都想躲开。我的未来应该是在户外打球，而不是在屋里重复着这些让我很快就会忘记的歌曲。但父母总是不断地敦促我练习。

令我惊喜的是，我渐渐能把几个零散的音符串联在一起，演奏出简单的歌曲了，手的协调性也好多了。晚饭后，父亲常常让我拉上一两首曲子。他躺在老爷椅里，听我笨拙地拉完《西班牙女郎》和《波尔卡啤酒桶》。

他会说：“非常好，比上周好多了。”然后我就继续拉他喜欢的曲子《红河谷》和《山上之家》，他会在我的歌声中慢慢入睡，报纸就叠在膝盖上。我把这看作一种赞扬：他能够在我的琴声中得到放松。

7月的一个傍晚，我正在拉《重返索伦托》，效果近乎完美。父母突然把我叫到窗前。一位不太出门、上了年纪的邻居正靠在我们的车上，沉醉地跟着调子哼唱。曲终，她欣喜地笑了，大声说道：“我小时候在意大利就听过这首歌。美，真是太美了！”

整个夏天，泽利先生的课变得越来越难。我现在得花上一周半的时间才能掌握。我总是听到伙伴们在室外玩棍子球的欢闹声。偶尔还会听到一声讽刺：“嘿，伙计，你的猴子和奖杯哪儿去了？”

不过，这种羞辱与即将到来的秋季演奏会相比，就显得微不足道了。我会在当地一家影院的舞台上独奏一曲。我很想躲过这一切。一个周日的下午，我的情绪在车上爆发了。“我真的不想独奏。”我抱怨道。“你必须这样做。”父亲只回了我这几个字。“为什么？”我吼道，“难道就因为你小时候没能拉小提琴吗？你都从来不拉琴，为什么我就一定得拉这笨重的乐器？”父亲将车停在路边，指着我说，“因为你能给人们带来欢乐。你能触动他们的心弦。我不能让你丢掉这种天赋。”他语气稍缓，“某一天你会拥有我从不曾拥有的机会：你能为你的家人演奏美妙的音乐。那时你就能明白自己如此努力的原因了。”

我顿时语塞。我极少能感受到父亲掏心窝的话，更别说是因为拉手风琴的事了。从那时起，即使父母不敦促，我也会自觉地练琴。

音乐会那晚，我记得母亲戴上了闪亮的耳环，精心打扮了一番。父亲也早早下了班，西装革履，还用乳液将头发抹得油亮亮的。他们提前一个小时就准备好了，我们坐在客厅紧张地聊着。我能感觉到，我演奏这首歌曲，就是实现了他们的一个梦想。 注释 ① supervisor [ˈsjupɚˌvaɪzɚ] n. 监督者，管理者；镇长② rummage [ˈrʌmɪdʒ] v. 翻查；搜出；翻箱倒柜③ taunt [tɔnt] n. 嘲弄，奚落；讥讽；嘲弄的对象，笑柄A Service of Love (Ⅰ)爱的奉献（1）O. Henry

When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.

That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the Great Wall of China.

Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.

Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go “North” and “finish”. They could not see her f—, but that is our story.

Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt’s works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.

Joe and Delia became enamored one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married—for (see above), when one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat—something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be—sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor—janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.

Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close—let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long—enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.

Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister—you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light—his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock—you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.

They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every—but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable—the mutual help and inspiration; and—overlook my artlessness—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.

For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.

“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General—General A. B. Pinkney’s daughter—on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.

“My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She’s a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”

“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, “but how about me? Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.”

Delia came and hung about his neck.

“Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”

“All right,” said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. “But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn’t Art. But you’re a trump and a dear to do it.”

“When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard,” said Delia.

“Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park,” said Joe. “And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Delia, sweetly. “And now let’s be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast.”

一旦某个人爱上了另一个人的艺术，那么一切奉献都不在话下。

那是我们的前提。这个故事将由此得出结论，同时表明这个前提是错的。这从逻辑上讲要数新鲜的事了，可从讲故事的技艺上看，却已像中国的万里长城那般古老。

乔·拉腊比来自美国中西部的栎树平原，他整个人的骨子里都脉动着绘画的天赋。6岁时他画了一幅画，画中是一台镇上的抽水机，画面显现出一位匆匆路过的行人。这幅作品被装上框挂在药店的橱窗上，画旁是几排数目不等的玉米穗。20岁时，他前往纽约，当时的他领带飘摇，钱包更是飘渺。

来自南方松树村庄的迪莉娅·凯鲁瑟斯能将六个八度弹得出神入化，于是她的亲朋好友们凑份子让她去“北方”“深造”。他们无法预知她的未——，而这就是我们要讲的故事。

乔和迪莉娅在一个画室里邂逅对方，一些学艺术和音乐的学生聚集在这画室里讨论明暗效果、瓦格纳、音乐、伦布兰特的作品、绘画、瓦尔特费尔、壁纸、肖邦和奥朗。

乔和迪莉娅一见倾心，或是相互倾心，你高兴怎么说就怎么说，而且不久就结为了夫妻——因为（见上文），一旦某个人爱上了另一个人的艺术，那么一切奉献都不在话下。

从此以后，拉腊比夫妇就在一所公寓里过起了日子。公寓非常冷清——就像左手末端琴键上的A音一样陡然滑落。他们生活得很幸福；因为他们拥有自己的艺术，还拥有彼此。我要劝那些有钱的年轻人，卖掉你的家当，然后将卖得的钱交给穷苦的守门人吧——以争取和你的艺术以及迪莉娅一起在公寓里生活的权利。

