“As faithful as I could make them. But I haven't been able to catch and fix the face. It's most provoking,” she added fretfully, “but I'm constantly having to remodel.” Before she had finished, the elderly woman's swift hands were busy with the figures, manipulating them here and there, until they were presently set out in a single row with the sketches interspersed. “Read from left to right,” she said curtly. “Is not that the order of time in which the work was done?” [Illustration: Read from left to right 082] “Pure magic!” breathed the girl. “How could you know?” “How could I help but know? Child, child! Can't you see you have the biggest subject ready to your hand that any artist could pray for?” The girl looked her question mutely. “The man is making himself. How? God knows--the God that helps all real work. Look! See how the lines of grossness _there_”--she touched the first figure in her marshaled line --“have planed out _here_.” The swift finger found a later study. “How could you miss it! The upbuilding of character, resolve, manhood, and with it all something gentler and finer softening it. You have half-done it, but only half, because you have not understood. _Why_ have you not understood?” “Because I'm not a genius.” “Who knows? To have half-done it is much. The master-genius, Life, has been carving that face out before your eyes. You need but follow.” “Tell me what to do.” “Leave it alone for six months. Come back and take the face as it will be then.” “Then will be too late,” said the girl in a low voice. “What!” cried the critic, startled. “Your model isn't dying, is he?” “Oh, no. I--I had something else in mind.” “Dismiss it. Have nothing else in mind but to finish this.” She paused. “I have seen all I need to. Let us return to your friends.” Hardly had the hostess seated her guest in the most comfortable corner of the big divan when there was a stir at the door, and a rangy, big-boned figure, clad in the unmistakable garb of honest labor, appeared, blinking a little at the lights. Instantly the Undertaker, in his rôle of official announcer, dashed forward to greet him. “Gentlemen _and_ ladies,” he proclaimed, “introducing Mr. Casey Jones, late of the Salt Lake Line.” “Sing it, you Son of Toil!” shouted somebody, and Cyrus the Gaunt promptly obliged, in a clear and robust baritone, leading the chorus which came in jubilantly. The elderly “Mrs. Sparkles” was not interested in the harmony; but she was interested in the face of her hostess, which had flushed a startled pink. She asked a question under cover of the music. “That is your model, is it not?” “Yes.” “What is he in real life?” “As you see him.” “In--deed? What is he doing it for?” “Two and a half a day, I believe.” “Quite enough. But why?” “I never asked him.” And the Bonnie Lassie tripped over to her newest guest, leaving her next-to-newest quite busy with thought. Owing to the demands upon a hostess,