Connecticut western news., 1903-07-02

AISLE, come to bed"
 It's so hot can't sleep.
 }" Don't worry"
 Maisie put her elbows on the window sill and looked at the moonlight on the straight, poplar fianked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur-Marne and parched it to the bone. The grass was dry burned in the meadows, the clay by the bank of the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers were long since dead and the roses in the garden hung withered on their stalks. The heat in the little low bedroom under the caves was almost intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of Kamis studio across the road seemed to make the night hotter, and the shadow of the big bell handle by the closed gate cast bar of inky black that caught Maisie's eye and an noyed her.
 "Horrid thing. It should be all white" she murmured. And the gate isn't in the middle of the wall, either never noticed that before"
 Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First the heat of the past few weeks had worn her down; secondly, her work and particularly the study of female head intended to represent the Melancolia and not finished in time for the salon was unsatisfactory; third ly, Kami had said as much two days before; fourthly, but SO completely fourthly that 1t was hardly worth thinking about, Dick, her property, had not written to her for more than six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami and with her work, but she was exceedingly angry with Dick.
 She had written to him three times, each time proposing fresh treatment of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these communications. She had resolved to write no more. When she returned to England in the autumn for her brides sake she could not re- turn earlier-she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon con ferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was, "Continuez mademoiselle, continuez toujours,'' and he had been repeating his wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exact ly like cicala-an old gray cicala in n black alpaca coat, white trousers and a huge felt hat.
 But Dick had tramped masterfully the cool green London park and had said things ten times worse than "con- tinuez'' before he 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 sketching in the sun or drinking water at wayside farm 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 to write? A murmur of voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The moonlight glittered on the scabbard of his saber. which he was holding in his hand lest it should clank inopportunely. The cooks cap cast deep shadows on her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round her waist, and there fol lowed the sound of kiss.
 "Faughy' said Maisie, stepping back
 "What's thatY' said the red haired girl, who was tossing uneasily outside her bed.
 "Only a conscript kissing the cook" said Maisie. They've gone away now" She 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 sun baked rose below nodded it's head as one who knew unutterable se- crets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his thoughts from her work and bis own and descend to the degrada- ton of Suzanne and the conscript? He could not. The rose nodded its head and one leaf herewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its ear. Dick could not, because" thought Maisie, "he Is mine-mine. He said he was. I'm sure don't care what he does. It will only spoil his work if he does. and 1t will spoil mine too"
 The rose continued to nod in the flu tile way peculiar to flowers. There was no earthly reason why Dick should not nisport 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 prepara- ton of pictures that went sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the scrapbook proved, and were invariably rejected by the salon when Kami was plagued into all lowing her to send them up. Her work in the future, 1t seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly simi- lar lines which would be rejected In exactly the same way.
 The red haired girl thrashed distress fully across the sheets. "It's too hot to eleep," she moaned, and the interrup- ton 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- -Marne. No, she would go to another master, who should force her into the success that was her right if patient toll and des- perate endeavor gave one a right to anything. 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 her self only. He had said-this very man who could not find time to write-that 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 absurd 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 vyhafbar cha Iaofurad him nr mt Hn