as he watched her. She promised to be even lovelier
than she was, never as beautiful as the mother, perhaps, but quite
beautiful enough to be disturbing, with her soft, thick-lashed eyes, her
tender mouth, her slender, straight, finely molded body; no finished
product this, but a bit of virgin soul-clay waiting to be modeled; an
empty, exquisite vase waiting to be filled with life.

He thought suddenly of that matchless nude of Ingres', "La Source."
Young Jacqueline Kildare might have posed for it.

Percival Channing; at thirty-four, had moments of regretting that he had
not conserved his energies more carefully, been more truly "wedded to
his Art," to use the girl's quaint phrase. He felt latterly a little
stale, a little jaded and world-worn. It had occurred to him during the
night that contact with so vital a personality might refresh him, might
do for him what contact with the earth did for the giant Antaeus. Indeed,
to his imagination she suggested the earth, field and pasture and wooded
stream, nature in her abundance, promise. She was the very essence of
this Kentucky, this half-tamed wilderness that he had come to study and
to portray.

There is no more charming companion than your temperamentalist, when
once the spark is struck. Jacqueline for the first time in her life
enjoyed that most subtle flattery of being understood. Here was a
person, a thoroughly "grown-up" person, who did not pet and humor her,
and tease her as if she were a child; who on the other hand did not
demand of her the impossible formalities of young ladyhood. Famous
author as he was, he accepted her just as he found her, and liked her
that way. She compared him with Philip, always suggesting some change,
always trying to improve her; and after all Philip was nothing but a
country clergyman!

When she had exhausted her own eager confidences, Mr. Channing paid her
the compliment of talking about himself. He made confidences in return.
She learned that he, like her, had suffered and was still suffering from
a lack of sympathy on the part of his family. They failed completely to
appreciate the necessities, the difficulties, of the artistic
temperament. In fact, he had practically given up his family, and was a
homeless wanderer upon the face of the earth, seeking his encouragement
among strangers.

"But surely they must appreciate you now," cried Jacqueline. "Why, you
are famous!"

He admitted it, rather sadly. "Famous--and lonely," he s