居住在公寓里的人们会认可我的说法，那就是，他们拥有的幸福才是唯一真实的幸福。幸福的家庭拥挤得只能一物多用又何妨——让壁橱翻倒充当台球桌，将壁炉架当作划船器，将写字桌当作临时的卧榻，洗脸架充当竖式钢琴；如果可能的话，让四堵墙壁挤拢来，将你和你的迪莉娅围在中间。但倘若是另一类的家庭，也就无所谓它是多么宽大——你可以从金门海峡进门，将帽子挂在哈特勒斯，将披肩挂在合恩角，出门还要经过拉布拉多。

乔在著名的曼切斯特老师那儿学画——你也知道他的名声。他收费高昂，课程轻松——他也因此而闻名。迪莉娅在罗森斯托克那儿学习——你也知道他是一个出了名的专跟钢琴键过不去的家伙。

只要他们的钱还没用完，生活就很幸福。每个家庭都是这样——可我并不悲观。他们的目标非常清晰明确。乔很快就能作出一些画作，那些鬓须稀疏而钱袋殷实的老先生们，就会挤满他的画室，争相购买他的作品。迪莉娅要把音乐练熟，达到对其不屑一顾的程度，以至于要是她见到音乐厅里的位置和包厢不满座，她就可以谎称喉咙痛，在专用的餐室里吃龙虾，拒绝登台。

可在我看来，最美满的还是小公寓里的家庭生活：一天的学习之后，夫妻俩热情地促膝交谈；享受舒适的晚饭和清新淡雅的早餐；互诉心中的梦想——与对方有关的梦想，否则就不予考虑——相互帮助与启发；还有，恕我不懂讲究——晚上11点钟饱吃一顿橄榄和奶酪三明治。

可是没过多久，艺术就偃旗息鼓。即使没有人去动摇它，有时它自己也会衰落。俗话说，坐吃山空，他们的钱已经不够交曼切斯特和罗森斯托克两位先生的学费了。一旦某个人爱上了另一个人的艺术，那么一切奉献都不在话下。于是迪莉娅说，她要去教音乐，以维持三餐供应。

她在外面奔走了两三天，兜揽学生。一天晚上，她兴高采烈地回到家。“乔，亲爱的，”她高兴地说，“我招到了一个学生。而且，哦，那家人可爱极了！她是住在71号街的一位将军——埃·皮·品克奈将军的女儿。他们家的房子非常华丽，乔——你真该去看看那大门！我想你会说那是拜占庭风格。还有里面！哦，乔，我从没有见过那样的房子。“我收的学生就是他的女儿克莱门蒂娜。我可喜欢她了。她是个娇美的小家伙，总是穿白色的衣服；而且她举止可爱又淳朴！她只有18岁。我每星期上三次课；你想想看，乔！每节课5块钱。可是我一点也不在乎；等我再找到两三个学生，我又可以到罗森斯托克先生那儿去学习了。所以，别皱眉了，亲爱的，让我们好好享受一顿晚餐吧。”“你倒好了，迪莉，”乔说着，用小斧和餐刀撬开一听青豆，“可我怎么办呢？你以为我能让你忙着挣钱，而自己却倘佯在崇高的艺术中吗？我以本韦努托·切利尼的尸骨赌咒，绝对不能！我想我可以卖卖报纸，或去搬石头铺马路，这样多少也能挣得一两美元。”

迪莉娅走过来，环住他的脖子。“乔，你真傻。你一定要坚持作画。我并没有放弃音乐去做其他的事啊。我边教书也边学习呢。我一直与我的音乐同在。即便每周只赚15美元，我们也可以像百万富翁那样幸福地生活。你可千万别想离开曼切斯特先生的课堂。”“没错，”乔说着伸手去拿那只荷叶花边的蓝色盘子，“可是我不想让你去教课。那可不是艺术。你真好，竟愿意做这般牺牲。”“一旦某个人爱上了另一个人的艺术，那么一切奉献都不在话下。”迪莉娅说。“曼切斯特夸奖了我在公园里画的那幅素描，他说上面的天空画得很不错，”乔说，“丁克还答应让我在他的橱窗里挂上两幅。若是哪个有钱的傻瓜看中了它，我还可以卖出一幅。”“我相信你一定能卖出去，”迪莉娅甜蜜地说，“现在，还是让我们感谢品克奈将军和这些烤肉吧。”A Service of Love (Ⅱ)爱的奉献（2）O. Henry

During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o’clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o’clock when he returned in the evening.

At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8x10 (inches) centre table of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour.

“Sometimes,” she said, a little wearily, “Clementina tries me. I’m afraid she doesn’t practice enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano—he is a widower, you know—and stands there pulling his white goatee. ‘And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?’ he always asks.

“I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portieres. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney’s brother was once Minister to Bolivia.”

And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one—all legal tender notes—and laid them beside Delia’s earnings.

“Sold that watercolor of the obelisk to a man from Peoria,” he announced overwhelmingly.

“Don’t joke with me,” said Delia, “not from Peoria!”

“All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle’s window and thought it was a windmill at first, he was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another—an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot—to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it.”

“I’m so glad you’ve kept on,” said Delia, heartily. “You’re bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We’ll have oysters to-night.”

“And filet mignon with champignons,” said Joe. “Were is the olive fork?”

On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.

Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.

“How is this?” asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously.

“Clementina,” she explained, “insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn’t a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn’t in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!—Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody—they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement—out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“What’s this?” asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages.

“It’s something soft,” said Delia, “that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?” She had seen the money on the table.

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