Chapter II: Part 2

Polly lent her aid; but Bob scarcely seemed to feel it, for he had been a racer once, and when his blood was up he was hard to handle. His own good sense might have checked him, if Aunt Kipp hadn’t unfortunately recovered her voice at this crisis, and uttered a succession of the shrillest screams that ever saluted mortal ears. With a snort and a bound Bob dashed straight on toward the crossing, as the train appeared round the bend.

“Let me out! Let me out! Jump! Jump!” shrieked Aunt Kipp, thrusting her head out of the window, while she fumbled madly for the door-handle.

“O Toady, save us! save us!” gasped Polly, losing her presence of mind, and dropping the reins to cling to her brother, with a woman’s instinctive faith in the stronger sex.

But Toady held on manfully, though his arms were nearly pulled off, for “Never say die,” was his motto, and the plucky little lad wouldn’t show fear before the women.

“Don’t howl; we’ll do it! Hi, Bob!” and with a savage slash of the whip, an exciting cry, a terrible reeling and rattling, they _did_ do it; for Bob cleared the track at a breakneck pace, just in time for the train to sweep swiftly by behind them.

Aunt Kipp dropped in a heap, Polly looked up at her brother, with a look which he never forgot; and Toady tried to say, stoutly, “It’s all right!” with lips that were white and dry in spite of himself.

“We shall smash up at the bridge,” he muttered, as they tore through the town, where every one obligingly shouted, waved their hats, and danced about on the sidewalks, doing nothing but add to Bob’s fright and the party’s danger. But Toady was wrong,—they did not smash up at the bridge; for, before they reached the perilous spot, one man had the sense to fly straight at the horse’s head and hold on till the momentary check enabled others to lend a hand.

The instant they were safe, Polly, like a regular heroine, threw herself into the arms of her dishevelled preserver, who of course was Van, and would have refreshed herself with hysterics if the sight of Toady hadn’t steadied her. The boy sat as stiff and rigid as a wooden figure till they took the reins from him; then all the strength seemed to go out of him, and he leaned against his sister, as white and trembling as she, whispering with an irrepressible sob,—

“O Polly, wasn’t it horrid? Tell mother I stood by you like a man. Do tell her that!”

If any one had had time or heart to laugh, they certainly would have done it when, after much groping, heaving, and hoisting, Mrs. Kipp was extricated and restored to consciousness; for a more ludicrously deplorable spectacle was seldom seen. Quite unhurt, though much shaken, the old lady insisted on believing herself to be dying, and kept the town in a ferment till three doctors had pronounced her perfectly well able to go home. Then the perversity of her nature induced her to comply, that she might have the satisfaction of dying on the way, and proving herself in the right.

Unfortunately she did not expire, but, having safely arrived, went to bed in high dudgeon, and led Polly and her mother a sad life of it for two weary days. Having heard of Toady’s gallant behavior, she solemnly ordered him up to receive her blessing. But the sight of Aunt Kipp’s rubicund visage, surrounded by the stiff frills of an immense nightcap, caused the irreverent boy to explode with laughter in his handkerchief, and to be hustled away by his mother before Aunt Kipp discovered the true cause of his convulsed appearance.

“Ah! poor dear, his feelings are too much for him. He sees my doom in my face, and is overcome by what you refuse to believe. I shan’t forget that boy’s devotion. Now leave me to the meditations befitting these solemn hours.”

Mrs. Snow retired, and Aunt Kipp tried to sleep; but the murmur of voices, and the sound of stifled laughter in the next room disturbed her repose.

“They are rejoicing over my approaching end, knowing that I haven’t changed my will. Mercenary creatures, don’t exult too soon! there’s time yet,” she muttered; and presently, unable to control her curiosity, she crept out of bed to listen and peep through the key-hole.

Van Bahr Lamb did look rather like a sheep. He had a blond curly head, a long face, pale, mild eyes, a plaintive voice, and a general expression of innocent timidity strongly suggestive of animated mutton. But Baa-baa was a “trump,” as Toady emphatically declared, and though every one laughed at him, every one liked him, and that is more than can be said of many saints and sages. He adored Polly, was dutifully kind to her mother, and had stood by T. Snow, Jr., in many an hour of tribulation with fraternal fidelity. Though he had long blushed, sighed, and cast sheep’s eyes at the idol of his affections, only till lately had he dared to bleat forth his passion. Polly loved him because she couldn’t help it; but she was proud, and wouldn’t marry till Aunt Kipp’s money was hers, or at least a sure prospect of it; and now even the prospect of a prospect was destroyed by that irrepressible Toady. They were talking of this as the old lady suspected, and of course the following conversation afforded her intense satisfaction.

“It’s a shame to torment us as she does, knowing how poor we are and how happy a little of her money would make us. I’m tired of being a slave to a cruel old woman just because she’s rich. If it was not for mother, I declare I’d wash my hands of her entirely, and do the best I could for myself.”

“Hooray for Polly! I always said let her money go and be jolly without it,” cried Toady, who, in his character of wounded hero, reposed with a lordly air on the sofa, enjoying the fragrance of the opedeldoc with which his strained wrists were bandaged.

