"There!" he finally exclaimed, "you can rest now! This may be my chef-
d'oeuvre, after all, Amarilly. Won't you be proud to be well hung in the
Academy and have a group constantly before your picture. Why, what's the
matter, child," springing to her side, "tears? I forgot it was your
first experience in posing. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"

"I wan't tired," she half sobbed.

"Well, what is it? Tell me."

"I'm afeerd you'll laugh at me."

"Not on your life! And your word for to-day, Amarilly, is afraid.
Remember. Never _afeerd_."

"I'll remember," promised Amarilly meekly, as she wiped her dewy eyes.

"Now tell me directly, what is the matter."

"It'll be such a humbly picture with my hair that way. I'd ought to look
my best. I'd rather you'd paint me waiting on your table."

"But a waitress is such a trite subject. It would be what your friend, I
mean, our friend, Miss King, calls bromidic. An artist, a real artist,
with a soul, Amarilly, doesn't look for pretty subjects. It's the truth
that he seeks. To paint things as they are is what he aims to do. A
little scrub-girl appeals to the artistic temperament more than a little
waitress, don't you think? But only you, Amarilly, could look the part
of the Little Scrub-Girl as you did. And it would be incongruous--
remember the word, please, Amarilly, in-con-gru-ous--to paint her with