surface brilliance, you may paint or sing or play. With even less equipment, you may act; but to write, you must have lived, you must have suffered and known joy; you must be able to analyze people, to understand their motives, to love them. To write, you must have ideas and emotions. It is only when the sources of your own being run deep that you can bring up waters of refreshment for others."

He stopped to look at the girl, whom he had almost forgotten. Her face startled him with its eagerness. Her eyes were shining and he found himself commenting, subconsciously: "Why, she isn't so plain."

"Yes, please go on," she begged.

"Well, granted that you have learned something of the motives, the passions, the sorrows that rack us humans, then you must also have your medium in control. Have you ever thought about words, how wonderful they are, how precious?"

She shook her head.

"Most people fail to. We think of the hackneyed old phrases we use in the mechanics of living, but words are like little creatures that march and fight and sing. They are like extra hands, and brains. Think of the power of them! All the passions wait on them; they bring despair, hope, courage, love; they are the golden exchange granted to man. Until you get this sense of the choiceness, the fragility, the power of words, you are not ready to transcribe your thoughts."

"But how can I learn about words?"

"Read the best books, get the feel of them. Study style, add words to your possession as a miser adds coins. Have you ever studied composition?"

"A little in High School."

"Frankly, I doubt if you can ever write. I see no gleam of a gift in these things you have brought me. They are sentimental and silly. But if you should want to learn something about this great art——"

"Oh, I do," said Jane earnestly.

"Very well, I will give you a list of books to begin with. You must get a position so that you can support yourself, then study when you can. Write all the time; get facility with words, then tear it up. Don't try to sell things. Begin to watch people; get abreast of events. Read the papers and the magazines in the library. Read Shakespeare, Fielding, Dickens, Thackeray, Bunyan, Meredith, Barrie, and Galsworthy. You might even try Shaw."

"Oh, I will!" cried Jane.

He laughed.

"I don't often inflict an hour's lecture upon unprotected young women, Miss Judd."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is just what I needed."

"You get to work. When you are absolutely confident that you have got something good, come and see me again."

"Thank you, I will."

She went out in a daze. This talk was to change the whole course of her life, and she knew it. It was characteristic of her that she began at once. She answered an advertisement in the paper, inserted by a man named Jerome Paxton, who wanted a reliable woman to mend his clothes and do light work about the studio. She applied and he engaged her.

That was six years ago. From that small beginning she had worked up a clientele among the artists of the district, which kept her busy every day. She mended their clothes, cleaned their studios, cooked a meal if necessary, became, in short, an institution in the colony. As Jerry Paxton said; "Jane Judd can mend anything from a leak in a pipe to a broken heart."

This was her life by day. Her real life began when the day ended. On this particular night, as on a thousand previous nights, she bought her supper at the butcher's and the grocer's, and climbed the many stairs to her home. As she struck a match to light the gas, there was a light thud on the floor and a purring.

"That you, Milly?" she asked.

The big cat purred loudly and rubbed against her skirt. She took her up and petted her a bit before she so much as laid off her things.

"I've got a piece of fish for you," she added as she put her coat and hat away. Milly, whose full name was Militant, constituted her entire family, and it was Jane's habit to talk to her continually.

"We'll hurry into the kitchen before Mrs. Biggs gets home to-night and get our supper out of the way," she said presently, and led the way down the narrow hall, the cat at her heels. She made her preparations quickly and deftly. Billy Biggs, aged eight, appeared as she was cooking.

"Hello, Miss Judd."

"Hello, Billy."

He was a very dirty and a very dull little boy, who wore his mouth open, and was mentally developed as far as his adenoids would permit. Jane tried to be interested in him, but failed.

"Wisht I had a piece of bread an' butter."

"All right, here it is. Your mother will be in, presently."

"Our supper ain't as good as yours."

This conversation took place almost every night. As soon as she could she carried everything into her room. Then she and Milly sat down to the function of dinner. Milly sat on a high chair at one side of the sewing table, Jane at the other.

"Milly, you're a good, steady friend, but I just ache to have somebody talk back to me to-night. I wonder how it would feel to go to Buffanti's with people you liked, to talk, and eat good food and listen to music."

Milly had no comments to make on the subject, except to claw her plate. Jane put a morsel of food there, which disappeared.

"I'll pretend I went with them, and put it into the story to-night. I know how they talk, Milly, and how they think, and how they act, but I want them to know how I think and talk and act. I'm sick of being alone, I want somebody——"

She broke off and hid her face in her hands. Milly scratched her plate significantly. It is the routine of life which helps us through the tragedy, always. At Milly's practical reminder, Jane replenished her plate with the scrapings from her own, rose, carried her dishes to the sink, washed them, and put them away.

Then she locked her door, got out her pen and her blank book, lit the student lamp, and sat down at her table. Milly sprang into her favourite chair and the pleasure time of the day came to both of them. The purr and the scratch of the pen lasted far into the night.

CHAPTER III

True to her word, Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon presented Jerry and his idea to her committee, and they appointed him Minister Extraordinary to the whole affair. He was to design the setting for the pageant and such costumes as he had time to do. He was to arrange and direct the tableaux.

There was a slight hitch in affairs, when Jerry presented his terms, but he was prepared for that. Mrs. Brendon sounded him on a reduction, but he stood firm, assuring her that he must be free to put all his heart and brain at their service. This was quite impossible unless he gave up all other work for the time being. If that was not entirely satisfactory to them, he would gladly withdraw. The interruption to his work was of considerable moment. Mrs. Brendon carried this answer back to the committee and they confirmed the amount, complaining bitterly.

Jerry was prepared for this incident. He also knew that in the end they would pay just what he asked—would pay anything to get what they wanted; and the particular thing they wanted now was a new way to dress up. None of them thought it was funny for the seemly old prophets to disport themselves at a ball, not until the newspaper wits began to point it out. But it never pays for the metropolitan dailies to be their funniest at the expense of the class which gives fifty-thousand-dollar balls, so the affair got under way with much advertising, and few jibes.

Jerry, with his first check safely deposited in the bank,