“It’s on your account, children, that I bear with aunt’s temper as I do. I don’t want anything for myself, but I really think she owes it to your dear father, who was devoted to her while he lived, to provide for his children when he couldn’t;” after which remarkably spirited speech for her, Mrs. Snow dropped a tear, and stitched away on a small trouser-leg which was suffering from a complicated compound fracture.

“Don’t you worry about me, mother; I’ll take care of myself and you too,” remarked Toady, with the cheery belief in impossibilities which makes youth so charming.

“Now, Van, tell us what to do, for things have come to such a pass that we must either break away altogether or be galley-slaves as long as Aunt Kipp lives,” said Polly, who was a good deal excited about the matter.

“Well, really, my dear, I don’t know,” hesitated Van, who did know what _he_ wanted, but thought it might be selfish to urge it. “Have you tried to soften your aunt’s heart?” he asked, after a moment’s meditation.

“Good gracious, Van, she hasn’t got any,” cried Polly, who firmly believed it.

“It’s hossified,” thoughtfully remarked Toady, quite unconscious of any approach to a joke till every one giggled.

“You’ve had hossification enough for one while, my lad,” laughed Van. “Well, Polly, if the old lady has no heart you’d better let her go, for people without hearts are not worth much.”

“That’s a beautiful remark, Van, and a wise one. I just wish she could hear you make it, for she called you a fool,” said Polly, irefully.

“Did she? Well, I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” returned Van, placidly; and so he was, for Polly called him a goose every day of her life, and he enjoyed it immensely.

“Then you think, dear, if we stopped worrying about aunt and her money, and worked instead of waiting, that we shouldn’t be any poorer and might be a great deal happier than we are now?” asked Polly, making a pretty little tableau as she put her hand through Van’s arm and looked up at him with as much love, respect, and reliance as if he had been six feet tall, with the face of an Apollo and the manners of a Chesterfield.

“Yes, my dear, I do, for it has troubled me a good deal to see you so badgered by that very uncomfortable old lady. Independence is a very nice thing, and poverty isn’t half as bad as this sort of slavery. But you are not going to be poor, nor worry about anything. We’ll just be married and take mother and Toady home and be as jolly as grigs, and never think of Mrs. K. again,—unless she loses her fortune, or gets sick, or comes to grief in any way. We’d lend her a hand then, wouldn’t we, Polly?” and Van’s mild face was pleasant to behold as he made the kindly proposition.

“Well, we’d think of it,” said Polly, trying not to relent, but feeling that she was going very fast.

“Let’s do it!” cried Toady, fired with the thought of privy conspiracy and rebellion. “Mother would be so comfortable with Polly, and I’d help Van in the store, when I’ve learned that confounded multiplication table,” he added with a groan; “and if Aunt Kipp comes a visiting, we’ll just say ‘Not at home,’ and let her trot off again.”

“It sounds very nice, but aunt will be dreadfully offended and I don’t wish to be ungrateful,” said Mrs. Snow, brightening visibly.

“There’s no ingratitude about it,” cried Van. “She might have done everything to make you love, and respect, and admire her, and been a happy, useful, motherly, old soul; but she didn’t choose to, and now she must take the consequences. No one cares for her, because she cares for nobody; her money’s the plague of her life, and not a single heart will ache when she dies.”

“Poor Aunt Kipp!” said Polly, softly.

Mrs. Snow echoed the words, and for a moment all thought pitifully of the woman whose life had given so little happiness, whose age had won so little reverence, and whose death would cause so little regret. Even Toady had a kind thought for her, as he broke the silence, saying soberly,—

“You’d better put tails on my jackets, mother; then the next time we get run away with, Aunt Kipp will have something to hold on by.”

It was impossible to help laughing at the recollection of the old lady clutching at the boy till he had hardly a button left, and at the paternal air with which he now proposed a much-desired change of costume, as if intent on Aunt Kipp’s future accommodation.

Under cover of the laugh, the old lady stole back to bed, wide awake, and with subjects enough to meditate upon now. The shaking up had certainly done her good, for somehow the few virtues she possessed came to the surface, and the mental shower-bath just received had produced a salutary change. Polly wouldn’t have doubted her aunt’s possession of a heart, if she could have known the pain and loneliness that made it ache, as the old woman crept away; and Toady wouldn’t have laughed if he had seen the tears on the face, between the big frills, as Aunt Kipp laid it on the pillow, muttering, drearily,—

“I might have been a happy, useful woman, but I didn’t choose to, and now it’s too late.”

It _was_ too late to be all she might have been, for the work of seventy selfish years couldn’t be undone in a minute. But with regret, rose the sincere wish to earn a little love before the end came, and the old perversity gave a relish to the reformation, for even while she resolved to do the just and generous thing, she said to herself,—

“They say I’ve got no heart; I’ll show ’em that I have: they don’t want my money; I’ll _make_ ’em take it: they turn their backs on me; I’ll just render myself so useful and agreeable that they can’t do without me.”

* * * * *

III.

