He was undersized and queer-looking, with a big square head, a thin stooping body, large hollow eyes, and a face that suggested a worn-out spirit. Ordinarily he had almost no words about anything, yet seemed to derive a silent pleasure from hanging near Cartice’s desk a few moments, when he brought his drawings to the “art man” of the house. His self-effacement was so refreshing to Cartice after much contact with pushing ninth-letter people, that she showed him marked civility. To-day he seated himself and asked her opinion of the drawing he carried. As usual, his manner was without animation, yet she instantly felt that he expected a word of praise. This was extraordinary on his part, as he invariably gave out the wordless impression that he continued to live more from habit than anything else, but found life wholly without interest. The picture, which was destined to illustrate a jingling little rhyme and visualize it for such readers as have no imagination, represented a short-skirted maid standing by a rustic fountain, pitcher in hand. Cartice gave a little cry of delight, as her eyes fell upon it, though a second glance showed her that something was wrong with it, but what, she could not for a moment say. Presently the blunder stood revealed, and was gross enough to mortify Bardell for all time, if she pointed it out. Yet it would be his ruin to let him go to the “art man,” with the drawing as it was. So she said, “It is charmingly done; but there is a trifling error in it. The girl’s feet are put on wrong. Left and right have changed places.” The pale, hollow face of the artist flushed red with shame. “I’m most grateful to you, Mrs. Doring,” he said, as his astonished eyes saw the hitherto unnoticed blunder. “Had I gone to Buskirk with that it would have been the end of me in this shop. As it is he almost withers me with his contempt. It doesn’t stop at my work, either, but includes all there is of me, physically, mentally, artistically, and financially. I sustain myself under it with the reflection that, however profound his contempt for me, it is outdone again and again by my contempt for myself.” Cartice understood well the awful wounds to self-respect men and women are daily forced to endure for the sake of a chance to earn a livelihood. She looked at Bardell with a vast, wordless sympathy shining in her eyes, thinking of the courage necessary in the tragedy of life, as displayed by the man before her and tens of thousands of others. He understood and went on: “I don’t endure it for the mere sake of living, I assure you. The experience called life, as I know it, isn’t worth it. But when I was younger and considerably more of a fool than I am now, I married, as a kind of business or because others did, or I don’t really know why. Anyhow, I have a little family now, and I have to put up with everything, no matter what, in order to support them. Besides, I have other ties that hold me to life, and those are my ideals.”