The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1907-05-16

recognition-he as painter or land
scapes in oils, she as d worker in
metals. And then there were minor
sympathies born of similar tastes and
views which came to light in the first
year of their friendship.
1t became his custom to drop into
her room for a moment on his way
up and down stairs, and then in the
evenings for long, enjoyable talks,
while he sat in her one easy-chair
and smoked and she worked away at
an order or did her mending. Once a
week he descended tremendously,
Immediately clean, but diffuslng a
strong odor Of paint and took lunch
with her, gravely marveling at the
display and pretended alarm at her
recklessness.
Once he had returned her hospital
ity-he had sold small canvas-and
they had dined sumptuously at one
end of the paint-stained table on lob
ster outlets and French peas and as
paragus. sent in chilled, but appetiz-
ing, from the cafe across the square.
And he had made marvellous coffee
in an old copper kettle, and had pro-
duced a bottle Of olives, which, he sol
EMMY declared had been two years
awaiting the occasion.
Usually he called for her at the
institute in Brooklyn-she still at
tended an evening class three times
week--and brought her home.
Once they had walked back across
the bridge on brisk winter night,
the white stars above them, the pur-
pie lamps advancing and meeting
them along their path, and the lemon
and red and green lanterns twink
ling up from boats and pier-heads.
That night she had heard his story
He had told her Of boyhood spent
in a little town in western Missouri,
Of his first dim dissatisfaction with
his lot and his growing hatred for
toll in his fathers squalid general
store" how at his fathers death-his
gone to st. Louis, where he had
clerked by day and studied art by
night, until, with $4,000 saved, he had
come to New York and entered the
league. He had spent three years
there. and then had buried himself
in the Jersey woods, living like her
init, in a hut of his own building, and
painting from dawn to dusk, fair days
and foul.
And now" he had ended, they're
beginning to know me. I've sold a
few canvases, mostly through Ruy-
ter. Ruyter believes in me. The
thing I'm working on now is for the
academy. It's going to take year;
but it's good, it's the best | have in
me-and it's going to be hung.
"Oh, do 50 hope SOL" she had said,
earnestly.
i've never doubted it," he had an
swered. simply. ITS big stake,
but-l'm going to VIM"
And so that first year had passed,
and the second of their friendship
was three months old.
One afternoon-the morrow was the
last day for receiving canvases at the
academy-he entered her room, and
sank silently into his accustomed
chair She looked up questioningly
from the silver buckle on which she
was working.
Finished" he said, gloomily.
Does it go to-day
Tomorrow: 1t isn't quite dry yet.
| suppose | ought to be glad, but"
he smiled forlornly-"l only feel rath
his pipe. "Do you care to see it
again.
"Oh. yes" she answered, eagerly.
Upstairs he drew aside the yellow
ish cloth, and laid bare the canvas on
which he had toiled for almost year
1t was large, six feet by four, and
undoubtedly an ambitious effort for
what might be called a first picture
yet the result was so splendid that
the artists faith in its success seemed
justified.
He had called it "August"-a wide
far-reaching expanse of salt-marsh
ribboned with blue, breeze-runed wa
ter: along the horizon dim purple
haze, suggestion but no more of
the city; against the clear sky great
white thunder-clouds rolled high upon
each other in majestic grandeur.
Its glorious!" she whispered
finally.
you like it?" he asked, almost
eagerly.
Il love 1t! But" she sighed
how 1t makes one hate the city,
doesn't IT."
His eyes lighted. Yes; and were
going away from the city, he said,
with q ring in his voice. We're