AUNT KIPP sat bolt upright in the parlor, hemming a small handkerchief, adorned with a red ship, surrounded by a border of green monkeys. Toady suspected that this elegant article of dress was intended for him, and yearned to possess it; so, taking advantage of his mother’s and Polly’s absence, he strolled into the room, and, seating himself on a high, hard chair, folded his hands, crossed his legs, and asked for a story with the thirsting-for-knowledge air which little boys wear in the moral story-books.

Now Aunt Kipp had one soft place in her heart, though it _was_ partially ossified, as she very truly declared, and Toady was enshrined therein. She thought there never was such a child, and loved him as she had done his father before him, though the rack wouldn’t have forced her to confess it. She scolded, snubbed, and predicted he’d come to a bad end in public; but she forgave his naughtiest pranks, always brought him something when she came, and privately intended to make his future comfortable with half of her fortune. There was a dash and daring, a generosity and integrity, about the little fellow, that charmed her. Sophy was weak and low-spirited, Polly pretty and head-strong, and Aunt Kipp didn’t think much of either of them; but Toady defied, distracted, and delighted her, and to Toady she clung, as the one sunshiny thing in her sour, selfish old age.

When he made his demure request, she looked at him, and her eyes began to twinkle, for the child’s purpose was plainly seen in the loving glances cast upon the pictorial pocket-handkerchief.

“A story? Yes, I’ll tell you one about a little boy who had a kind old—ahem!—grandma. She was rich, and hadn’t made up her mind who she’d leave her money to. She was fond of the boy,—a deal fonder than he deserved,—for he was as mischievous a monkey as any that ever lived in a tree, with a curly tail. He put pepper in her snuff-box,”—here Toady turned scarlet,—“he cut up her best frisette to make a mane for his rocking-horse,”—Toady opened his mouth impulsively, but shut it again without betraying himself—“he repeated rude things to her, and called her ‘an old aggrawater,’”—here Toady wriggled in his chair, and gave a little gasp.

“If you are tired I won’t go on,” observed Aunt Kipp, mildly.

“I’m not tired, ’m; it’s a very interesting story,” replied Toady, with a gravity that nearly upset the old lady.

“Well, in spite of all this, that kind, good, forgiving grandma left that bad boy twenty thousand dollars when she died. What do you think of that?” asked Aunt Kipp, pausing suddenly with her sharp eye on him.

“I—I think she was a regular dear,” cried Toady, holding on to the chair with both hands, as if that climax rather took him off his legs.

“And what did the boy do about it?” continued Aunt Kipp, curiously.

“He bought a velocipede, and gave his sister half, and paid his mother’s rent, and put a splendid marble cherakin over the old lady, and had a jolly good time, and—”

“What in the world is a cherakin?” laughed Aunt Kipp, as Toady paused for breath.

“Why, don’t you know? It’s a angel crying, or pointing up, or flapping his wings. They have them over graves; and I’ll give you the biggest one I can find when you die. But I’m not in a _very_ great hurry to have you.”

“Thankee, dear; I’m in no hurry, myself. But, Toady, the boy did wrong in giving his sister half; she didn’t deserve _any_; and the grandma left word she wasn’t to have a penny of it.”

“Really?” cried the boy, with a troubled face.

“Yes, really. If he gave her any he lost it all; the old lady said so. Now what do you think?” asked Aunt Kipp, who found it impossible to pardon Polly,—perhaps because she was young, and pretty, and much beloved.

Toady’s eyes kindled, and his red cheeks grew redder still, as he cried out defiantly,—

“I think she was a selfish pig,—don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, sir; and I’m sure that little boy wasn’t such a fool as to lose the money. He minded his grandma’s wishes, and kept it all.”

“No, he didn’t,” roared Toady, tumbling off his chair in great excitement. “He just threw it out a winder, and smashed the old cherakin all to bits.”

Aunt Kipp dropped her work with a shrill squeak, for she thought the boy was dangerous, as he stood before her, sparring away at nothing as the only vent for his indignation.

“It isn’t an interesting story,” he cried; “and I won’t hear any more; and I won’t have your money if I mayn’t go halves with Polly; and I’ll work to earn more than that, and we’ll all be jolly together, and you may give your twenty thousand to the old rag-bags, and so I tell you, Aunt Kipp.”

“Why, Toady, my boy, what’s the matter?” cried a mild voice at the door, as young Lamb came trotting up to the rescue.

“Never you mind, Baa-baa; I shan’t do it; and it’s a mean shame Polly can’t have half; then she could marry you and be so happy,” blubbered Toady, running to try to hide his tears of disappointment in the coat-skirts of his friend.

“Mr. Lamb, I suppose you _are_ that misguided young man?” said Aunt Kipp, as if it was a personal insult to herself.

“Van Bahr Lamb, ma’am, if you please. Yes, thank you,” murmured Baa-baa, bowing, blushing, and rumpling his curly fleece in bashful trepidation.

“Don’t thank me,” cried the old lady. “I’m not going to give you anything,—far from it. I object to you altogether. What business have you to come courting my niece?”

