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"No; nor any other woman, nor any woman doctor. They fail to realize what they have lost. The man who is sensitive to womanly ways sees it. It is worse than nursing the sick, for even nursing makes some women hard. Were you with us when we discussed the influence of avocations upon men? Their effect upon women is yet to be written."

"I think Alice will study medicine. What men think of her will in no way disturb her. What the one man thinks, or will think, may be quite another thing. I believe I could stop her short by showing her some duty as imperative. And you laughed at me, too. But women have, over and over, given their lives, and lovingly too, to reclaim a sot. Why were it not a better task to keep straight a man of genius like St. Clair? If you fail to convince her-" "Fail! I do not mean to try. Who cares whether one pretty woman more or less studies medicine? I talked to her and to her mother because you desired it, but, really, it is of no great moment."

Mrs. Vincent was playing with a paper-knife. Now she put it down with a certain resoluteness in the small action, and returned: "Of course; that is all true, and let us drop it. What is Alice to me or to you."

There was a false ring in her phrase, and I said, "You do not mean that."

"Nor you what you said just now. I don't understand you, and we are both a trifle annoyed, and that is the reason why you must go away. And remember to be early at Mr. St. Clair's; we must make it a success."

"And the Leighs ?"

"They will come; and now go and repent of your having been cross to Fred Vincent's wife."

I looked at her reproachfully.

"Oh, but you were, and you would have liked to be still more unpleasant. Good-by."

At this I did go, and, passing a florist's shop, repented in the form of a basket of lilies to my friend, and ordered a bushel of cut roses to be sent to St. Clair's on the Tuesday after.

XX.

It was a brilliant snow-clad day near to the dusk of early twilight as I met Mrs. Vincent at the door of the studio, a little before the hour set for St. Clair's tea.

"The lilies were enough," she said; "but never, never be so bad to me again."

"Never. I promise." And we went in. St. Clair had opened his stores of Eastern stuffs, and all the dingy chairs and lounges, the camp-stools and benches, in the moldingroom were covered with brocades, priests' robes, and superb Moorish rugs and embroideries.

Two of the statues, now finished in marble, were uncovered, but not that of the Roman lady striking with the cestus. Around this St. Clair had wrapped a vast sheet of worn purple silk heavy with gold fleurs-de-lis. I knew that he was proud of this work, and I wondered a little why it was hidden, but checked myself as I was about to speak. Whether Mrs. Vincent noticed it I did not know. Few things escaped her, but she too said nothing.

"Well," exclaimed St. Clair, "do you like it all? Is n't it pretty? And these flowers? Who sent them? And what shall we do with them?"

"That is easy," cried Mrs. Vincent, and began to throw them on to the white marble bases of the statues, and upon the chairs, and around the tent of heavy crimson stuffs, within which St. Clair's athletic figure of Saul leaned in profound dejection against the tent-pole. On the inner walls of the tent, which filled all the end of the studio, were Eastern weapons and spears, swords and shields, of which he had a curious collection. When we had finished, St. Clair drew the folds of the tent together, and Clayborne and Vincent presently came in.

"And you really have come," said St. Clair. "I?" said Clayborne. "Tea unlimited, and Mrs. Vincent? Of course I came."

"Why did you not uncover the Roman lady?" I said, in an aside to the sculptor. "I do not know. I did not."

"It is not the nude that troubled you?" "Oh, no! We come to be utterly indifferent as to that even in the living, and wonder at the feelings of others about it."

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Then his guests began to drop in, men and women, society folks, for every one liked him, and no one took his social failings very seriously. There were half a dozen artists too, and by and by, to my amusement, Mrs. Leigh and her daughter. What Mrs. Vincent had said to the elder woman I never knew, but she was exceeding affable to her host. She put up her eye-glasses, and with a glance at St. Clair, who was faultlessly dressed, began to admire everything and to be largely gracious to everybody. As to St. Clair, he was at his best. His Huguenot blood had long since lost the gravity it brought out of persecution, and there were only the French grace and ease along with the individualized charm which made him always a delightful companion.

