Wasn’t it a wonder that something did not tell him, “It is monstrous, inhuman to thus prey upon the credulity of an impulsive, over sensitive nature.” Not when it is learned that whatever of heart, conscience, manliness, courage, reverence, charity, nature had endowed him at his birth, had been swallowed up in that one quality--selfishness. “I wish I could help you,” Cherokee said timidly, “for I need the money. All I had has gone for my winter wardrobe.” “Then I will tell you how to help us both. The model I want is yourself.” He spoke bravely now. “Me?” “Yes, if you will let me, I can do us both justice, and you will be counted the dream of all New York.” She listened to his speech like the bird that flutters around the dazzling serpent; she was fascinated by this dangerous man, and neither able nor honestly willing to escape. “Besides, I will make your portrait for Mrs. Stanhope free of charge,” was the artist’s afterthought. “I could not accept so much from you,” she answered, promptly. “I offered it by way of rewarding your own generosity, but come, say you will pose for me anyhow.” She regarded him frankly and without embarrassment. “I will if it is perfectly proper for me to do so. Surely, though, you would not ask me to do it if it were wrong.” “Not for the world,” he replied magnanimously. “It is entirely proper, many a lady comes there alone. ‘In art there is no sex, you know.’” “But I am not prepared now, how should I be dressed?” “In a drapery, and I have all that is necessary. Say you will go,” he pleaded. She hesitated a moment. “Well, I will,” was the unfortunate answer. Within an hour, master and model entered the studio. “Now, first of all,” observed the master, “you must lay aside all reserve or foolish timidity, remembering the purity of art, and have but one thought--the completion of it. In that room to your right you will find everything that is needed, and over the couch is a study by which you may be guided in draping yourself.” As the door closed behind Cherokee, Willard Frost caught a glimpse of a beautiful figure, “The Nymph of the Stream.” He listened for a couple of minutes or more, expecting or fearing she would be shocked at first, but as there was no such evidence he had no further misgivings. A thousand beautiful visions floated voluptuously through the thirsting silence. They flushed him as in the wakening strength of wine. And his body, like the sapless bough of some long-wintered tree, suddenly felt all pulses thrilling. His hot lips murmured, “Victory is mine. Aye, life is beautiful, and earth is fair.” Then the door opened and the model entered. She did not speak but stood straight and silent, her hands hanging at her side with her palms loosely open--the very abandonment of pathetic helplessness. The master drew nearer and put out his hands. “Cherokee,” he said.