ly. "Grief is just
as driving a taskmaster as lo--as other emotions."

"Grief!" The girl's color ebbed. "Cecily! You don't think I've hurt
him?"

The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug.

"Bobbie, do you know what I'd do in your place?"

"No. What?"

"I'd go right--straight--back to Julien Tenney's studio." She paused
impressively.

"Yes?" said the other faintly.

"And I'd walk right--straight--up to Julien Tenney--" Another pause,
even more impressive.

"I d-d-don't think I'd--he'd--"

"And I'd say to him: 'Julien, will you marry me?' Like that."

"Oh!" said Bobbie in outraged amazement.

"And maybe--" continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially: "maybe I'd kiss
him. Yes. I think I would."

Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie's large eyes dissolved in
tears. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she sobbed.

"You won't be ashamed of _yourself_," prophesied the other, "if you do
just as I say, quickly and naturally."

"Oh, naturally," retorted the girl in an indignant whimper. "I suppose
you think that's natural. Anyway, he probably doesn't care about me at
all that way."

"Roberta," said the sculptress sternly, "did you _see_ his portrait of
you?"

"Y-y-yes."

"And you have the presumption to say that he doesn't care? Why, that
picture doesn't simply tell his secret. It _yells_ it!"

"I don't care," said the hard-pressed Bobbie. "It hasn't yelled it to
me. _Nobody's_ yelled it to me. And I c-c-can't ask a m-m-man to--to--"

"Perhaps you can't," allowed her adviser magnanimously. "On second
thought, it won't be necessary. You just go back--after powdering your
nose a little--and say that you've come to see the picture once more, or
that it's a fine day, or that competition is the life of trade, or
that--oh, anything! And, if he doesn't do the rest, I'll kill and
eat him."

"But, Cecily--"

"You _would_ be a patroness of Art. Now I've given you something real to
patronize. Don't you dare fail me." Suddenly the speaker gave herself
over to an access of mirth. "Heaven help that young man when he comes
to own up."

"Own up to what?"

"Never mind."

Having consumed a vain and repetitious half-hour in variations upon her
query, Bobbie gave it up and decided to find out for herself. It was
curiosity and curiosity alone (so she assured herself) that impelled her
to return for the last time (she assured herself of that, also) to
the attic.

A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing