Warren sheaf., 1907-01-17
WHAT HE
VALUED MOST
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
(copyrignr, by Joseph B. Bowles.l


One afternoon she had heard
movers in the hall, and knew that
the fourth-foor studio had been taken.
The next morning unfamiliar sounds
fell from above-aS mans voice, deep
and musical, leaping up and down the
scale, a cheerful, companionable tor.
rent of melody that brought a respon-
sive smile to her face.
Next day she had learned his name.
Seeking letters from the pile in the
lower hall, she had found colorman's
catalogue addressed to John Tim
son, Esq" She had smiled at the
name; Timson was so unusual and
quaint and-funny! John she liked;
her fathers name had been John. All
the morning, as she worked at her
copper bowls and candlestlcks, she
strove to picture personality be-
fitting the name of John Timson.
A week later she saw him.
After that they bowed, and then
spoke. Meetings became frequent.
Aside from the little weakened
dealer in old worries and curl
osities on the first floor, they were
the only occupants OF the house
who made it their home. That served
as a bond of sympathy, and they soon
discovered others. They were both
orphans, and both without near rela-
tives; they were both struggling for
recognition as a painter of land
scapes in oils, she as a 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.
It became his custom to drop into
her room for moment on MS way
up and down stairs, and then IN the
evenings for long, enjoyable talks,
while he sat in her one easy-chalr
and smoked and she worked away at
an order or did her mending. once
week he descended tremendously,
Immediately clean, but diffusing
strong odor of paint, and took lunch
with her, gravely marveling at the
display and pretend ed alarm at her
recSessness.
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 bottle of olives, which, he sol
emnly 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-
Pile 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
mother he had never known-he had
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
NIT, in 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 geing to be hung
ooh, do so hope sol" she had said,
earnestly.
'rI've never doubted it, he had an.
swered, simply. tits big stake
but-Im going to win!''
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.
docs it go to-day?'
Tomorrow; it isn't quite dry yet
I suppose ought to be glad, but (
he smiled forlornly-'I only feel rath
er lonesome" He filled and lighted
his pipe. Do you care to see il
again ~
ooh, yes" she answered, eagerly.
Upstairs he drew aside the yellow