People's Pilot, Volume 6, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 July 1896 — A PASTEL PORTRAIT. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A PASTEL PORTRAIT.

The picture was charming. There was no denying that. Frank Harwood stood at the window of the shop and stared in at It, as he had done every day for the last week. The execution of the work was not faultless. Some crudities marred it, but the ensemble Was bewitching. The sac of a girl in the first fresh bloom of maidenhood —looked back at you over one mistily-draped white shoulder. The liquid eyes were laughter-lit the slightly-parted scarlet lips had a shy droop, there was a little, round dimple in the chin, the hair that melted into the soft gown and dusky background was a wind-blown tangle of reddish gold. Harwood entered the shop, shutting out the whirling snowflakes behind him. “Is that picture—the pastel portrait In the window —for sale?” he inquired. “No, sir,” he was told. “Can you tell me the name of the original?” “I do not know it, sir. The portrait was left here as a sample to solicit orders.” “You are sure it is a portrait—not merely an ideal head?” "The artist said so.” "Give me his name and address, please.” But when the rising young barrister had the slip safe in his pocket-book and was out again in the white wintry world he began to feel uncomfortably conscious that in this particular instance he was not acting with the discretion on which he ordinarily prided himself. He was a trifle troubled, too, by the recollection of a certain conversation held with his aunt the previous

evening. She was the dearest old lady i” the world and the most generous, e had brought young Harwood up, m him the best procurable educa- , and three years of continental 'el. But on one point, the question of probable marriage, she was ined, he thought, to be dictatorial. k> you refuse to meet Miss Fains-y th, Frank?” she had asked. Ys a suitor—yes,” he had replied, tively. rank felt that he must see the origof the portrait, so discretion was wn to the winds, and starting on juest he reached a row of high, flatd, dreary, red brick houses. In of these the artist must live. e found the number, rang the bell, surly woman, with a smudge of on her cheek opened the door. Ir. Vincent Brand?” asked Hard. 'hird floor back,” she returned, tiy. irwood knocked. A voice bade him r. He went in. . The room was . ?, bare, dreary. Some sketches tacked on the walls. An easel and r stood in the center cf theapartA handful of firs and a tiny

sheet-iron stove made the cold of the place more noticeable. “Mr. Brand, I believe?” ‘ The occupant, an invalid with death written in his hollow eyes, on his blueveined hands, bowed assent“I came,” said Harwood, declining the solitary chair which was proffered him, “about the picture exhibited in Mercer’s It Is not for sale?” “No, sir.” “Not at a large figure?" The artist did not at once answer. He was ill and very poor. “Not at any price,” he slid. “You could not make me a copy?” • “No, sir. The truth of the matter is this: The young lady who consented to sit for me for that picture did so out of her own sweet charity. She is rso beautiful, and makes such a fine study, I fancied her face would bring me orders, where ones less lovely, even if admirable as a likeness, would fail. I need not enumerate to you the reasons why it would be dishonorable for me to abuse her kindness.” “I understand your reasons, Mr. Brand,, and respect them. May I give you an order for a life-sized pastel from this photograph?” He had fortunately remembered having in his pocket the picture of a nephew that morning received. The commission would help the poor artist. . /

A light tap came to the door. “May I come in, Vincent?” called a sweet voice. The door opened. Frank Harwood turned to look into the face that had haunted him waking and sleeping, but a thousand times fairer than the colored crayons had reproduced it. She half drew back at the sight of the stranger, but Brand called to her: “Come In, Claire!” And then, with youthful candor: “This gentleman was just asking about your portrait.” She bowed slightly. She was all in rich'furs and deep glowing velvet. The elegance of her attire puzzled Frank Harwood. “I hope the picture is bringing you orders, Vincent.” ‘‘lt is, indeed,” he answered, brightly. "Well, it is late. I must go. I just ran in to see how you were getting on." He smothered in a fit of coughing. “You have the carriage?” "No, I am on foot.” “I shall see you home, then,” the artist said, looking troubled. “This is not the best neighborhood in the world, and it is growing dark.” The fierce cough shook him again. “You shall do nothing of the kind!” she said, peremptorily. Harwood went forward, hat in hand. “Will you do me the honor of permitting me to accompany you? I am sorry I have not a card. My name is Frank Harwood.” She had been listening with a somewhat haughty air. She smiled now with sudden friendliness. “I shall be glad if you will come with me,” she said, simply. On their way she told him about Brand, whom she had known from childhood. “He is dying,” she said. “It is hard to help him; he is so proud!” The house before which she paused was a magnificent one.

Harwood mustered courage to ask ii he might call. . “No,” she said, gently; and then, as if repenting, “I shall be at Brand’s studio on Friday.” She ran up the steps. Needless to say, Harwood was in the painter’s room early on Friday afternoon. The number of orders he gave quite overwhelmed the artist. She came at last, her face like a rose ovei her dark furs. I They met, not quite by chance, many times, and still Frank did not learn tyer name. He called her Miss Claire. One evening when he was leaving the studio with her, he told her the story of how he had first happened to come there. "I fell in love with a pastel portrait, he said. “I -am to-day in love with the original. But I know so little of you it seems like being in love with a spirit. Are you going to punish my presumption, or reward my daring?”. She indicated her carriage that stood at the curb. “Get in,” she said, smiling. “I chance to be driving your way.” Ttye vehicle stopped at his aunt’s door. “Do you know my aunt?” he began. Just then his aunt came towards them. “Claire, my dear!” she cried. “Frank, where did you meet Miss Fainsworth?” “Fainsworth!’ he repeated, blankly. “You”—he reproached Claire—"knew me all the time!” “Do you think 'l would have let you see me home that night if I did not?” she asked, archly. “What in the world are you children talking about?” Frank’s aunt questioned. They only laughed. But there that in the lovely eyes raised to his which told him he might plead again—and uot In vain,

KATE M. CLEARY.