LITMIR.BIZ

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stare at the girl--"I mean that Ariel Tabor is to go home. Really, we can't have this kind of thing occurring upon our front lawn!"

      The flush upon her wet cheeks deepened and became dark; even her arm grew redder as she gazed back at him. In his eyes was patent his complete realization of the figure she cut, of this bare arm, of the strewn hair, of the fallen stocking, of the ragged shoulder of her blouse, of her patched short skirt, of the whole dishevelled little figure. He was the master of the house, and he was sending her home as ill-behaved children are sent home by neighbors.

      The immobile, amused superiority of this proprietor of silver boxes, this wearer of strange and brilliant garments, became slightly intensified as he pointed to the fallen sleeve, a rag of red and snow, lying near her feet.

      "You might take that with you?" he said, interrogatively.

      Her gaze had not wavered in meeting his, but at this her eyelashes began to wink uncontrollably, her chin to tremble. She bent over the sleeve and picked it up, before Joe Louden, who had started towards her, could do it for her. Then turning, her head still bent so that her face was hidden from both of them, she ran out of the gate.

      "DO go!" Joe called after her, vehemently. "Go! Just to show what a fool you are to think 'Gene's in earnest."

      He would have followed, but his step-brother caught him by the arm. "Don't stop her," said Eugene. "Can't you tell when I AM in earnest, you bally muff!"

      "I know you are," returned the other, in a low voice. "I didn't want her to think so for your sake."

      "Thousands of thanks," said Eugene, airily. "You are a wise young judge. She couldn't stay--in THAT state, could she? I sent her for her own good."

      "She could have gone in the house and your mother might have loaned her a jacket," returned Joe, swallowing. "You had no business to make her go out in the street like that."

      Eugene laughed. "There isn't a soul in sight--and there, she's all right now. She's home."

      Ariel had run along the fence until she came to the next gate, which opened upon a walk leading to a shabby, meandering old house of one story, with a very long, low porch, once painted white, running the full length of the front. Ariel sprang upon the porch and disappeared within the house.

      Joe stood looking after her, his eyelashes winking as had hers. "You oughtn't to have treated her that way," he said, huskily.

      Eugene laughed again. "How were YOU treating her when I came up? You bully her all you want to yourself, but nobody else must say even a fatherly word to her!"

      "That wasn't bullying," explained Joe. "We fight all the time."

      "Mais oui!" assented Eugene. "I fancy!"

      "What?" said the other, blankly.

      "Pick up that banjo-case again and come on," commanded Mr. Bantry, tartly. "Where's the mater?"

      Joe stared at him. "Where's what?"

      "The mater!" was the frowning reply.

      "Oh yes, I know!" said Joe, looking at his step-brother curiously. "I've seen it in stories. She's up-stairs. You'll be a surprise. You're wearing lots of clothes, 'Gene."

      "I suppose it will seem so to Canaan," returned the other, weariedly. "Governor feeling fit?"

      "I never saw him," Joe replied; then caught himself. "Oh, I see what you mean! Yes, he's all right."

      They had come into the hall, and Eugene was removing the long coat, while his step-brother looked at him thoughtfully.

      "'Gene," asked the latter, in a softened voice, "have you seen Mamie Pike yet?"

      "You will find, my young friend," responded Mr. Bantry, "if you ever go about much outside of Canaan, that ladies' names are not supposed to be mentioned indiscriminately."

      "It's only," said Joe, "that I wanted to say that there's a dance at their house to-night. I suppose you'll be going?"

      "Certainly. Are you?"

      Both knew that the question was needless; but Joe answered, gently:

      "Oh no, of course not." He leaned over and fumbled with one foot as if to fasten a loose shoe-string. "She wouldn't be very likely to ask me."

      "Well, what about it?"

      "Only that--that Arie Tabor's going."

      "Indeed!" Eugene paused on the stairs, which he had begun to ascend. "Very interesting."

      "I thought," continued Joe, hopefully, straightening up to look at him, "that maybe you'd dance with her. I don't believe many will ask her--I'm afraid they won't--and if you would, even only once, it would kind of make up for"--he faltered--"for out there," he finished, nodding his head in the direction of the gate.

      If Eugene vouchsafed any reply, it was lost in a loud, shrill cry from above, as a small, intensely nervous-looking woman in blue silk ran half-way down the stairs to meet him and caught him tearfully in her arms.

      "Dear old mater!" said Eugene.

      Joe went out of the front-door quickly.

      III

      OLD HOPES

      The door which Ariel had entered opened upon a narrow hall, and down this she ran to her own room, passing, with face averted, the entrance to the broad, low-ceilinged chamber that had served Roger Tabor as a studio for almost fifty years. He was sitting there now, in a hopeless and disconsolate attitude, with his back towards the double doors, which were open, and had been open since their hinges had begun to give way, when Ariel was a child. Hearing her step, he called her name, but did not turn; and, receiving no answer, sighed faintly as he heard her own door close upon her.

      Then, as his eyes wandered about the many canvases which leaned against the dingy walls, he sighed again. Usually they showed their brown backs, but to-day he had turned them all to face outward. Twilight, sunset, moonlight (the Court-house in moonlight), dawn, morning, noon (Main Street at noon), high summer, first spring, red autumn, midwinter, all were there--illimitably detailed, worked to a smoothness like a glaze, and all lovingly done with unthinkable labor.

      And there were "Italian Flower-Sellers," damsels with careful hair, two figures together, one blonde, the other as brunette as lampblack, the blonde--in pink satin and blue slippers--leaning against a pillar and smiling over the golden coins for which she had exchanged her posies; the brunette seated at her feet, weeping upon an unsold bouquet. There were red-sashed "Fisher Lads" wading with butterfly-nets on their shoulders; there was a "Tying the Ribbon on Pussy's Neck"; there were portraits in oil and petrifactions in crayon, as hard and tight as the purses of those who had refused to accept them, leaving them upon their maker's hands because the likeness had failed.

      After a time the old man got up, went to his easel near a window, and, sighing again, began patiently to work upon one of these failures--a portrait, in oil, of a savage old lady, which he was doing from a photograph. The expression of the mouth and the shape of the nose had not pleased her descendants and the beneficiaries under the will, and it was upon the images of these features that Roger labored. He leaned far forward, with his face close to the canvas, holding his brushes after the Spencerian fashion, working steadily through the afternoon, and, when the light grew dimmer, leaning closer to his canvas to see. When it had become almost dark in the room, he lit a student-lamp with a green-glass shade, and, placing it upon a table beside him, continued to paint. Ariel's voice interrupted him at last.

      "It's quitting-time, grandfather," she called, gently, from the doorway behind him.

      He sank back in his chair, conscious, for the first time, of how tired he had grown. "I suppose so," he said, "though it seemed to me that I was just getting my

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