Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1904-05-14
On the
Trail of a
Maltese
Copyright, 1908, bp T. c. Mcclure

Maltese kitten whose name was Dot,
though 1t was usually called by any
endearing epithet which came handy.
1t ought not to have tired of the paper
ball provided for 1t, nor gone on
tour of exploration into the hall, nor
then into Graham's studio. But the
last was Graham's fault. because he
had neglected to close the studio door
when he went out.
OF course, Miss Mabel Hastings had
to get her pet, and. Of course as the
kitten would not come at her call. the
only way was to 80 into the studio
after 1t.
She found 1t after considerable
search sitting serenely beneath the big
chair under the long studio window.
With the kitten safe in her arms she
should have gone back to her inter
rupted work. She did not, however.
She listened to the voice Of the tempt
er, who told her that her opportunity
was come Mt last; that having seen so
much it was no harm to see a little
more, and that no one would know.
She had wanted for a long while to
know what Graham's studio was like,
and If it suited with him. and num-
ber of other things.
1t Is the first step that counts. From
a general survey Miss Hastings de-
scended to particular examination.
She tiptoed across the room, glanced
Mt the books and inspected the Japa-
nese ivOrics In cabinet on the wall.
Then, having imbrued one finger, as
it were, and nothing having happened,
there seemed to be no reason why she
should not dip in her whole hand. Be-
sides, II Graham should come. she had
the kitten for excuse. 1t was to the
kitten she talked as she wandered
about.
"He wouldn't care at my looking at
his pictures, kitty" she confided as
she rummaged in n stack of canvases,
''and anyway il he doesn't want them
looked at why does he put them with
their faces to the wall? He ought to
know that that would make any one
any one desire to see them. l wonder
II they are rejected pictures and II he
hates to see them as l do that pile Of
rejected stories of mine. Perhaps that
is why he leaves them wrong side out.
Hum! Spring Scene Rather good, I
should say. italian Peasant Girl l
don't think much of her. Old man with
pipe, moonlight or sunrise or some
thing. It's pretty, but l can't make it
out. Just look at the dust behind them
too. It's all over my skirt. 1t would
be a giveaway II he should come. Only
I'd say l got 1t hunting for you. Did
you ever see anything like this table,
Dot? l wish l dared straighten 1t up.
He needs some one to keep things in
order. Bachelors are so untidy, which
shows that they were never intended
by heaven to remain bachelors, for or
der Is heavens first law. 1t must be
nice, though, to feel above obeying it."
She moved about the room as she
talked, studying the sketches on the
wall, testing the softness of the divan,
feeling the texture Of the tapestries,
running her finger along the mantel-
shelf and looking at 1t with mock hor-
ror.
ITS just the kind Of studio thought
he'd have, Dotlets. It's just like him
big, sunny and not too many books nor
too many curios nor cluttered up with
furniture. l don't like a finicky man
nor bOOky man, and he isn't either.
knew he wasn't. Is that the models
throne over there, l wonder-that plat
form? 1t doesn't seem to have been
used much, and yet he's been painting
this morning. I'm going to see what 1t
is. It's covered by a curtain, but peep
won't hurt any one"
The easel stood In the corner by a
table Uttered with half squeezed tubes.
brushes, palettes and paint rags, as II
the painter had thrown them down in
a sudden heat Of evaporation over the
inadequacy Of his art.
Mabel drew the curtain from the pic
ture and then sat down hastily on the
painting stool. 1t was her own picture
she was looking at-her own and yet
not her own. Not the everyday, story
writing, money worried Mabel Has
tings whom her looking glass reflected,
clinging eastern fabric, reclining grace
fully in deep chair Of inlaid ebony.
There were jewels cleaning In the
meshes of her colled hair, and row upon
row OF pearls clasped the delicately
curved throat. Her hands were play
ing with the roses in her lap. Her eyes
were dreamy.
Now, how did he know, Katinka,
that I cared for rosesT said Mabel
when, after the first moments of sur
prise, she settled herself in critical de-
light, chin in hand, before the picture.
And such roses-dream roses-just
opening to the June air. How did he
know-if 1t is me? 1 suppose 1t isn't
me really, but like to think 1t is-and
indeed 1t looks like me, or as 1 might
look IL had beautiful things and
dwelt in n fairy palace. Only, Pm
afraid. kit, that I'm not half 80 pretty
as that girl. She hasn't any bother
about making her purse fit her neces-
stiles nor trying to make stories end
nicely. l don't think she writes at all,
that girl-there's no ink on her fin
gers. And yet just know 1t is, and
I'm rather glad-only, Of course. it's
horribly impertinent in him; you can't
know how impertinent.
"And the pearls! Did he put them
around my neck for effect or to show
how well he could paint them? May
be-maybe he wanted inst to give