ions on a larger scale, and, to move at his ease, he
needed so imperatively the sense of great risks and great prizes, that
he found an ungrudging entertainment in the spectacle of fortunes made
by the aggregation of copper coins, and in the minute subdivision of
labor and profit. He questioned M. Nioche about his own manner of life,
and felt a friendly mixture of compassion and respect over the recital
of his delicate frugalities. The worthy man told him how, at one period,
he and his daughter had supported existence comfortably upon the sum of
fifteen sous per diem; recently, having succeeded in hauling ashore the
last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his budget had
been a trifle more ample. But they still had to count their sous very
narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noemie
did not bring to this task that zealous cooperation which might have
been desired.

"But what will you have?"' he asked, philosophically. "One is young, one
is pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can't wear shabby
gowns among the splendors of the Louvre."

"But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes," said
Newman.

M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes. He would have liked
to be able to say that his daughter's talents were appreciated, and that
her crooked little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandal
to abuse the credulity of this free-handed stranger, who, without a
suspicion or a question, had admitted him to equal social rights. He
compromised, and declared that while it was obvious that Mademoiselle
Noemie's reproductions of the old masters had only to be seen to be
coveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether peculiar
degree of finish, she felt obliged to ask for them had kept purchasers
at a respectful distance. "Poor little one!" said M. Nioche, with a
sigh; "it is almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be in
her interest to paint less well."

"But if Mademoiselle Noemie has this devotion to her art," Newman once
observed, "why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the
other day?"

M. Nioche meditated: there was an inconsistency in his position; it made
him chronically uncomfortable. Though he had no desire to destroy the
goose with the golden eggs--Newman's benevolent confidence--he felt a
tremulous impulse to speak out all his trouble. "Ah, she is an artist,
my dear sir, most assuredly,"