"Let the farmer," Mr. Emerson had said, "give his corn, the miner a
gem, the painter his picture, the poet his poem." Joy did not stop
to wonder (for the Western lady had left it out) on just what
principle these contributions were being made. She didn't care.

"Now, that's the way people earn money," said she practically, and
tried to think what she could do.

Cook--she could make very good things to eat, but Grandmother would
have to know about that, and, besides, it wouldn't be a thing they
would approve of. Sewing--no, you couldn't get much out of that. She
could recite poetry and be decorative, but she gave a little shiver
at the thought. She played and sang as Grandmother had taught
her--harp and piano--and spoke Grandmother's French. She couldn't do
much with _them_.... Oh, she was just decorative! And as she prepared
to be vexed at the idea, suddenly the motto caught her eye again.

"It's a perfectly impossible idea from _their_ standpoint,"
said Joy, with the light of battle in her eye for almost the first
time in her life, "but I simply have to have that gray dress."

She rose and fished the amber satin out of her trunk. She put it on,
put her long coat over it, packed her next most picturesque frock in
a bag, fastened on a hat, and walked out the front door.

Just three blocks away lived a dear, elderly mural decorator who was
always telling her how he wished he had her for a model. She knew he
was making studies now for about a half-mile of walls in a new, rich
statehouse somewhere far away.