Vincent and I, of course, did our best, and a happy company wandered about and appropriated the roses, drank St. Clair's Russian tea

and Turkish coffee out of tiny cups, and chattered around the statues, or recognized medallions of familiar faces.

Mrs. Leigh soon fell to my share. "Show me the things," she said. "I had no idea of Mr. St. Clair's force as a sculptor, and yet I remember De Visne in Paris spoke of him with great respect, oh, even with enthusiasm. And what lovely stuffs! Is n't he rich ?"

I glanced at the woman. "No; he is as wasteful as a boy. He could easily make money. He does not care to."

"What a pity. He needs some strong, sensible woman."

It appeared to me that I had heard this before.

He is not made for Benedict, the married man." Then I repented. "It might depend upon the woman. He is a dear old fellow, and amiable past belief."

"I have great faith in the capacity of women to manage men." This, too, did not sound home-made, and as I soon learned, Mrs. Leigh liked to repeat phrases which pleased her. "And now," she said, "a chair, and a cup of tea, and some time pray talk again to Alice about that fad of hers. An old doctor has so much influence; not that you are so very old either, but, you see, as your cousin I can take liberties. Thanks. Where does the man get his tea? I must ask him."

Presently I got away, and found Miss Leigh talking with Clayborne. She was saying, "I have just finished your book on the Influence of the Moor on European Civilization.' We were in Spain two years ago, and now I wish I had read it earlier."

"And you liked it?" inquired Clayborne. "Liked it? I liked it very much. I envied you the power to do it, the pleasure of the search, the joy there must be in such a review of historic or heroic lives. You must have learned Arabic and Spanish."

"Yes; that was easy enough. But I ought to tell you that my friend North says my defect is that I am not a worshiper of heroes."

"No; I saw that sometimes you were cold, when I wanted you to be warm. And Dr. North-I should scarcely take him for a worshiper of heroes. You might improve under criticism," she added, smiling.

"I will remember next time," he said with rare graciousness.

At this moment a woman asked him some absurd question about the statue beside us. I took advantage of it to call Miss Leigh's attention to a piece of embroidery, and began to wander with her to and fro.

"Tell me something," she said, "about the statues. These Greeks. What a poem the group is!"

"Yes. A Western city has ordered it for a memorial of the dead it lost in the war."

She looked at the group in silence, and said presently, "Did you know my elder brother, the one who fell at Antietam ?"

"Yes; I knew him well. I may say he was of earth's best."

She made no answer. Her eyes were full; her face flushed. I said nothing, but moved quietly away to a corner as if to show her some rugs from Fez, and talked volubly until, looking up, she said, "Thank you. And now the statues. What is the one covered up?" "It is a Roman lady. St. Clair does not uncover it."

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"He is not pleased with it."

"But I might be. I shall ask him. Here he comes."

"No; do not. It is disagreeable." "But I want to see it," she continued. "You will not, must not. Pardon me." "Must not?" And she looked at me steadily a moment. Then she turned to St. Clair. I was annoyed. I did not want her to see the sensual, cruel abandonment of the woman to the brute man's pose.

"What is your covered statue ?" she said. "A woman aping a man. A woman gladiator."

"And Dr. North does not like women to imitate men. If I want to see it, will you not show it?"

"And why not?" cried St. Clair, gaily.

"I am satisfied," she said. "I do not want to see it," and then to me, aside, "Was I very wicked?"

"No; I did not think you would persist. Be satisfied with your victory."

"I am. Be generous, and never remind me of my weakness."

"It was strength, not weakness."

"I am half sorry already. Would you have thought worse of me if I had persisted?" "Yes."

"You are very frank."

"And you do not like that? If you had been my-my sister, I should have been annoyed with St. Clair and much more imperative."

"You have no sister?"

"No; I am alone in the world. Come, I shall reward you. Ask St. Clair to open the tent."

"And your lordship permits that?" "Please don't, Miss Leigh."

She regarded me with a briefly attentive glance, but said no more until we were beside the sculptor.

"I should like to see your tent," she said. "You can ask me nothing I shall not be

glad to do," he returned. So saying, he cast back the tent-folds, as the crowd of laughing girls fell away a little.