“Because I love her, ma’am,” returned Van, with unexpected spirit.

“No, you don’t; you want her money, or rather my money. She depends on it; but you’ll both be disappointed, for she won’t have a penny of it,” cried Aunt Kipp, who, in spite of her good resolutions, found it impossible to be amiable all at once.

“I’m glad of it!” burst out Van, indignant at her accusation. “I didn’t want Polly for the money; I always doubted if she got it; and I never wished her to make herself a slave to anybody. I’ve got enough for all, if we’re careful; and when my share of the Van Bahr property comes, we shall live in clover.”

“What’s that? What property are you talking of?” demanded Aunt Kipp, pricking up her ears.

“The great Van Bahr estate, ma’am. There has been a long lawsuit about it, but it’s nearly settled, and there isn’t much doubt that we shall get it. I am the last of our branch, and my share will be a large one.”

“Oh, indeed! I wish you joy,” said Aunt Kipp, with sudden affability; for she adored wealth, like a few other persons in the world. “But suppose you don’t get it, how then?”

“Then I shall try to be contented with my salary of two thousand, and make Polly as happy as I can. Money doesn’t _always_ make people happy or agreeable, I find.” And Van looked at Aunt Kipp in a way that would have made her hair stand erect if she had possessed any. She stared at him a moment, then, obeying one of the odd whims that made an irascible weathercock of her, she said, abruptly,—

“If you had capital should you go into business for yourself, Mr. Lambkin?”

“Yes, ma’am, at once,” replied Van, promptly.

“Suppose you lost the Van Bahr money, and some one offered you a tidy little sum to start with, would you take it?”

“It would depend upon who made the offer, ma’am,” said Van, looking more like a sheep than ever, as he stood staring in blank surprise.

“Suppose it was me, wouldn’t you take it?” asked Aunt Kipp, blandly, for the new fancy pleased her.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Van, decidedly.

“And why not, pray?” cried the old lady, with a shrillness that made him jump, and Toady back to the door precipitately.

“Because, if you’ll excuse my speaking plainly, I think you owe anything you may have to spare to your niece, Mrs. Snow;” and, having freed his mind, Van joined Toady, ready to fly if necessary.

“You’re an idiot, sir,” began Aunt Kipp, in a rage again.

“Thank you, ma’am.” And Van actually laughed and bowed in return for the compliment.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” snapped the old lady. “You’re a fool and Sophy is another. She’s no strength of mind, no sense about anything; and would make ducks and drakes of my money in less than no time if I gave it to her, as I’ve thought of doing.”

“Mrs. Kipp, you forget who you are speaking to. Mrs. Snow’s sons love and respect her if you don’t, and they won’t hear anything untrue or unkind said of a good woman, a devoted mother, and an almost friendless widow.”

Van wasn’t a dignified man at all, but as he said that with a sudden flash of his mild eyes, there was something in his face and manner that daunted Aunt Kipp more than the small fist belligerently shaken at her from behind the sofa. The poor old soul was cross, and worried, and ashamed of herself, and being as feeble-minded as Sophy in many respects, she suddenly burst into tears, and, covering her face with the gay handkerchief, cried as if bent on floating the red ship in a sea of salt water without delay.

“I’m a poor, lonely, abused old woman,” she moaned, with a green monkey at each eye. “No one loves me, or minds me, or thanks me when I want to help ’em. My money’s only a worryment and a burden, and I don’t know what to do with it, for people I don’t want to leave it to ought to have it, and people I do like won’t take it. Oh, deary me, what _shall_ I do! what shall I do!”

“Shall I tell you, ma’am?” asked Van, gently, for, though she was a very provoking old lady, he pitied and wished to help her.

A nod and a gurgle seemed to give consent, and, boldly advancing, Van said, with blush and a stammer, but a very hearty voice,—

“I think, ma’am, if you’d do the right thing with your money you’d be at ease and find it saved a deal of worry all round. Give it to Mrs. Snow; she deserves it, poor lady, for she’s had a hard time, and done her duty faithfully. Don’t wait till you are—that is, till you—well, till you in point of fact die, ma’am. Give it now, and enjoy the happiness it will make. Give it kindly, let them see you’re glad to do it, and I am sure you’ll find them grateful; I’m sure you won’t be lonely any more, or feel that you are not loved and thanked. Try it, ma’am, just try it,” cried Van, getting excited by the picture he drew. “And I give you my word I’ll do my best to respect and love you like a son, ma’am.”

He knew that he was promising a great deal, but for Polly’s sake he felt that he could make even that Herculean effort. Aunt Kipp was surprised and touched; but the contrary old lady couldn’t make up her mind to yield so soon, and wouldn’t have done it if Toady hadn’t taken her by storm. Having a truly masculine horror of tears, a very tender heart under his tail-less jacket, and being much “tumbled up and down in his own mind” by the events of the week, the poor little lad felt nerved to attempt any novel enterprise, even that of voluntarily embracing Aunt Kipp. First a grimy little hand came on her shoulder, as she sat sniffing behind the handkerchief; then, peeping out, she saw an apple-cheeked face very near her own, with eyes full of pity, penitence, and affection; and then she heard a choky little voice say earnestly,—

“Don’t cry, aunty; I’m sorry I was rude. Please be good to Mother and Polly, and I’ll love and take care of you, and stand by you all my life. Yes, I’ll—I’ll _kiss_ you, I will, by George!” And with one promiscuous plunge the Spartan boy cast himself into her arms.

