developing his beautiful stained glass. Him women could know, with
him they could sympathise. And he could enter fully into their lives
and help and stimulate them. Of the two existences which did she
prefer, that of the business man, or that of the artist?

Then suddenly Laura surprised herself. After all, she was a daughter
of the frontier, and the blood of those who had wrestled with a new
world flowed in her body. Yes, Corthell's was a beautiful life; the
charm of dim painted windows, the attraction of darkened studios
with their harmonies of color, their orientalisms, and their
arabesques was strong. No doubt it all had its place. It fascinated
her at times, in spite of herself. To relax the mind, to indulge the
senses, to live in an environment of pervading beauty was
delightful. But the men to whom the woman in her turned were not
those of the studio. Terrible as the Battle of the Street was, it
was yet battle. Only the strong and the brave might dare it, and the
figure that held her imagination and her sympathy was not the
artist, soft of hand and of speech, elaborating graces of sound and
color and form, refined, sensitive, and temperamental; but the
fighter, unknown and un-knowable to women as he was; hard, rigorous,
panoplied in the harness of the warrior, who strove among the
trumpets, and who, in the brunt of conflict, conspicuous,
formidable, set the battle in a rage around him, and exulted like a
champion in the shoutings of the captains.

They were not long at table, and by the time they were ready to
depart it was about half-past five. But when they emerged into the
street, it was discovered that once more the weather had abruptly
changed. It was snowing thickly. Again a bitter wind from off the
Lake tore through the streets. The slush and melted snow was