Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

"There!" he finally exclaimed, "you can rest now! This may be my chef-

d'oeuvre, after all, Amarilly. Won't you be proud to be well hung in the

Academy and have a group constantly before your picture. Why, what's the

matter, child," springing to her side, "tears? I forgot it was your

first experience in posing. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"

"I wan't tired," she half sobbed.

"Well, what is it? Tell me."

"I'm afeerd you'll laugh at me."

"Not on your life! And your word for to-day, Amarilly, is afraid.

Remember. Never _afeerd_."

"I'll remember," promised Amarilly meekly, as she wiped her dewy eyes.

"Now tell me directly, what is the matter."

"It'll be such a humbly picture with my hair that way. I'd ought to look

my best. I'd rather you'd paint me waiting on your table."

"But a waitress is such a trite subject. It would be what your friend, I

mean, our friend, Miss King, calls bromidic. An artist, a real artist,

with a soul, Amarilly, doesn't look for pretty subjects. It's the truth

that he seeks. To paint things as they are is what he aims to do. A

little scrub-girl appeals to the artistic temperament more than a little

waitress, don't you think? But only you, Amarilly, could look the part

of the Little Scrub-Girl as you did. And it would be incongruous--

remember the word, please, Amarilly, in-con-gru-ous--to paint her with

stylishly dressed hair. You posed so easily, so perfectly, and your

expression was so precisely the one I wanted, and your patience in

keeping the pose was so wonderful, that I thought you had really caught

the spirit of the thing, and were anxious to help me achieve my really

great picture."

"I have--I will pose for you as long as you wish," she cried penitently,

"and I will braid my hair on wire, and then it will stand out better."

"Good! You are a dear, amenable little girl. To-morrow afternoon we will

resume. Here, let me loosen your braids. Goodness, what thick strands!"

She stood by the open window, and the trembling, marginal lights of a

setting sun sent gleams and glints of gold through her loosened hair

which fell like a flaming veil about her.

"Amarilly," exclaimed Derry rapturously, "I never saw anything quite so

beautiful. Some day I'll paint you, not as a scrub-girl nor as a

waitress, but as Sunset. You shall stand at this window with your hair

as it is now, and you'll outshine the glory of descending Sol himself. I

will get a filmy, white dress for you to pose in and present it to you

afterward. And as you half turn your head toward the window, you must

have a dreamy, reflective expression! You must think of something sad,

something that might have been a tragedy but for some mitigating--but

there, you don't know what I am talking about!"