ed the picturesque proprietor gently. "Of course I
should have some; I must remember to get some twine!"

The sympathies are always ready there, the pennies too, when there are
any! A lame man, a sick woman, a little child, a forlorn dog or
cat,--they have only to go and sit on the steps of one of those
blessed studio buildings, to receive pity, help and cheer. And--ye
gods!--isn't the fact well known! And isn't it taken advantage of,
just! The swift, unreasoning charity of these Bohemians is so well
recognised that it is a regular graft for the unscrupulous.

But they keep right on being cheated right and left; thank heaven,
they will never learn to be wiser!

This difference between the Village view and the conventional
standpoint is very difficult to analyse. It really can only be made
clear by examples. As, for instance:

It is fairly late in the evening. In one of the little tea shops is a
group of girls and men smoking. To them enters a youth, who is hailed
with "How is Dickey's neuralgia?"

The newcomer grins and answers: "Better, I guess. He's had six drinks,
and is now asleep upstairs on Eleanore's couch. He'll be all right
when he wakes up."

They laugh, but quite sympathetically, and the subject is dismissed.

Now, there is a noteworthy point in this trifling episode, though it
may appear a trifle obscure at first. There is, to be sure, nothing
especially interesting or edifying in the fact of a young man's
drinking himself into insensibility to dull a faceache; the thing has
been known before. Neither is it an unheard-of occurrence for a
friendly and charitably inclined woman to grant him harbour room
till he has slept it off. The only striking point about this is that
it is taken so entirely as a matter of course by the Villagers. It no
more astonishes them that Eleanore should give up her couch to a male
acquaintance for an indefinite number of night hours, than that she
should give him a cup of tea. It is entirely the proper, kindly thing
to do; if Eleanore had not done it, she would not be a Villager, and
the Village would have none of her.

[Illustration: MACDOUGAL ALLEY.]

It may be further remarked that, if you should go upstairs to
Eleanore's studio, you would find that she takes the presence on the
couch as calmly as though it were a bundle of laundry. She is in no
sense disconcerted by the occasional snore that wakes the midnight
echoes. She works peacefully on at the black-and-white pos