"It is "Saul in his Tent,' in his madness," I said.

"But, good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Primrose, "it's a Jew!"

cents', where were the Leighs and Miss Primrose, whom I took in to dinner, and who was, as Vincent confided to me, the final young person selected for me by Mrs. Vincent.

"Is n't she charming?" said my hostess in a quiet aside. Her dinner was prospering, and she now found time to turn to me. "I knew you would like her."

"And was he not a Jew?" said Miss Leigh. "Oh, but in art! A Jew, you know. Why, "Like!" I said. "She is adorable. The the painters don't dare to make Christ a Jew." prettiest girl I know, and so intelligent, and so "But they should," said Alice Leigh. "A well, so full of tact." I saw in Mrs. Vincent's Prince of the House of Judah. And this face eyes signs of distressed failure. is typical. And a king too. One misses 'the ruby courageous of heart.' If some one would only read us Saul."

We went on talking, not missing St. Clair. "Hush!" said Miss Primrose," what is that? Oh, how too delicious a surprise!" For now we heard the sound of strange music, and St. Clair came from behind the tent in sandals and a white burnoose. Whether it was prearranged or not I do not know, as he always declined to tell. But here was the boy David, with a small, curious harp, his face all aglow under the curling brown hair. The crowd fell back surprised, and St. Clair dropped on one knee, and began to recite, or rather to chant, "Saul," with now and then a strange accompaniment from the instrument. The effect of the eager and strong young face matched well the intensity of dramatic power that he threw into the lines of that wonderful poem. As he ended, there was silence, and then he cried out merrily to Miss Leigh: "Was n't it absurd? I was miles in the desert already," and the applause was loud and long. As he spoke, I watched Miss Leigh. She regarded him with an intense interest, her face flushing. A few minutes after it was over he came back to us in his own garb.

"How good it was that you liked it," he said to Miss Leigh.

"And did I? How do you know?"

"I felt it. I saw. If you had not, I could not have done it. You could always make me do things well.".

"Indeed. You do me honor. You have made me know that old friend better. But I see mama is signaling. I must go. We dine out, and never shall I venture on an afternoon tea again. It would spoil a perfect memory. Good-by."

I stood an instant as if studying the "Saul." What annoyed me? Every one went away laughing and joyous. I heard Mrs. Leigh praising it all to St. Clair. And then I went too.

XXI.

I SAW the Leighs now and then, and heard from St. Clair that he was making a bas-relief of Miss Alice. This he told me at the Vin

"Fred has been talking. I never have a fair chance, and you are getting old, too."

.

"Will she be like the rath primrose,' etc., think you? Oh, well, I will try again, but just now De Witt is coaching her about pigeonshooting."

"Look at St. Clair and my dear Alice. Was there ever a more charming couple? Between us, now-do not you think-really-”

"I?"I ejaculated. "Do you sincerely want to marry her to that dear fellow? And you who care for both, and know him."

"You are possessed, I think, about our poet. He wants just such a person to make him as staid as-well, as you, and I really cannot see why you are called upon to interfere."

"Dear Mrs. Vincent, did I say I would interfere? And how could I? And what is she to me? A mere acquaintance, and he my friend."

"Very true; but you can be so irritating sometimes. I fancy Mrs. Leigh is quite hurt that you have not been near them for so long. She says Alice talks less of the doctor business; but then St. Clair gives her little leisure. What between sittings, and visits, and dinners, the man has become madly delighted with society, and dance I thought they would never stop at the last assembly."

It was all true. I rarely saw St. Clair. I asked him one day if he were writing. He said no, he was living poetry. After dinner I declined Vincent's cigar, and went up to join the women. I made my peace with Mrs. Leigh very easily.

"Ah," she said, "dear Alice is quite tranquil nowadays; and by the way, Doctor, we are of kin, you know, and I may ask you, entirely in confidence,-you won't consider it a liberty, what kind of person is Mr. St. Clair? Of course he is a genius, and wears strange clothes, but not always; and occasionally does surprise one."

"He is my friend."