That finished Aunt Kipp; she hugged him close, and cried out with a salute that went off like a pistol-shot,—

“Oh, my dear, my dear! this is better than a dozen cherakins!”

When Toady emerged, somewhat flushed and tumbled, Mrs. Snow, Polly, and Van were looking on with faces full of wonder, doubt, and satisfaction. To be an object of interest was agreeable to Aunt Kipp; and, as her old heart was really softened, she met them with a gracious smile, and extended the olive-branch generally.

“Sophy, I shall give my money to _you_ at once and entirely, only asking that you’ll let me stay with you when Polly’s gone. I’ll do my best to be agreeable, and you’ll bear with me because I’m a cranky, solitary old woman, and I loved your husband.”

Mrs. Snow hugged her on the spot, and gushed, of course, murmuring thanks, welcomes, and promises in one grateful burst.

“Polly, I forgive you; I consent to your marriage, and will provide your wedding finery. Mr. Lamb, you are not a fool, but a very excellent young man. I thank you for saving my life, and I wish you well with all my heart. You needn’t say anything. I’m far from strong, and all this agitation is shortening my life.”

Polly and Van shook her hand heartily, and beamed upon each other like a pair of infatuated turtle-doves with good prospects.

“Toady, you are as near an angel as a boy can be. Put a name to whatever you most wish for in the world, and it’s yours,” said Aunt Kipp, dramatically waving the rest away.

With his short legs wide apart, his hands behind him, and his rosy face as round and radiant as a rising sun, Toady stood before the fire surveying the scene with the air of a man who has successfully carried through a difficult and dangerous undertaking, and wasn’t proud. His face brightened, then fell, as he heaved a sigh, and answered, with a shake of his curly head,—

“You can’t give me what I want most. There are three things, and I’ve got to wait for them all.”

“Gracious me, what are they?” cried the old lady, good-naturedly, for she felt better already.

“A mustache, a beaver, _and_ a sweetheart,” answered Toady, with his eyes fixed wistfully on Baa-baa, who possessed all these blessings, and was particularly enjoying the latter at that moment.

How Aunt Kipp did laugh at this early budding of romance in her pet! And all the rest joined her, for Toady’s sentimental air was irresistible.

“You precocious chick! I dare say you will have them all before we know where we are. Never mind, deary; you shall have my little watch, and the silver-headed cane with a _boar’s_ head on it,” answered the old lady, in high good-humor. “You needn’t blush, dear; I don’t bear malice; so let’s forget and forgive. I shall settle things to-morrow, and have a free mind. You are welcome to my money, and I hope I shall live to see you all enjoy it.”

So she did; for she lived to see Sophy plump, cheery, and care-free; Polly surrounded by a flock of Lambkins; Van in possession of a generous slice of the Van Bahr fortune; Toady revelling in the objects of his desire; and, best of all, she lived to find that it is never too late to make oneself useful, happy, and beloved.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PSYCHE’S ART.

“Handsome is that handsome does.”

* * * * *

I.

ONCE upon a time there raged in a certain city one of those fashionable epidemics which occasionally attack our youthful population. It wasn’t the music mania, nor gymnastic convulsions, nor that wide-spread malady, croquet. Neither was it one of the new dances which, like a tarantula-bite, set every one a twirling, nor stage madness, nor yet that American lecturing influenza which yearly sweeps over the land. No, it was a new disease called the Art fever, and it attacked the young women of the community with great violence.

Nothing but time could cure it, and it ran its course to the dismay, amusement, or edification of the beholders, for its victims did all manner of queer things in their delirium. They besieged potteries for clay, drove Italian plaster-workers out of their wits with unexecutable orders, got neuralgia and rheumatism sketching perched on fences and trees like artistic hens, and caused a rise in the price of bread, paper, and charcoal, by their ardor in crayoning. They covered canvas with the expedition of scene-painters, had classes, lectures, receptions, and exhibitions, made models of each other, and rendered their walls hideous with bad likenesses of all their friends. Their conversation ceased to be intelligible to the uninitiated, and they prattled prettily of “chiaro oscuro, French sauce, refraction of the angle of the eye, seventh spinus process, depth and juiciness of color, tender touch, and a good tone.” Even in dress the artistic disorder was visible; some cast aside crinoline altogether, and stalked about with a severe simplicity of outline worthy of Flaxman. Others flushed themselves with scarlet, that no landscape which they adorned should be without some touch of Turner’s favorite tint. Some were _blue_ in every sense of the word, and the heads of all were adorned with classic braids, curls tied Hebe-wise, or hair dressed à la hurricane.

