ouble to you."

Bertha, her wealth still new upon her, had no suspicion of the motives
of those who addressed her, was deeply flattered by this request, and as
Moss made no objection, she consented.

The only thing that troubled Moss was her growing tendency to lapse into
troubled thought. "Remember, now, you're the crocus, the first violet,
or something like that--not the last rose of summer. Don't think, don't
droop! There, that's right! What have you to think or droop about? When
you're as old and blase as Humiston there, you'll have a right to ponder
the mysteries, but not now. You and I are young, thank God!"

Humiston was dabbling at his small canvas swiftly, lightly, as unmoved
by his fellow-artist as if his voice were the wind in the casement. He
was a tall, sickly looking man with grizzled hair, and pale, deeply
lined face. He was fresh from Paris with a small exhibition of his
pictures, which were very advanced, as Mrs. Moss privately explained to
Bertha. "And he's rather bitter against Americans because they don't
appreciate his work. But Joe asks: 'Why should they?' They're
undemocratic--little high-keyed 'precious' bits; pictures for other
artists, not real paintings, or they are unacceptable otherwise. He's a
wonderful technician, though, and he'll make an exquisite sketch of
you."

The Western girl-wife was completely fascinated by this small, dusky,
dim, and richly colored heart of the fierce and terrible city whose
material bulk alone is known to the world. To go from the crash and roar
of the savage streets into this studio was like climbing from the level
of the water in the Black Canon to the sunlit, grassy peaks where the
Indian pink blossoms in silence. She was of the aspiring nature. She had
commonly played with children older than herself. She had read books she
could not understand. She had always reached upward, and here she found
herself surrounded by men and women who excited her imagination as
Congdon had done. They helped her forget the doubt of herself and her
future, which was gnawing almost ceaselessly in her brain, and she was
sorry when Moss said to her: "Come in once more, to-morrow, and see me
do the real sculptor's act. No, don't look at it" (he flung a cloth over
his work); "you may look at it to-morrow."

"May I see my picture?" she asked of Humiston.

He turned the easel towards her without a word.

"Good work!" cried Moss.

Mrs. Moss came from her dark corner. "I knew y