"Oh, of course, and that is why I ask. You see, I am alone, and have to be father and mother, and it is always well to look ahead. It may come to nothing. Are his habits good?" "Really," I said, "you must ask some one else."

“Oh, then, you mean he is n't a man you newed interest in the woman before me. It can talk about."

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"You are a stranger of late," she said. "And all that pleasant friendliness we began withalas! it is squandered, as they say in the South." "I am a busy man," I said, "and Mrs. Vincent tells me you are as busy a woman." And then, feeling cross and vicious, I added: "And what has become of those grave views of life? Is it still so unsatisfying?"

She regarded me with a trace of surprised curiosity, and then said: "No; I am as I was, and some day you will let me tell you my side. I listened pretty patiently to yours. I suppose that you men who live amidst life's most serious troubles get a little-well, stolid as to so small a thing as how a woman of your society, a mere girl, is disturbed about her days, and what to make of life, or whether just to let it alone and drift."

"And is not happiness everything, and are not you happy now?"

"Happy? That is my temperament; and what has that to do with it?

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"Indeed," I said, "I do not know." "Then why talk so?" she added almost sharply. "I do not understand you. seemed so fair, and now”

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said,

"How comes on the rilievo?" I abruptly turning the talk. "Oh, well enough." "And my friend, St. Clair; is he not charming?"

"I do not know. The phrase is rather strong. He is interesting. I like him. You should have seen his face when I told him I meant to be a doctor. He looked at me a moment, and then said, Good heavens! and would I cut my hair short, and might he send for me if he were ill, and would I be expensive as a medical attendant? He was certainly very amusing, but it takes two to make a joke as well as a quarrel, and I do not like to be laughed at by a man who-" and she paused.

"Well," I said, "who-"

"In some ways I am more of a man than he He is undecided, easily led, and expects svery one to indulge him.""

"I assure you that a more delightful friend no one could have."

"Inend? Yes, certainly."

I looked at her. A little flush like a faint, Tusy sunset cloud was slowly moving over her check A signal of something. Was it doubt, of annoyance, or what? I began to feel a re

faded when I ceased to see her. It grew up again when we met and talked. As the idea crossed my mind that Mrs. Vincent's schemes might this time be successful I had a sense of discomfort which I did not stay to analyze, but said at once:

"Are there not men who are incomplete without women? I most honestly think that some noble-minded woman could be the complement of this man's nature. She should be one fixed as to character, resolute, tender, and absolutely conscientious. If she were beautiful. and-well, if she loved him, he would be at his best always. It would be not the poor task of saving a worthless man, but the nobler one of helping one well worth the helping." "Ah," she laughed:

"If he be not in word and deed
A king of nature's highest creed,
To be the chancellor of his soul
Were any but a happy rôle.

Some women love and learn. Some learn and, learning, love. It seems to me hard to understand how a woman could with knowledge aforethought undertake such a task. Would you?"

"Oh, I am not a woman."

"Well, it is a pretty problem. Imagine yourself that woman."

"I cannot. But men and women may marry with clear ideas of the imperfections of the being they marry, believing that to love all things are possible."

"I see. But though one might love a man with a bad temper, or morose, or despotic, one might with more doubt face the qualities which come out of lower forms of moral weakness. But how serious we are. Why not invite Susan Primrose to the post of conscience-bearer. Ah, here come the men you deserted."

St. Clair joined us, and presently I took my departure.

Mrs. Vincent detained me a moment. "Really," she said in an undertone, "I think our friend is—well, and my gentle Alice — you laughed at me about it at dinner, but now it is serious, I think, and how nice it would be. If Mrs. Leigh speaks to you, do be careful." "She has spoken," I said.

"And of course I know what you must have

said."

"Said! I referred her to you."

"Ah, indeed! She must think that odd." "I do not see why," I answered shortly. "But I am rather tired of the subject. I must go. Good night."

"One moment," she said. "I seem to have annoyed you; I certainly do not want to do so. I am unlucky of late. I can see no reason why

you should object to being asked questions as to your friend by Mrs. Leigh. It is plain to us all that St. Clair is in love with Miss Leigh, and what more natural than her mother's desire to know something definite as to the man."

