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realized that his labor was strictly
commercial. A picture piece, exqui
site and perfect as an art plaque, he
knew that when his work was done,
reproduced from the printing press, it
would show lettering advertising the
wares of a famous baking company.
He lay down his tools of "usage at
last. Daylight wa"s fading7 and he had
worked rapidly, but his toil had its
recompense. Side by side, the real
contrasted with, the artificial and the
fine delicate shades of the former
would have appealed the more
strongly to the true artistic taste.
There was a tap at the door. Evi
dently the lone artist was expecting
his caller, for he spoke out eagerly:
"Come in, Morse."
A brisk, bustling business-faced
man entered. He wasted no time in
civilities, but walked to the easel
without excuse or hesitation, drew a
magnifying glass from his pocket and
critically inspected the color sketch.
"Excellent your very best," he an
. nounced complacently. "You improve
"And grow hungrier," observed
Willis with a faintly bitter smile. "Can
I have the samples?" he added, with
a meaning sweep of his hand towards
"Why, surely," assented his visitor,
with a stare of surprise. "What do
you want them for?"
"To eat, of course." n
"You mean " began Horse, and
paused, an indefinably shocked ex
pression crossing his face.
Willis made no reply. He seized the
loaf of bread with the fierceness of a
famished animal, tore a handful from
its soft, mellow heart and crowded it
into his mouth. Once he choked as if
with direful humiliation. Once the
tears fell' over the loaf. His visitor
watched him with sober, pitying eyes.
"That's better," observed the artist,
striving to appear satisfied. "Any
The other came close up to him. He
placed a trembling hand on the shoul
der of the artist. .
."As bad as that," he said i na sub
dued tone. "I never guessed it -there."
He placed his hand in his pocket
and drew out some money, counted it,
doubled the amount. Willis recounted
it and pushing back the excess sym
pathy had impelled, saying:
"My rightful hire, Morse. You're at
good fellow just the same."
"There is something else," Morse
said, "The Calendar Girl."
Above a cot in a kind of alcove";
hung a colored crayon sketch. Willis
glanced at it with swimming eyes.
"Np' he said resolutely.
"Why not?" urged Morse. "You
know it was made for that rich man
ufacturer, Payne, who is so proud of
his daughter. He has been at .the
office after the original crayon."
"It is mine, money will not buy it,"
said Willis sententiously and bowed
his visitor from the room. f
Buy it as soon would he sell his
soul. In his poetic way the'work on
that picture, taken from an oil paint-
ing, had .been the inspiration of his
Willi& had the first full meal of
weeks that day, for he had money
now. The rescue was too late, how
ever He awoke the next morning in
a burning fever.
There was only the wonian in
charge of the apartments to nurse
him. That afternoon a stylish auto
mobile drove up. A young lady alight
ed. She was the original of the Cal
endar Girl. When she knocked at the
door of the artist's room the old wo
man met her.
"He has been going on all day that
way," she said.
Miss Elinor Payne had come, hop
ing to prevail upon Willis to sell her
the picture. But now she stood in a
strange maze listening to the cease
less babble of his parched, lips.
His glossy eyes were fixed upon the
picture. The lone burden of his mind
had given way. in poetry, in wild, pas"-
sionate appeal ne was telling, that
mute companion of iis lonely fife the