had the undefined feeling that something was wrong in the arrangement
of the store, each found an abundance of beautiful things suited to his
taste and purse, and so trade was good, even though the holiday season
was over.

As for Dennis, he was to a certain extent in Paradise. Nature had given
him a deep, earnest love of the beautiful, and a keen perception of it.

Though his days were busy indeed, he found time gradually to study
every pretty thing in the store. Though much was mystery to him as
yet, he felt that he had crossed the threshold of a beautiful world--the
world of art. When a boy in New England he had taken drawing-lessons,
and had shown remarkable aptness. While at college, also, he had given
some attention to drawing and coloring, but circumstances had prevented
him from following the bent of his taste. Now the passion awoke with
tenfold force, and he had not been in his place a week before he began
to make sketches of little things that pleased him. Some of the pictures
and bronzes became almost dear because of the pleasure and inspiration
that they occasioned, and at their sale his feeling was akin to regret.
Early in the morning, when refreshed and brightened by the night's
rest, he would walk through the store as through fairy-land, and,
forgetting that he was a humble servitor, would feel as if all were
his. But in fact was not his possession truer than that of many whose
palace walls glow with every rich gem of art, and yet whose eyes are
blind and their hearts dull to the beauty they have paid for?

A few days after his arrival, a little incident occurred that was hard
and practical enough, and might justly cause him to feel that he
occupied a humble place, not only in the world of art, but in the world
in general. There had been a day of rain, slush, and mud. One of the