We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. ‘Damnation! Too late. I have given up painting. I ate only enough to keep body and soul together. ” “That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully. “You don’t waste any time. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position.
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