some one had paused a moment just outside. He wondered whether it was
the servant-maid or Margaret Slocum, whom he knew very well by sight.
It was, in fact, Margaret, who was dying with the curiosity of
fourteen to peep into the studio, so carefully locked whenever the
young man left it,--dying with curiosity to see the workshop, and
standing in rather great awe of the workman.

In the home circle her father had a habit of speaking with deep
respect of young Shackford's ability, and once she had seen him at
their table,--at a Thanksgiving. On this occasion Richard had
appalled her by the solemnity of his shyness,--poor Richard, who was
so unused to the amenities of a handsomely served dinner, that the
chill which came over him cooled the Thanksgiving turkey on his
palate.

When it had been decided that he was to have the spare room for
his workshop, Margaret, with womanly officiousness, had swept it and
dusted it and demolished the cobwebs; but since then she had not been
able to obtain so much as a glimpse of the interior. A ten minutes'
sweeping had sufficed for the chamber, but the passage-way seemed in
quite an irreclaimable state, judging by the number of times it was
necessary to sweep it in the course of a few days. Now Margaret was
not an unusual mixture of timidity and daring; so one morning, about
a week after Richard was settled, she walked with quaking heart up to
the door of the studio, and knocked as bold as brass.

Richard opened the door, and smiled pleasantly at Margaret
standing on the threshold with an expression of demure defiance in
her face. Did Mr. Shackford want anything more in the way of pans and
pails for his plaster? No, Mr. Shackford had everything he required