It was found impossible to keep them safe at home, and, as the fever grew, these harmless maniacs invaded the sacred retreats where artists of the other sex did congregate, startling those anchorites with visions of large-eyed damsels bearing portfolios in hands delicately begrimed with crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding through the corridors hitherto haunted only by shabby paletots, shadowy hats, and cigar smoke. This irruption was borne with manly fortitude, not to say cheerfulness, for studio doors stood hospitably open as the fair invaders passed, and studies from life were generously offered them in glimpses of picturesque gentlemen posed before easels, brooding over master-pieces in “a divine despair,” or attitudinizing upon couches as if exhausted by the soarings of genius.

An atmosphere of romance began to pervade the old buildings when the girls came, and nature and art took turns. There were peepings and whisperings, much stifled laughter and whisking in and out; not to mention the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams, which somewhat lightened the severe studies of all parties.

Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily in one of the cells of a great art bee-hive called “Raphael’s Rooms,” and devoted their shining hours to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; for the poor things found the road to fame rather dull and dusty without such verbal sprinklings.

“Psyche Dean, you’ve had an adventure! I see it in your face; so tell it at once, for we are as stupid as owls here to-day,” cried one of the sisterhood, as a bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation.

“I dropped my portfolio, and a man picked it up, that’s all,” replied Psyche, hurrying on her gray linen pinafore.

“That won’t do; I know something interesting happened, for you’ve been blushing, and you look brisker than usual this morning,” said the first speaker, polishing off the massive nose of her Homer.

“It wasn’t anything,” began Pysche a little reluctantly. “I was coming up in a hurry when I ran against a man coming down in a hurry. My portfolio slipped, and my papers went flying all about the landing. Of course we both laughed and begged pardon, and I began to pick them up, but he wouldn’t let me; so I held the book while he collected the sketches. I saw him glance at them as he did so, and that made me blush, for they are wretched things, you know.”

“Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a regular genius, as we all agree,” cut in the Homeric Miss Cutter.

“Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish to spoil them,” returned Psyche severely. “Well, when the portfolio was put to rights I was going on, but he fell to picking up a little bunch of violets I had dropped; you know I always wear a posy into town to give me inspiration. I didn’t care for the dusty flowers, and told him so, and hurried away before any one came. At the top of the stairs I peeped over the railing, and there he was, gathering up every one of those half-dead violets as carefully as if they had been tea-roses.”

“Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!” exclaimed a third damsel, with straw-colored tresses, and a good deal of weedy shrubbery in her hat, which gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimental countenance.

Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry she had told her little story.

“Was he handsome?” asked Miss Larkins, the believer in fate.

“I didn’t particularly observe.”

“It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian: he’s always on the stairs.”

“No, it wasn’t; his hair was brown and curly,” cried Psyche, innocently falling into the trap.

“Like Peerybingle’s baby when its cap was taken off,” quoted Miss Dickenson, who pined to drop the last two letters of her name.

“Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?” asked the fair Cutter, for the girls had a name for all the attitudinizers and promenaders whom they oftenest met.

“No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were too,” answered Psyche, adding, as if to herself, “he looked as I imagine Michael Angelo might have looked when young.”

“Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?” asked an irreverent damsel.

“If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took his hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn’t handsome, but he’ll _do_ something,” said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong, ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned before.

“Well, dear, considering that you didn’t ‘particularly look’ at the man, you’ve given us a very good idea of his appearance. We’ll call him Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old Rembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael,” said the lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer’s bald pate energetically, as she spoke.

“Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now,” returned Miss Larkins. “He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who had his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came up, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua laughed, but Rubens said, ‘Deuce take it!’ and caught up the umbrella, giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly thrilling.”

“Which,—the umbrella, the speech, or the look?” asked Psyche, who was not sentimental.

“Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art,” sighed the amber-tressed Larkins. “I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint, a curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (_as a study_); that lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are perfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be the genuine thing.”

“This isn’t the genuine thing by any means. What _does_ it need?” said Psyche, looking with a despondent air, at the head on her stand.

Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictly Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully, the mouth was sweetly haughty, the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair well done. But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could have taken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a hearty shake, if that would have put strength and spirit into the lifeless face.

“Now _I_ am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insist that it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, and assures me it will make a sensation when we exhibit,” remarked Miss Larkins, complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of her Smythified Phebus.

“What shall you do if it does not?” asked Miss Cutter, with elegance.

“I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools, veil my bust, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Art rejects me;” replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic gesture and an expression which strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant Theodore.

“She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art’s rejected admirers. Shall I be one of them?”

Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to work, but somehow ambitious aspirations were not in a flourishing condition that morning; her heart was not in tune, and head and hands sympathized. Nothing went well, for certain neglected home-duties had dogged her into town, and now worried her more than dust, or heat, or the ceaseless clatter of tongues. Tom, Dick, and Harry’s unmended hose persisted in dancing a spectral jig before her mental eye, mother’s querulous complaints spoilt the song she hummed to cheer herself, and little May’s wistful face put the goddess of beauty entirely out of countenance.

“It’s no use; I can’t work till the clay is wet again. Where is Giovanni?” she asked, throwing down her tools with a petulant gesture and a dejected air.

