“That's just like Mr. Joyce. He is always doubting his ability, and every one says he gets wonderful likenesses.” “I guess,” said Oakley, awkwardly, inspired by a feeling of large humanity, “I guess you'll have to be my guest when I go East this fall. You know I can always manage transportation,” he added, hastily. “Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Mrs. Joyce, in an ecstasy of happiness at the mere thought. “Could you?” Joyce, with a rather unsteady hand, placed the lamp on the centre-table and gazed at his new friend with a gratitude that went beyond words. Oakley recognized that in a small way he was committed as a patron of the arts, but he determined to improve upon his original offer, and send Mrs. Joyce with her husband. She would enter into the spirit of his pleasure as no one else could. “Can't I see more of your work?” he asked, anxious to avoid any expression of gratitude. “I wish you'd show Mr. Oakley what you are doing now, Turner. He may give you some valuable criticisms.” For, by that unique, intuitive process of reasoning peculiar to women, she had decided that Oakley's judgment must be as remarkable as his generosity. His words roused Joyce, who had stood all this while with misty eyes blinking at Oakley. He turned and took a fresh canvas from among those leaning against the wall and rested it on the easel. “This is a portrait I'm doing of Jared Thome's daughter. I haven't painted in the eyes yet. That's a point they can't agree upon. You see, there's a slight cast--” “She's cross-eyed, Turner,” interjected Mrs. Joyce, positively. “Jared wants them the way they'll be after she's been to Chicago to be operated on, and his wife wants them as they are now. They are to settle it between them before she comes for the final sitting on Saturday.” “That is a complication,” observed Oakley, but he did not laugh. It was not that he lacked a sense of humor. It was that he was more impressed by something else. The little artist blinked affectionately at his work. “Yes, it's going to be a good likeness, quite as good as any I ever got. I was lucky in my flesh tints there on the cheek,” he added, tilting his head critically on one side. “What do you think of Mr. Joyce's work?” asked Mrs. Joyce, bent on committing their visitor to an opinion. “It is very good, indeed, and perhaps he is doing a greater service in educating us here at Antioch than if he had made a name for himself abroad. Perhaps, too, he'll be remembered just as long.” “Do you really think so, Mr. Oakley?” said the little artist, delighted. “It may sound egotistical, but I have sometimes thought that myself--that these portraits of mine, bad as I know they must be, give a great deal of pleasure and happiness to their owners, and it's a great pleasure for me to do them, and we don't get much beyond that in this world, do we?” CHAPTER IV OAKLEY took the satchel from General Cornish's hand as the latter stepped from his private car.