The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long- sleeved apron, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes shone with anticipation as she looked about her. "I'm glad it's so dirty," she remarked. "It's more interestin' to clean a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your money." With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three hours later. "This room is all cleaned," announced Amarilly. "It took me so long 'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty." "You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I prepare my breakfast." "Kin you cook?" asked Amarilly in astonishment. "I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and watch me." Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the mysteries of electric toasters and percolators. He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she protested. "I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon." "Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not cling to ironclad rules." "My name's Amarilly," she answered shortly. "I ain't old enough to be 'missed' yet." "I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age," he replied, sitting down to his breakfast, "You are not too old, then, for me to ask what your age is--in years?" "I jest got into my teens." "Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?" "It's ben. It was the fust of June." "Why, Amarilly," jumping up and holding out his hand, "we are twins! That is my birthday." "And you are twenty-three." "Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger." "Be you a Christian Science?" she asked doubtfully. "Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?" "'Cause they don't believe in age. Miss Jupperskin told me about 'em. She's workin' up to it. But I must go back to my work." "So must I, Amarilly. My model will be here in a few moments to don your surplice. If you want to clean up my breakfast dishes you may do so, and then tackle the bedroom and the rest of the apartment." Three hours later, Amarilly went into the studio. The model had gone, and the artist stood before his easel surveying his sketch with approval. "This is going to be a good picture, Amarilly. The model caught my idea. There is some fore--" "Mr. Phillips!" "My name is Derry. I am too young to be 'mistered.'" There was no response, and with a smile he turned inquiringly toward her. There was a wan little droop about the corners of her eyes and lips that brought contrition to his boyish heart. "Amarilly you are tired! You have worked too steadily. Sit down and rest awhile." "'Tain't that! I'm hungry. Kin I het up the coffee and--"