Hatty Hosmer and Ann Whitney had encourage me to moe to Rome. It was Ann again-and a British artistocrat-who made it possible for me to return to the United States.

           The kettle on the woodstove whistled, pulling me out of my prayers. I dropped my rosary where I sat on the window ledge and went to make tea. But all that was left of my dried peppermint leaves was a bundle of stems hanging on a hook. There was no bread, no cheese, no fruit. “Just water then,” I told myself, ignoring my grumbling stomach. Articles about me appeared in newspapers across America and in international art journals, and I had sold seve...

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