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his hand. He would have turned
back to post it, but his fears had
awakened again and he hastened
up the stairs to his studio, un
locked the door, and ran in. The
studio was empty.
He rushed into the bedroom.
The girl was not there. She was
not anywhere. She had gone as
mysteriously as she had come.
He called her, ran down the cor
ridors and shouted. A fellow art
ist came out of his room and
looked at Harned with an amused
"Have you seen a girl my
model dark, with black hair
disappeared!" Harned gasped.
The other's eyelids fluttered
upon his cheek. "No, old man,"
he replied. "Say, if I were you,
I wouldn't make such a confound
ed noise about it, anyway."
She was not in the house; she
was not in the street. Harned
ran the length of the block, peer
ing into the distance where Ital
ian peddlers were selling ice
cream to children, fruit carts dis
pensed bananas, the hundred ac
tivities of Little Italy were in full
swing. Among that swarming
populace that choked the streets
discovery was impossible. Har-
1 A A.. 4-1-...4- .. SA
lieu saw at uutc uiai pursuit was
Slowly he retraced his steps.
He re-enteVed his studio again,
and, sitting down at his table,
buried his face in his hands.
Black tragedy had descended like
a curtain upon his happiness. He
knew that he had lost her for-.cver.
All that night it snowed, and all
that 'ight Harned paced the
streets in a frenzy, looking for
her in every woman's figure that
hurried by. There were stout and
lean women, old and young, some
with dark, tousled hair, some friz
zled blondes there was none
whom he could have mistaken for
his love as far as he could have
Toward morning he was back
in his studio again. He had torn
his letter to his mother into frag
ments, and he was painting again.
Harned's picture, "The Snow
Bride," was the sensation of the
year at the Exposition of Amer
ican Painters. In a single day he
leaped into celebrity. Ben, the
shrewd little dealer who had
some 20 of his pictures stored
awav, now brought them forth
and held a Harned exhibition,
which netted him nearly $12,000.
Commissions poured in upon
Harned. He left the studio which
had become hateful to him, and
took a new studio apartment in a
fashionable district of the town.
All his heart was in his work
now. He had no hope of ever
finding the woman 4ie loved.
One day a knock came at the
door, and Harned opened it to
find a little tan-colored gentle
man at the door, dressed in a
well-fitting irock coat and carry
ing a silk hat in his hand. -.He in
troduced himself with a smile
and a bow as the Persian consul.
"Mr. Harned, I am looking for
an artist to paint my wife," he
said. "I was much struck by your