She should have been frightened at this, her first adventure, but
she wasn't. She found her heart getting gayer and lighter as she ran
down the steps with her little bag. It was the kind of a day when
all the policemen and street-sweepers and old women selling
shoe-laces look at you pleasantly, and make cheerful remarks to you.
Even the conductor whose street-car she didn't take smiled
pleasantly at her after stopping his car by mistake. It was as
kind-hearted and pleasant-minded a worldful of people as Joy had
ever met, and she was singing under her breath with happiness as she
ran up the steps leading to Mr. Morrow's studio. There wasn't any
particular excuse for her being so light-hearted, excepting that the
street-people had been so friendly minded, and there was such a dear
little breeze with a country smoke-scent on it, and that somewhere
in the world was a tall man with fair hair and a kind, authoritative
voice, who had said wonderful things to her--a man she would meet
again some day, when she was charming and worldly and dressed in a
tailor-made suit.

Mr. and Mrs. Morrow were artists both; and she found them,
blouse-swathed and disheveled, doing charcoal studies in a corner of
the room apiece. Mrs. Morrow kissed Joy, arching over her so that
the smudges on her pinafore wouldn't be transferred. Mr. Morrow came
out of his corner and shook hands with her with less care, so that
his smudges did come off on her. Then they both listened to her
story with the same kindness and interest every one else had shown
her that morning.

"I can sit still or stand still as long as ever you want me to," Joy
explained. "And you said yourself I was decorative, Mr. Morrow; you
know you did!"