ll himself all over the place trying
to put on the spiritual make-up of a hero. He must simply strengthen
his knees. When they'll take him anywhere he requests, without buckling,
he wakes up and finds himself a field-marshal. _Voila!_"

"It isn't bad," said Marshby, unconsciously straightening. "Go ahead,
Jerome. Turn us all into field-marshals."

"Not all," objected Wilmer, seeming to dash his brush at the canvas with
the large carelessness that promised his best work. "The jobs wouldn't
go round. But I don't feel the worse for it when I see the recruity
stepping out, promotion in his eye."

After the sitting, Wilmer went yawning forward, and with a hand on
Marshby's shoulder, took him to the door.

"Can't let you look at the thing," he said, as Marshby gave one backward
glance. "That's against the code. Till it's done, no eye touches it but
mine and the light of heaven."

Marshby had no curiosity. He smiled, and thereafter let the picture
alone, even to the extent of interested speculation. Mary had
scrupulously absented herself from that first sitting; but after it was
over and Marshby had gone home, Wilmer found her in the garden, under an
apple-tree, shelling pease. He lay down on the ground, at a little
distance, and watched her. He noted the quick, capable turn of her
wrist and the dexterous motion of the brown hands as they snapped out
the pease, and he thought how eminently sweet and comfortable it would
be to take this bit of his youth back to France with him, or even to
give up France and grow old with her at home.

"Mary," said he, "I sha'n't paint any picture of you this summer."

Mary laughed, and brushed back a yellow lock with the back of her hand.
"No," said she, "I suppose not. Aunt Celia spoke of it yesterday. She
told me the reason."

"What is Aunt Celia's most excellent theory?"

"She said I'm not so likely as I used to be."

"No," said Jerome, not answering her smile in the community of mirth
they always had over Aunt Celia's simple speech. He rolled over on the
grass and began to make a dandelion curl. "No, that's not it. You're a
good deal likelier than you used to be. You're all possibilities now. I
could make a Madonna out of you, quick as a wink. No, it's because I've
decided to paint Marshby instead."

Mary's hands stilled themselves, and she looked at him anxiously. "Why
are you doing that?" she asked.

"Don't you want the picture?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Gi