The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1901-12-19
D THE .
- T. il T. IT. - T.
BY w. B. BARRETT.
Copyright. 1901, by Authors syndicatel

TT WAS showing when Eleanor re-
turned from the private view. The
air was bitter, the wind wintry. She
was glad to reenter the coziness of her
silent studio, its light, its warmth; to
see the CHEEKY welcome of the flicker
ing gas log which in her bedchamber
adjoining initiated in its humble ashes
tos way the cordial greeting of pine
Burson, good chap, had left her at the
studio door, though he had looked
longingly at the comfort within, and
she knew he would have stayed if she
had asked him more cordially.
Still, she had asked him. Her con-
science must have been clear on the
score of gentle ospitality-else why
should she so petulantly have flung
her sealskin coat across an easel and
sunk listlessly into a Morris chair
which commanded at once the speak
ing study for a canvas before it and
view through the archway of the blink
ing asbestos.
"He needn't have looked so wistful,"
she murmured, discontentedly. 81 did
ask him to come in and get warm.
said: Perhaps it's too late, but you
can toast yourself minute before
you start for the north side, if you
want to- Ungracious? Well, why does
he bother me? Didn't he have me
the whole evening, and to supper, too?
Isn't that enough?
"And how he praised my picture!
How all of them did, indeed. They
were awfully good, and yet"
She rose restlessly and walked up
and down as a man might, Bohemian
that she was, pausing at last before
the easel in the semi-darkness.
"And yet" she went on, in passion
ate multitone which still, was little
more than a whisper after all, "what
good is it all? What do I care whether
they praise or damn? What do care
whether my work is good or i'll? What
are wreaths and coronets when ones
heart is hungry for love, and love is
fled away, driven by a FOOLS laugh?
OIL
And now, in storm of bitterness, she
sank shudderingly upon the rug be-
meath her, her hands upon her eyes,
and a flow of tears wet them with their
kindly solace.
She saw again, in fancy, the gay
crowding of the "view.' a galaxy Of
beauty, gowned in the seasons bril-
liancy of color, We'd with the art which
decked the walls. There had been a
frou-frou of rich stuffs, tinkle of
well-bred merriment, a hum of con-
ventional compliment. Across it all
blotting out the lights, the canvases,
hushing the gayety, rose again his face
as she had seen it that afternoon,
across a vista of other faces, pale, i'm
mobile seeming to have suffered, seem
ing still to suffer bearing a cross and
frozen into a grim and enduring ST.
lence. She had looked long upon that
face, until her own color had deserted
cheek and lip and fed back to the tu-
multi of her fast-beating heart. Then
she had beckoned the faithful Burson
and precipitately left the gallery And
now?
Yes, now. what? Harold was back
after those years. But what was that
to her; what could it be? She who had
in ashes strewn her heart and hooded
her face in sackcloth because one little
"No' had changed her life and his,
what was there now to DO to set it
right?
Not upon a Haunting sleeve can
woman weave her heart. She had said
"No," and he had gone away. He was
come again, but her "No" must still be
vocal and sing in her ears its cruel
harshness. She had cast him away, her
peari of men; it was to art she would
be wed, she had said, as if disdaining
tingling human pulses and caressing
arms; to art, cold, lofty, high, exalted
and eXalting art. She had aspired to be
lifted up-apd the little god had with
the crooking Of his tiny, remorseless
finger cast her down and sown BRAN
bles where his arrow festered
Three years! Gods! How she had
striven to ease the pain which cut her