Rudyard Kipling 19] loved her — just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her. Then he had — But there was no end to the things he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant, — that was rude, — sable hair-brushes, — he had given her the best in her stock, — she used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and now and again — a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress’s feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever, except — here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve f her nightgown — the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and — probably kissing other girls? “Maisie, you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,” said the wearied voice of her companion. “I can’t sleep a wink with you at the window.” Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road 1n cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawnwind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the droughtshrunk river. Maisie’s head fell forward on the windowsill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms. “Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill.”