something would turn up. For the sake of economy Jill sat at work with a jacket on and her back turned towards the empty grate, but the weather was particularly cold, and her hands became so numbed, that she could not hold the brushes; and on the third day she was obliged to give in and indulge in a fire again. Soon after that, she sold a picture and received a commission for another, which she set to work on at once; and for the first time since her father’s death she felt almost light hearted. But fortune’s wheel is seldom stationary long, and after she had completed the second canvas there seemed no further demand upon her energies. This was discouraging, but still she persevered, painting all morning, and spending the afternoons trying to sell her work, returning after nightfall, cold and weary to a dark, cheerless room, and creeping early to bed for the sake of warmth, and the saving of unnecessary illumination.

One morning as she sat at work in a by no means cheerful frame of mind, having made only a very scant breakfast, and unless she sold something that day, seeing but small chance of making a more substantial meal later on, she was interrupted by the sound of a footstep on the stairs, a blundering heavy footstep, that kicked each stair it mounted, and finally came down with a stamp at the top, having taken a step too many in the gloom of a fourth storey landing. It was enough to try anybody’s temper, and the owner of the footstep said “damn!” audibly enough to reach Miss Erskine’s ear as she sat before her easel. She rose as promptly as though he had knocked and opened the door. She had climbed those stairs so often herself that she found it easy to make allowances. Not for one moment did she suppose that the visit was intended for her,—it was a mistake that had happened before, but not often; as a rule people preferred to make those mistakes lower down,—neither did it cross her mind to imagine that it might mean pupils; she had given up all hope of anything in that line, had almost forgotten the poor little advertisement that she had felt so proud to read in print; it seemed so long ago since it had been written; and yet it was not quite three weeks. A young man stood outside in the narrow passage at the head of the stairs, a big young man—disproportionately big he appeared to Jill, but that was only because his surroundings were disproportionately cramped. He was in reality a very fine young man, with a good deal of muscular development, and a pair of long legs. He was not seen to advantage just at that moment for he was looking decidedly out of humour, and his brows were drawn together over his eyes until he appeared to scowl. He bowed gravely on seeing Jill, and his face relaxed a little.

“I beg your pardon,” he began, but Jill cut him short.

“Don’t mention it,” she answered promptly. “I wasn’t surprised in the least; I have felt that way myself sometimes—just at first, you know.”

He stared rather. Not being acquainted with the quality and thickness of the lath and plaster of that locality, he did not connect her speech with the mild ejaculation that had apprised her of the fact that he had reached the top, and had mounted those stairs for the first time, and he rather inclined to the belief that he had chanced upon a lunatic.

“I was informed that Miss Erskine lives here,” he continued, glancing at the palette and mhalstick in her hand, which in her haste she had forgotten to put down. Instantly she perceived that he had not followed her train of thought, and regretted her former speech. Then she said “Oh!” because she did not know what else to say, and felt glad that she had a fire.

“Won’t you come inside?” she asked.

He took her for one of Miss Erskine’s pupils, and followed her in silence. She shut the door behind him, and then he saw that there was no one else in the room.

“The—the servant,”—he had narrowly escaped saying ‘slavey’—“told me to come straight up,” he went on explanatorily, “she said Miss Erskine was in. Can I see her if she is not engaged?”

Jill smiled a little bitterly. Engaged!

“I am Miss Erskine,” she answered with a touch of dignity that sat very quaintly on her, for she was small, and, in her black dress with the big white painting apron falling straight from the yoke like a child’s pinafore, looked ridiculously school-girlish and young; in addition to which she wore her hair in a plait, the end doubled underneath and tied with a black velvet bow. No wonder that he had taken her for a pupil.

The information seemed to surprise him, and he regarded her somewhat dubiously for a moment. Then he bowed.

“I am fortunate to find you disengaged,” he said.

“I should be fortunate if you had found me otherwise,” Jill answered ruefully, but he did not smile; probably he considered her flippant.

“I read your advertisement in the paper a short while since,” he continued gravely, “and came to—” he hesitated, and glanced round the room till his eye fell upon the canvas on which she was engaged, and the sight of it seemed to decide him, “to enquire your terms. I wish to study act.”

Jill gasped. She had never connected him for a moment with the advertisement; this was not the sort of applicant that she had expected at all; the mere idea of teaching this dreadfully big young man appalled her. Apparently the incongruity of the situation did not appeal to him, or perhaps he was too much engrossed with the main object to think of anything else; for he went on quite coolly as though her acceptance of him as a pupil were a foregone conclusion.

“I have long wanted to take up art as a hobby for leisure moments, but I have never had the pluck to go to one of the big studios as I know absolutely nothing, and I’m not quite sure, dubiously, whether I have much talent that way.”

“That is soon proved,” she answered. “But you will never do anything at it if you intend only to make a ‘hobby’ of it.”

He smiled.

“You think the term ill-advised?” he said.

“I think it inapplicable.”

“And when shall I come?” he asked. “To-morrow?”

“Good gracious, no!” she exclaimed vehemently; then checked herself and continued in a slightly apologetic tone, “That is I mean if you will leave your address I will write. I must have a little while in which to decide.”

“Certainly,” he replied, and he took out a card and laid it on the table, and the next thing Miss Erskine knew was, that she was bowing her visitor out, and keeping the studio door obligingly open to light him down to the next landing. There was no more work for her that morning; she sat in front of the fire with his card in her hand, and went over the interview in her mind till she laughed aloud. On the card was engraved in neat copper plate, “Mr John St. John, 13 Bedford Square,” and below that again was another address at Henley. Evidently Mr St. John was fairly well to do. And he wished to dabble in art. Well, why shouldn’t he? Jill could see no reason why he shouldn’t, but she saw a great many why she should not be his instructress. It was a great temptation nevertheless; she was badly in want of money for one thing, but on the other hand he was so tremendously big that the thought of undertaking him as a pupil filled her with a strange shyness. She felt that she could not do it, and determined to write and tell him so. As luck would have it that afternoon she sold three canvasses. They did not fetch much it is true, still it was something, and the dealer further