Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-12-21

snatched the brush out of her hand and
showed her where her error lay. His last
letter, Maisie remembered, contained some
trivial advice about not s6etchIng in the
sun or drinking water at wayside farm
houses; and he had said that not once, but
three times-as if he did not know that
Maisie could take care OF herself.
But what was he doing, that he could not
trouble 10 write? A murmur OF voices in
the road made her lean rom the window. A
cavalryman of the little garrison in the
town was talking to hami's cook. The
moonlight glittered on the scabbard of his
saber. which he was holding in his hand lest
1t should clank 'inopportunely. The cook S
cap cast deep shadows on her face, which
was close to the conscript's. He slid his
arm round her waist, and there followed the
sound OF a kiss.
"Faughr' said MaisIe, stepping back.
"What's that?" said the red-haired girl,
who was tossing uneasily outside her bed.
"Only conScript kissing the cook, " said
Maisie. They've gone away now." Sne
leaned out of the window again, and put .
shawl over her night-gown to guard against
chills. There was very small night breeze
abroad, and a un-baked rose below nodded
its head as one who knew unutteraole Sc
crets. Was it possible that Dick should
turn his thoughts from her work and his
own and descend to the degradation of
Suzanne and the conscript? He could noti
The rose nodded its head and one leaf there
with. 1t looked like naughty little devil
scratching its ear. Dick could not, "be-
cause" thought Maisie, "he is mine-mine
mine. He said be was. I'm sure l don't
care what he does. 1t will only spoil his
work if he does; and it will spoil mine, too.
The rose continued to nod in the futile way
peculiar to flowers. There was no earthly
reason why Dick should not disport himself
as he chose, except that he was called by
Providence, which was Maisie, to assist
Maisie in her work. And her work was
the preparation OF pictures that went some
times to English provincial exhibitions, as
the notices in the scrsp-book proved, and
that were invariably rejected by the Salon
when hami was plagued into allowing her
to send them up. Her work in the luture, it
seemed, would be the preparation OF pictures
Oh exactly similar lines which would be re-
jected in exactly the same way.
The red-haired girl threshed distressfully
across the sheets. 'It's too hot to Sleep" she
moaned, and the interruption Jared.
Exactly the same way. Then she would
divide her years between the little studio in
England and kami's big studio at Vitry-
sur Marine. No, she would 20 to another
master, who should force her into the sue
cess that was her right, if patient toll and
desperate erdeavor gave one right to any,
thing. Dick had told her that he had
worked ten years to understand his craft.
She had worked ten years, and ten years
were nothing. Dick had said
that ten years were nothing-but that
was in regard to herself only. He had said
this very man who could not find time to
write-thst he would wait ten years for her,
and that she was bound to come back to him
sooner or later. He had said this in the abb
surd letter about SunStroke and diphtheria;
and then he had stopped writing. He was
wandering up and down moonlit streets,
kissing cooks. She would like to lecture
him now-not in her nightgown, of course,
but properly dressed-severely and from a
height. Yet if he was kissing other girls
he certainly would not care whether she
lectured him or not. He would laugh at
her. Very good. She would 60 back to her
studio ana prepare pictures that went, etc.,
etc. The mill wheel OF thought swung
round slowly, that no section of it might be
slurred over, aud the red-haired girl tossed
and turned behind her.
Maisie put her chin in her hands and de-
cided that there could be no doubt whatever
of the villany of Dick. To justify herself,
she began, unwomanly, to weigh the evil
dence. There was boy, and he had said he
loved her. And he kissed her-kissed her
on the cheek-by a yellow sea-poppy that
nodded its head exactly like the maddening
dry rose in the garden. Then there was an
interval, and men had told her that they
loved her-just when she was busiest with
her work. Then the boy came back, and at
the very second meeting had told her that
he loved her. Then he had But there
was no end to the things he had done. He
had given her his time and his powers. He
had spoken to her of art, housekeeping,
technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as
stimulant-that was rude-sable hair
brushes; he had given her the best in her
stock-she used them daily; he had given
her advice that she profted by, and now and
again-a look. Such a look. The look o.
q beaten hound waiting for the Sord to
crawl to his mistress feet. In return she
had given him nothing whatever, except
here she brushed her mouth against the
open-work sleeve of her nightgown-the
privilege Of kissing her once. And on the
mouth, too. Disgracefull Was that not
enough, and more than enough? and if it
was not, had he not cancelled the debt by
not writing and-probably kissing other
girls?
"Maisie, You'll catch chill. Do 60 and
lie down." said the wearied voice of her
companion. 81 can't sleep wink with
you at the window"
Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did
not answer She was rejecting on the
meanness of Dick and other meannesses with
which be had nothing to do. The remorse-
less moonlight would not let her sleep. 1t
lay on the skyligh. of the studio across the
road in cold silver, and she stared at it in
tently and her thoughts began to slide one
into the other. The shadow of the big bell
handle In the wall grew short, heightened
again, and faded out as the moon went
down behind the pasture and hare came
limping home across the road. Then the
dawn wind washed through the upland
grasses, and brought GOODNESS with it, and
the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk
river. Maisie's head fell forward on the
window sill, and the ia gle of black hair
covered the arms.
"Maisie, wake up. You'll catch chilli"
"Yes, dear: yes, dear" She staggered to
her bed like a wearied child, and as she
buried her face in the pillows she muttered,
81 think-I think-but be ought TO have
written"
Day brought the routine of the studio
the smell of paint and turpentine, and the
monotonous wisdom of Kami, who was a
leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the
pupil were only in sympathy with him.
Maise was not in sympathy that day, and
she waited impatiently for the end of the
work. She knew when it was coming; Tor
Kami would gather his black alpaca coat
into bunch behind him, and, with faded
blue eyes that saw neither pupils nor can
vas, look back into the past to recall the
history of one Biuat.
He went into the garden to smoke and
mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils dis
persed to their several cottages or loitered
he str dio IN 10 r,io f0r he NJ