“He is probably playing truant in the empty upper rooms, as usual. I can’t wait for him any longer, so I’m doing his work myself,” answered Miss Dickenson, who was tenderly winding a wet bandage round her Juno’s face, one side of which was so much plumper than the other that it looked as if the Queen of Olympus was being hydropathically treated for a severe fit of ague.

“I’ll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me good; so will a breath of air and a view of the park from the upper windows.”

Doffing her apron, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented staircase to the empty apartments, which seemed to be too high even for the lovers of High Art. On the western side they were shady and cool, and, leaning from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery tree-tops ruffled by the balmy wind, that brought spring odors from the hills, lying green and sunny far away. Silence and solitude were such pleasant companions that the girl forgot herself, till a shrill whistle disturbed her day-dreams, and reminded her what she came for. Following the sound she found the little Italian errand-boy busily uncovering a clay model which stood in the middle of a scantily furnished room near by.

“He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful,” cried Giovanni, beckoning with an air of importance.

Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand and herself. It was the figure of a man, standing erect, and looking straight before him with a wonderfully life-like expression. It was neither a mythological nor a historical character, Psyche thought, and was glad of it, being tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon ceased to wonder what it was, feeling only the indescribable charm of something higher than beauty. Small as her knowledge was, she could see and enjoy the power visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy of the vigorous limbs, the grace of the pose, the strength and spirit in the countenance, clay though it was. A majestic figure, but the spell lay in the face, which, while it suggested the divine, was full of human truth and tenderness, for pain and passion seemed to have passed over it, and a humility half pathetic, a courage half heroic seemed to have been born from some great loss or woe.

How long she stood there Psyche did not know. Giovanni went away unseen, to fill his water-pail, and in the silence she just stood and looked. Her eyes kindled, her color rose, despondency and discontent vanished, and her soul was in her face, for she loved beauty passionately, and all that was best and truest in her did honor to the genius of the unknown worker.

“If I could do a thing like that, I’d die happy!” she exclaimed impetuously, as a feeling of despair came over her at the thought of her own poor attempts.

“Who did it, Giovanni?” she asked, still looking up at the grand face with unsatisfied eyes.

“Paul Gage.”

It was not the boy’s voice, and, with a start, Psyche turned to see her Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway, attentively observing her. Being too full of artless admiration to think of herself just yet, she neither blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him, saying heartily,—

“You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I envy you more than I can tell!”

The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner, seemed to please him, for there was no affectation about either. He gave her a keen, kind glance out of the “fine gray eyes,” a little bow, and a grateful smile, saying quietly,—

“Then my Adam is not a failure in spite of his fall?”

Psyche turned from the sculptor to his model with increased admiration in her face, and earnestness in her voice, as she exclaimed delighted,—

“Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you have indeed succeeded, for you have given that figure the power and pathos of the first man who sinned and suffered, and began again.”

“Then I am satisfied.” That was all he said, but the look he gave his work was a very eloquent one, for it betrayed that he had paid the price of success in patience and privation, labor and hope.

“What can one do to learn your secret?” asked the girl wistfully, for there was nothing in the man’s manner to disturb her self-forgetful mood, but much to foster it, because to the solitary worker this confiding guest was as welcome as the doves who often hopped in at his window.

“Work and wait, and meantime feed heart, soul, and imagination with the best food one can get,” he answered slowly, finding it impossible to give a receipt for genius.

“I can work and wait a long time to gain my end; but I don’t know where to find the food you speak of?” she answered, looking at him like a hungry child.

“I wish I could tell you, but each needs different fare, and each must look for it in different places.”

The kindly tone and the sympathizing look, as well as the lines in his forehead, and a few gray hairs among the brown, gave Psyche courage to say more.

“I love beauty so much that I not only want to possess it myself, but to gain the power of seeing it in all things, and the art of reproducing it with truth. I have tried very hard to do it, but something is wanting; and in spite of my intense desire I never get on.”

As she spoke the girl’s eyes filled and fell in spite of herself, and turning a little with sudden shamefacedness she saw, lying on the table beside her among other scraps in manuscript and print, the well-known lines,—

“I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.”

She knew them at a glance, had read them many times, but now they came home to her with sudden force, and, seeing that his eye had followed hers, she said in her impulsive fashion,—

“Is doing one’s duty a good way to feed heart, soul, and imagination?”

As if he had caught a glimpse of what was going on in her mind, Paul answered emphatically,—

“Excellent; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can work well. Moulding character is the highest sort of sculpture, and all of us should learn that art before we touch clay or marble.”

He spoke with the energy of a man who believed what he said, and did his best to be worthy of the rich gift bestowed upon him. The sight of her violets in a glass of water, and Giovanni staring at her with round eyes, suddenly recalled Psyche to a sense of the proprieties which she had been innocently outraging for the last ten minutes. A sort of panic seized her; she blushed deeply, retreated precipitately to the door, and vanished, murmuring thanks and apologies as she went.

“Did you find him? I thought you had forgotten,” said Miss Dickenson, now hard at work.

