hot drink for her Western guest.

"How long have you been in our horrible town, Mr. Haney?" she asked,
heedful of Joe's warning.

"One day, ma'am."

"You're just 'passing through,' I presume--that's the way all Colorado
people do."

Haney smiled. He was getting the drift of her remarks. "'Tis natural,
ma'am; for, you see, 'tis a long run and a heavy grade, and hard to
side-track on the way."

Bertha, to whom Moss addressed himself, was candidly looking about
her--profoundly interested in what she saw. Dim forms in bronze and
plaster stood on shelves, brackets, and pedestals, and at the end of the
long room a big group of figures writhed as if in mortal combat. It was
a work-shop--that was evident even to her--with one small nook devoted
to tea and talk.

"Would you like to poke about?" he asked, anticipating her request.

"Yes, I would," she bluntly replied.

"There isn't much to see," he said. "I'm the kind of sculptor who works
on order. I believe in the 'art for service' idea, and when I get an
order I fill it as well as I can, make it as beautiful as I can, and
send it out on its mission. I'd like to model mantel-pieces and
andirons, because they are seen and actually influence people's lives.
What I started to say was this: my stuff all goes out--my real stuff; my
fool failures stay by me--this thing, for instance." He indicated the
big clump of nude forms. "I had an 'idea' when I started, but it was too
ambitious and too literary. Moreover, it isn't democratic. It don't gibe
with the present. I'd be a wild-animal sculptor if I knew enough about
them."

It was a profoundly moving experience for this raw mountain-bred girl to
stand there beside that colossal group while the man who had modelled it
took her into his confidence. There was no affectation in Moss's candor.
He had come to a swift conclusion that Congdon had attempted to let him
into a trap, for Bertha's reticence and dignity quite reassured him. If
she had uttered a single one of the banal compliments with which
visitors "kill" artists he would have stopped short; but she didn't, she
only looked, and something in her face profoundly interested him.
Suddenly she turned and said:

"Tell me what it means."

"It don't mean anything--now. Originally I intended it to mean 'The
Conquest of Art by the Spirit of Business,' or something like that. I
started it when I was fresh from Paris, and wore a red tie and a pointed
beard. I keep it as a recor