"And how can I tell her that St. Clair, with all his fine qualities, is unfit to be a husband ?" "Then why shift the responsibility of an answer upon me?"

"Because you think otherwise. I shall tell him exactly what passed."

"Perhaps that is best. It may really be of use to him. His character-"

"Oh, confound his character! I beg pardon, I did not mean that; I was rude. I must speak out frankly to Mrs. Leigh, or not speak at all, and I prefer the latter course. I would rather not discuss it further."

"Well, as you please. Good night. You are very cross and most unreasonable."

XXII.

I HAD never before been so vexed with Mrs. Vincent. She was apt to meddle gently with the affairs of other folks's hearts, and sometimes to retreat bewildered or dismayed at the consequences. Moreover, she was subject to acute attacks of social remorse, and suffered out of all proportion to the greatness of the crime. I must say that I am not an easy quarreler. I am troubled deeply by a cold phrase, or a hasty word, and lie awake repentant upon the rack of self-examination. Therefore it was that our two notes of self-accusation and apology crossed each other next day.

She said:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I was persistent, and perhaps yes, I was unreasonable last night. I mean unreasonably persistent. And it may be that I am quite wrong. Fred says I am, which will perhaps comfort you. For although I hate to be wrong, I hate more to be told I am, even by Fred. I do not understand you, but that does not make me grieve less at having annoyed or hurt you. As to Alice and St. Clair, I shall never say another word, and if I were not afraid of a pledge, I would vow never to be kind to man or woman again unless the man is the friend to whom now I excuse myself. And if it only were you.

ANNE VINCENT.

There was also a package, which was a first edition of "The Urn Burial," and inside was written "I am so sorry. 12.30 P. M. A. V." And as for me, I had written: "I was rude last night. Pardon me."

Then, the day being Sunday, I sulked over my misdeeds, and went to see St. Clair. I found him idling in his studio before the bas-relief of Miss Leigh's head.

"Oh, come in," he said. "Jolly cold, clear

day, is n't it? Had two hours on the ice at six this morning. Is n't this a success ? " It was, and I said so shortly.

"What's the matter?" he queried of a sudden. "You look as you do when I have been in mischief. By all the gods, I have been a good boy of late. I gave Clayborne money to invest for me last week. I have n't been to a beer-garden for days. I have even paid my dinner-calls, idiotic custom. What is it?"

Nothing. I have to say something unpleasant."

"Then get it over. I loathe suspense, as the fellow said when he was about to be hanged." "Mrs. Leigh has asked me to give her some idea of your character. Oh, confound it! how stiff that sounds. She thinks, as we all do, that you are in love with Miss Alice, and, like a straightforward mama, says, 'Is this a good man? Will he be the husband she ought to have?'"

Well, old man, what then?"

"Oh, simply this: Do you want to marry Miss Leigh? If so, I must go on. If not, you are doing her a wrong, and I need say no more than that."

"Is n't she noble-looking?" he replied. "Just look at that head; the color of the hair; the tranquil kindliness of the face; and the proud prettiness of the neck."

"Do you love her?" I said abruptly. "Oh, how do I know?"

"Are you really a child, St. Clair? Yes or no. How is it with you ?

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Then I looked from him steadily at the medallion. I could not tell why it so touched me, but, as I looked, my eyes filled. I was while, for this brief moment, he was silent, puzzled at my own causeless emotion. Meanand then his face, as I turned to it, took on a look I well knew of peculiar sweetness as he said gently, "Would you like me to love her?"

“No,” I said.

"And why not?" he went on, touching the clay here and there.

"Because you would make a bad husband. You would in a year break her heart. You would not want to. She is a woman resolute, proud, and firm as to her beliefs, and the duties to which they bind her. You have no creed. You are amoral, not immoral. You would hurt her all the time, and at last lose her love and — and-"

"Her respect. Do I lose yours sometimes? Yes, I know I do; and you mean that you can fail to respect me and yet cherish my friendship, but that with her love must go with respect. Is that it?"

"Yes," I said, astonished.

"And you could not, would not, tell her

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