He might not even watch the soft, strong little hands as they patted and kneaded, nor the vivid face as plastic as the material from which the hands worked their wonders, for when he attempted it:-- “I don't wish you to look at me. I wish you to look at nothing, as you do when you sit on the bench. Make your eyes tired again.” The difficulty was that his eyes, tired so long with that weariness which lies at the very roots of being, didn't feel tired at all in the little studio. For one thing, there was an absurd, fluffed-up whirlwind of a kitten who performed miracles of obstacle-racing all over the place. Then, in the most unexpected crannies and corners lurked tiny bronzes, instinct with life: a wistful dog submitting an injured paw to a boy hardly as large as himself; “Androcles” this one was labeled. Then there was “Mystery,” a young, ill-clad girl, looking down at a dead butterfly; “Remnants,” a withered and bent old woman, staggering under her load of builders' refuse; “The Knight,” a small boy astride across the body of his drunken father, brandishing a cudgel against a circle of unseen tormentors; and many others, all vivid with that feeling for the human struggle which alone can make metal live. “Recess!” cried the worker presently. “You're doing quite well!” Thus encouraged, Cyrus ventured a question:-- “Where are the dancers?” “They're all in the window.” “But this in here is quite as big work, isn't it? Why isn't some of it on display?” “It's for outsiders. It isn't for my people.” She put a world of protectiveness in the two final words. “I can't see why not.” “Because the people of Our Square don't need to be told of the tragedy of life. Joy and play and laughter is what they need. So I give it to them.” A light came into his tired, old-young eyes. “Do you know, I begin to think you're a very wonderful person.” “Time to work again,” said she. Whereby, being an understanding young man, he perceived that there would be no safe divergence from the strict relations of employer and employed, for the present at least. Half a dozen times he sat for her, sometimes collecting a dollar, sometimes only fifty cents, the money being invariably handed over with a demure and determined air of business procedure, and duly entered in a tiny book, which was a never-failing source of suppressed amusement to him. Then one day the basis abruptly changed, for a reason he did not learn about until long after. It had to do with a process which I must regretfully term eavesdropping, on the part of the little sculptor. The subjects were two-on-a-bench, in Our Square. One was Cyrus the Gaunt; the other an inconsiderable and hopeless lounger, grim and wan. Silver passed between them, and something else, less tangible, something which lighted a sudden flame of hope in the hopeless face. “A real job?” the lurking sculptor overheard him say, hoarsely. Cyrus nodded. “Nine o'clock to-morrow morning, here,” said he.