“Yes, I found him. No, I shall not forget,” returned Psyche, thinking of Gage, not Giovanni.

She stood before her work eying it intently for several minutes; then, with an expression of great contempt for the whole thing, she suddenly tilted her cherished Venus on to the floor, gave the classical face a finishing crunch, and put on her hat in a decisive manner, saying briefly to the dismayed damsels,—

“Good-by, girls; I shan’t come any more, for I’m going to work at home hereafter.”

* * * * *

II.

THE prospect of pursuing artistic studies at home was not brilliant, as one may imagine when I mention that Psyche’s father was a painfully prosaic man, wrapt in flannel, so to speak; for his woollen mills left him no time for anything but sleep, food, and newspapers. Mrs. Dean was one of those exasperating women who pervade their mansions like a domestic steam-engine one week and take to their sofas the next, absorbed by fidgets and foot-stoves, shawls and lamentations. There were three riotous and robust young brothers, whom it is unnecessary to describe except by stating that they were _boys_ in the broadest sense of that delightful word. There was a feeble little sister, whose patient, suffering face demanded constant love and care to mitigate the weariness of a life of pain. And last, but not least by any means, there were two Irish ladies, who, with the best intentions imaginable, produced a universal state of topsy-turviness when left to themselves for a moment.

But being very much in earnest about doing her duty, not because it _was_ her duty, but as a means toward an end, Psyche fell to work with a will, hoping to serve both masters at once. So she might have done, perhaps, if flesh and blood had been as plastic as clay, but the live models were so exacting in their demands upon her time and strength, that the poor statues went to the wall. Sculpture and sewing, calls and crayons, Ruskin and receipt-books, didn’t work well together, and poor Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic. Take a day as a sample.

“The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness, mother quiet, the boys out of the way, and May comfortable, so I’ll indulge myself in a blissful day after my own heart,” Psyche said, as she shut herself into her little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours of hard study and happy day-dreams.

With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm going through all manner of queer evolutions, she was placidly repeating, “Deltoides, Biceps, Triceps, Pronator, Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpi ulnaris—”

“Here’s Flexis what-you-call-ums for you,” interrupted a voice, which began in a shrill falsetto and ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed, dusty, long-legged boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obligingly extended for inspection.

“Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself now? Split your fingers with a cricket-ball again?” cried Psyche, as her arms went up and her book went down.

“I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said father was going to fail.”

“O Harry, is he?”

“Of course he isn’t! It’s hard times for every one, but father will pull through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can’t understand business; so you just tie me up, and don’t worry,” was the characteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years her junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension.

“What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven’t studied the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up,” said Psyche, examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude.

“Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can’t right up a little cut like that,” squeaked the ungrateful hero.

“I’m not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to make perfect hands and arms, not mend damaged ones,” retorted Psyche, in a dignified tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster on her tongue.

“I should say a surgeon could improve _that_ perfect thing, if he didn’t die a-laughing before he began,” growled Harry, pointing with a scornful grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefully developed in the wrong places.

“Don’t sneer Hal, for you don’t know anything about it. Wait a few years and see if you’re not proud of me.”

“Sculp away and do something, then I’ll hurrah for your mud-pies like a good one;” with which cheering promise the youth departed, having effectually disturbed his sister’s peaceful mood.

Anxious thoughts of her father rendered “biceps, deltoids, and things” uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The Old Painters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just reached the tender scene where,—

“Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being of heaven rather than earth. ‘My friend,’ she cried, ‘I read in thy picture thy immortality!’ As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom, and it was several moments before Claude perceived that he supported a lifeless form.”

“How sweet!” said Psyche, with a romantic sigh.

“Faith, and swate it is, thin!” echoed Katy, whose red head had just appeared round the half opened door. “It’s gingy-bread I’m making the day, miss, and will I be puttin’ purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye plase?”

“Purlash, by all means,” returned the girl, keeping her countenance, fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of the red-haired one rose more quickly than her bread. As she departed with alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch of whiting to her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and her smile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on the deformed arm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring at the door-bell, followed by Biddy to announce callers, and add that as “the mistress was in her bed, miss must go and take care of ’em.” Whereat “miss” cast down her tools in despair, threw her cap one way, her bib another, and went in to her guests with anything but a rapturous welcome.

Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs with trays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio, ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went well till, going in search of something, she found her little sister sitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio door.

“I didn’t mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boys all gone, so I just came to be near you; it’s so lonely everywhere,” she said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that always ached.

“The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are such a mouse you won’t disturb me. Wouldn’t you like to play be a model and let me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones and muscles?” asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her just then.

May didn’t look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her with delight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool with one arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew busily, feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully combined.

“Can’t you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can’t get it right,” she said, rather impatiently.

“No, it will tremble ’cause it’s weak. I try hard, Sy, but there doesn’t seem to be much strongness in me lately.”

“That’s better; keep it so a few minutes and I’ll be done,” cried the artist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages.

“My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,—can’t you?”

“Yes, dear.”

Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again there was a blur before her eyes for a minute.